I miss the days when I peed on sticks to test for pregnancy instead of bladder infections—a positive result was so much more exciting. When I discovered this latest infection my words to my husband were I really don’t have time for a bladder infection right now. But whether or not I have time for it, it has arrived.
spinal cord injury
How much of my life am I going to dedicate to managing pain?
This is the question that ran through my mind last week as I laid on a therapy bed for what felt like the millionth time, while the physio poked needles into my forearm in an attempt to relieve some of the tension and pain (it was a nice change from the needles in my shoulders and lats). Once that question came to mind, I did the thing that my counsellor and my husband have told me time and time again not to do: I spiraled.
May I ask how the wheelchair happened?
Getting this question from strangers still throws me off my game. I wish it didn’t. I wish I could respond with some wild fictional story like I worked in a zoo and a gorilla threw me against a wall, and then watch their curious eyes go wide. When they inevitably say Wow, really? I would smile and just say No, not really, and go on my way. But that is not how I function. I’m the kind of person who thinks of great comebacks in the shower, days after they are relevant. I’m the kind of person who feels like I would offend these curious strangers by not offering a truthful answer when, in reality, they have just invaded a random person’s privacy by asking said person to share the most complicated and traumatic event of their life. I’m the kind of person who recently reacted like this.
Nobody ever knows how they will respond to trauma—whether it happens to you or somebody you love. In the case of my accident, my family all found their own ways to cope. What did I notice? My husband put all of his energy into caring for me. My dad threw himself into renovating our home and my mother-in-law was consumed with taking care of our children. But my father-in-law, he dove head first into research—he needed to fix this.
One of the most common comments I get from people is that my story reminds them to be thankful for the little things—the things that are so easily taken for granted. I would love to say that I’ve learned that lesson for good and always remember to thank my lucky stars for the simple things I am able to do but, alas, I am human. I am eternally thankful that so many of the struggles I faced in the beginning have become ordinary once again. However, as things became easier to do, they also became easier to take for granted.
We all have aspects of our lives that we can and cannot control. Sometimes—at least with me—we forget that some things are within our power. While attempting to control my injury would be about as successful as trying to control the weather or my firecracker of a 4-year-old, I can actually control how I protect my body—how I fuel it and how I strengthen it—and I have not done that. It is time for me to stop making excuses. Starting this week, with the help of Sasha at True North Strength and Fitness and Michelle at WestCoast Nutrition, I’m going to make a change.
I said I would kill myself when I turned 55.
Today, December 3, is International Day of Persons with Disabilities. The theme for 2018 is about empowering people with disabilities and ensuring inclusiveness and equality. It’s a tall order for just one day. I’ve been somewhat privileged since my injury to be in a bubble of inclusiveness. I’m surrounded by family and friends who make it a priority to include me. I have a husband who does everything in his power to make sure I experience all that I can. I have this blog that is followed by people who take an interest in disability, accessibility and equality. But lately I am seeing through my bubble. I am noticing how foreign disability still is to so many who don’t have personal experience with it. I am noticing how quickly my concerns are ignored and how accessibility issues are disregarded. I am noticing how much work still needs to be done.
I want my body back.
This is all I can think about as I blink back tears in the dark and quiet of the night. I always feel a pang of guilt for admitting it out loud. But I need to take a moment and allow this longing for my old self without shame.
I’m just waiting for someone.
I was only gone for five minutes.
I’ll move if somebody comes who needs it.
These are just a few of the excuses used to justify illegally parking in a handicapped parking spot. Out of all the things I expected to struggle with when I was told I would never walk again, parking my car was not one of them. And yet, here I am. And I am frustrated. I am frustrated with the lack of accessible parking and with the people who don’t think they are causing a problem by abusing the spots that exist. I am tired of people using tags that don’t belong to them, tags that are expired or no tag at all. I’m not a confrontational person and I do like to give people the benefit of the doubt by thinking that they are unaware of how crucial these spots are for the people that need them. So here is my attempt at spreading some awareness.