Last weekend when reading the headlines it felt like the apocalypse was looming, but when I ventured out of the house to buy groceries the streets, shops, and restaurants full of people seemed to assert that life was continuing normally.
This weekend we find ourselves confined to our homes, streets barren, favorite spots shuttered. We have woken up in a dystopian dream but the headlines ask us not to panic, reassuring that we can still buy groceries, visit the doctor, go for a walk – they say we can do the essentials.
A few days ago California was one of only three states asked to shelter in place, but as of this morning twenty percent of the country, ten states, have now been asked to come to a hard stop. This glimpse of our new normal is most likely a peek at your not-too-distant future.
Turns out what is considered essential are the things that we as Americans most often abandon in the hurry to get to all of our now defined nonessential exploits. What paring back to the essentials looks like…
Entire neighborhoods do not wake up until well past 9am since there is nowhere to go. Snuggling in bed and catching up on sleep is essential.
When families do wake, not a car budges from the driveway. Pancake parties, making the perfect cup of coffee, and sitting down to breakfast together is essential.
In the late morning strollers and bicycles start rolling down streets in family-groups, soaking in sunlight and staying at least six feet away from others. Walks, jogs, and bicycle rides are essential.
In the afternoon neighbors wipe down books, puzzles, and games with Clorox wipes and set them on the curb to swap with others. The streets grow quiet again as families eat their mid-day meals together and then find that… Naps, board games, good books, puzzles, arts and crafts time, favorite movies, gardening, quiet time, and other old and new hobbies are essential.
In the evening the smell of grilling meat and backyard campfires rolls across the neighborhood, people sit on front porches, wineglasses in hand, and chat across their property lines. Conversation is essential.
The streets grow silent as families sit down together for dinner. There are no revolving eating times as children run off to practices or youth group or parents come home late from work. Sitting down to dinner together is essential. Families are essential.
The sun sets and we linger in our backyard, there is nothing to prep for the next day. Looking down the line of fencing we see family after family tossing a ball, running and laughing, staring at the one rhythm that can’t be thrown into confusion by the insidious reach of this virus. Tomorrow that same rhythm will wake and anchor us, because sunrises and sunsets are essential.
When I left my house to drive a few miles to drop some supplies off with a friend the streets were deserted. The only people around were those grabbing takeout or the homeless sitting block after block. A reminder that there are many without families or homes during this time. A reminder that every essential is a privilege, a gift.
Anxiety and grief underly every aspect of life right now. Will those who are vulnerable be ok? What will life look like after this? The questions go on…
There is disappointment, uncertainty, and concern, but in the midst there are the essentials and when we slow down long enough, when we are forced to do only them – we learn that they are good enough to give us all the strength we need.
Maybe after the pandemic of 2020 is over, we won’t ever let anyone take those essentials away from us again.
I can’t walk, but I would lose quite a bit to run again.
In eighth grade I was taller than all the boys and I sailed over hurdles easily, if not with grace. I won or medaled in every 100 or 200 race that I began. Then I went to a state track meet and girls with chiseled legs flew past me. I was out of my league and thought that meant I wasn’t a runner.
In college I met a boy who reminded me how much I loved running, and we would circle laps around skyscrapers, wind our way through the city zoo, and fly through cornfields. We ran before school and after work, in golden light and late night dark. We ran though sun and snow – my favorite was rain. My first half marathon was with that boy, doing a victory lap around the Indiana 500 Speedway.
I wasn’t fast but I wasn’t slow. I was happy.
We married, birthed two kids before we had any idea what life would hold, and off we ran to distant states and his career in the Marine Corps. He would trudge through the woods with a pack on his back, falling into bed exhausted. I learned the Virginia trails running with girlfriends or our puppy at my side. Leaves crunched under my feet, and 5k’s kept me company on the weekends.
Then between my body swelling pregnant, breasts filling, and babies growing – we moved some more and I kept running. Strollers and my husband’s flight-school schedule meant I squeezed in a run whenever and however I could – under Florida pine trees and along beaches with a group of women who were all praying like me that our men didn’t fall out of the sky while learning to fly tiny orange airplanes.
Next were deployments. That boy I met and married headed off to war – seven months in Iraq, nine months in Afghanistan. I ran through it all, pushing a giant blue sail of a jogging stroller with two small boys, sleeping, whining, and snuggling inside. I pounded laps around a Southern neighborhood that I felt completely alone in, then flew home to Indiana to see my mama and run dark icy streets, college campuses, muddy spring trails, and frozen cornfields.
I wasn’t sure what life I had chosen where the military dictated our days and motherhood unfolded without any instruction manual. So I just kept running.
I ran my way to seven minute miles and a 22 minute 5k, not because I was keeping track but because my legs flying was the thing that felt best to my heart.
My husband a million mile away, toddlers tucked in the jogging stroller – I was running a prayer. Punk rock and bluegrass playing in my ears. I kept running and I was happy.
Then a baby died and I held him still in my arms. There were hospitals and emergency room visits, funeral homes, and ashes in the sea, but four weeks later I ran one circle around our North Carolina neighborhood. Praise music in my ears, and I raced a detour through the trees so no one could see my tears and joy because despite a broken heart I was still running.
Another child graced my body – I swelled full and shrank strong again. Homeschool days kept me within the walls of our California home and interspersed the hours with field trips and beach picnics. It was harder to sneak away but I still ran, pushing strollers with children pedaling ahead and lagging behind to pick up leaf and pebble treasures. Some evenings the best thing happened – my husband came home from work early and I had a few minutes to race down the hill and along the sand, throwing myself into the waves and hurrying home dripping salty.
Then there were more babies lost, these too small to sprinkle in the sea. I decided to run marathons and also tried to make enough money to adopt a baby. I researched training plans and adoption agencies. I dreamed of running each iconic course, and of another newborn. I lifted weights with my husband and swam laps during my kids’ swim practice. I kept putting one foot in front of another.
Then I was pregnant and nine months later our daughter was cut from me, healthy and pink. Life grew quiet in awe of the miracle she was. I walked along beaches, through gardens, across the overgrown field by our house with her wrapped close to my chest. Eventually though it was time to run again, slipping away while Dad and brothers fed her avocado and blueberries.
Jimmy Eat World, Modest Mouse, Rage Against, Bleachers – all my favorites were there to carry me as my feet spun, legs pumping.
I ran and I was happy. I ran and the crazy path of almost forty years made sense. I ran a prayer, always a prayer.
This running has always been a motion within; it has been my prayer, my solace, my adventure.
I don’t know that you need to know this or if anyone cares, but I need to write this out. I need to remember each jog and sprint.
I need to affirm that I would lose much to run again.
Because I don’t have a wall full of medals; I have a burning love inside that has been a quiet hidden foundation for many years. It has been where I have gone with others and away from others to enter fully into joy, life, prayer.
The most difficult part of this injury has not been losing the ability to walk; the excruciating part has been being unable to run. People often speak of what they would give to do something again, but giving is often just another word for losing.
It’s time to learn what I would lose to run again.
I don’t know where to start because there is a lot I haven’t shared…
It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just that once these words hit the internet, they are there forever– to be interpreted, misunderstood, re-imagined (you get what I mean right?)
And honestly sometimes I just feel like too big of a disaster, like my story has too many dark nights and not enough upward arcs.
The past couple years have seen my veins opened for tests and treatments, they have seen every inch of my body analyzed and documented by doctors, they have witnessed the neighborhood and internet grapevine talk about me and strangers talk at me every chance they get about my inability to do that simple thing we hold as our human right – walking. They have shown me that we actually hold nothing as our own. All is gift, and that is a privilege to learn. And they have held so much love, encouragement, and support from all of you friends.
This year is a new year, and I am an artist. That means I can’t keep quiet any longer.
I’m sitting here in front of a screen wondering what my message should be and for which intended audience… but I do not want to create content for you.
I want to share my heart with you.
Is that ok? Because we have a lot of shiny squares and noise. We are drowning in how-to’s and confessionals. Some are growing numbers, others are stepping away from the social media game.
I know I’m not loud, important, or curated enough to reach more than a few ears and hearts. But I began this blog at the end of the last decade because I didn’t know any other way to share my heart after my greatest loss.
I didn’t know how to tell another smiling person I was hanging in there while remembering holding my son cold and still after pressing him out of my own body with every bit of strength I had.
I didn’t think I could shrink away one more time when I couldn’t cry on cue for a stranger or acquaintance.
I didn’t know what to say or how… So I wrote on this page and some of you said it sounded like your story, the one you didn’t know how to share either. Some of you said reading these words helped you not feel alone.
So here I am.
Another decade has ended with a great loss – this time it was my leg, my mobility, and a big chunk of my dreams. It’s been horrific, but a loss like this still seems like nothing compared to the death of my son.
This past decade began with redemption – redemption that was messy and hard but the sweetest thing I have known.
I was pregnant with Jeremiah two months after losing Joshua on Oct 30, 2009. I birthed Jeremiah on Sept 7, 2010. There was too much blood, fear, a slow recovery, and delayed grieving, but this decade began with the gift of him being placed in my arms. It began with being given a new story that never would have existed without the wrenching loss of the previous decade.
Can I tell you a secret friends?
That is what I am hoping for this decade; that is what I am hoping for in 2020.
Not another child, but a new step in this story – one that doesn’t replace lost dreams, but redeems them with fresh paths.
I have more to share with you, but this is enough for today. There is much that I know and need the time, space, and bravery to write out.
And there is some that I don’t know yet. It is hard to live present amidst uncertainty, but I am doing my best… I promise I will share with you.
I can feel the floor hard against my body last July 11th – unable to move my leg, unable to stand, trying to breathe through pain as excruciating as childbirth.
And I can feel the last time I ran.
It is there every day, the memory of my feet pounding in graceful rhythm, my heart beating, arms pumping. That last run is there when I don’t want to show up for PT, when I want to curl up in bed instead of strap on my leg brace while I make breakfast and then leave the house in a wheelchair. And every other run is with me, to the beach and back, around the neighborhood, in states across the country, not for prizes or times, but just because it is how I moved with joy.
Running is how I prayed.
When I was first pregnant living in a tiny Florida town perched outside a military airfield, hoping with all the rest of the wives that our husbands’ training aircraft didn’t fall out of the sky… Then other expectant mamas would commiserate how they couldn’t wait to have a glass of wine, be able to see their feet again, and slip into their jeans. I kept it to myself that what I missed most of all was a brisk run through the palm bushes and pine trees. My nine pound son didn’t take long to swell my frame to something I couldn’t recognize much less propel into a jog.
I hadn’t been prepared for how disabling and disfiguring bringing new life into the world would be, and I wonder when I said goodbye to the body of my girlhood. It didn’t happen all at once, but instead incrementally as I left the hospital still seemingly seven months pregnant, as my breasts spilled, my stomach sagged, and my schedule came to revolve around someone so fragile that it was my responsibility to simply keep him alive. Then there were deployments, stillbirths, emergency c-sections, diapers, miscarriages, and every-day-life as a mom to four.
After each birth I would wait the prescribed amount of time and then my feet would begin to beat the pavement again in a pattern of tentative running and restorative walking. I would run and walk in patterns that eventually led to being able to easily glide miles, and then I would feel I was home again within myself.
Choosing not to resent the skin sliding farther down my abdomen with every child born, I instead praised my body for another miraculous creation and thanked it for continuing to run.
With my legs still spinning I didn’t realize I had said goodbye to a part of me. Dreams and I were still acquainted, but I felt they were for another time – later when I was less needed. That was ok with me, because it was enough to feel the air push in and out of my chest and see the cadence of my knees raised and soles placed, hold my children close, and enjoy my front row seat to the magic of their growing years.
I feel all of that in this summer air, muggy and sun-drenched like the breathe I pumped in and out on my last run.
A little over a year ago.
Now I am disabled and the list of what I’m unable to do has grown to include such mundane tasks as walking. Running is a far distant memory whose hope lingers on the horizon as a painful but motivating reminder of what I have lost and what I still long for.
The calendar says July 11th, and I know now that is all I am given. Today.
I can plan, hope, and train, but I do not know if tomorrow will come or what it may bring. So it is up to me to rise each morning, love well those in my life, and lay hold of a bit of my dreams right here and now.
I know from what I have journeyed through in these forty years of mine that grieving is essential, but it is also up to me to search for joy – Every. Single. Day.
I have learned that the word disabled connotates what I can’t do, and it’s a necessary distinction when functioning in a body that isn’t able to do what the majority of bodies can do. A body that has been altered to a shadow of what it had been.
But as I shared in another post, when something so essential as walking is taken away you have to find what you can do. You have to adapt and focus on what can be done. (The post you are reading now is part two of how I feel about adaptivity versus disability, click link above to read part one)
It is this adapting that has shown me that truly there is no limit, and there is always joy in every part of our journey just waiting for us to uncover and celebrate.
Driving by the spot where I went for my last run always hits me in the gut, but my arms can now pull my body up strong. Pull-up after pull-up when I used to not even be able to do one.
Looking at past pictures of myself standing tall without a wheelchair, crutches, or a leg brace can sink my heart, but I no longer feel the need to offer mental apologies for my motherhood deflated figure or even my wheels. I am here, and that is a treasure so valuable and transient that I have no time to waste on anything less than acceptance and seeking joy.
Now that the term disabled applies to my experience, the only way to survive has been to find each and everything that I can do, that I want to do.
I can’t make it all happen right now. I am a mother and wife which also translates into chauffeur, teacher, nurturer, cleaner, cook, schedule administrator, diaper changer, tea-party guest, listener, grocery shopper and so much more that I wouldn’t miss for the world.
Something has changed though. Each morning I wake up and ask myself… What do I want to do today? How can I make that happen? What can I do?
If disabled focuses on what can’t be done, then adaptive focuses on what can be done.
There are days that grief settles in, when I just want to feel my legs running, be able to set the physical pain aside, not have to answer another prying question, stop evaluating excursions for their accessibility or clothing for their ability to fit with my leg brace. There are days that I sink a bit, but I know that my heart will rise again…
Because this past year has opened my eyes to human bravery and adaptivity. There are others living without any limbs; others facing each day knowing that a disease will rob their bodies as it slowly progresses and steals away movement, speech, thought. There are others battling cancer and fighting to recover from strokes. There are young and old embracing each and every day no matter what it holds, adapting and finding ways to adventure on.
So although this year has been harder than I could possibly describe, and I sit here knowing the future may look very similar…
In spite of that, I don’t have time for too much heartache over what I have lost. I hope and work for healing, but when the doctors tell you they don’t know where the ceiling of recovery will be, that it may be very low, but the sky is the limit on maximizing the rest of your potential…
Well then, you get to work maximizing the rest of your body and soul as if your life depended on it, because your joy does for sure.
I know you friend. I know there is something you can’t do. There are physical limitations, emotional wounds, financial constraints, family dynamics.
I know you friend, and there is so much you can do. There are dreams you have, opportunities you can find, gifts you should share, plans you must make, joy to be found every day in so many ways.
Whatever our circumstances may be, adapting feels crazy. I promise you it will look unlike anything you imagined, but it will be so worth it. And just maybe it will be one step in the direction of reclaiming what has been lost in some way.
We are treasure seekers, looking for God’s goodness and joy amidst even the hardest of circumstances not so we can get an A for lessons learned, but because our Father is here with us in the trenches even when things don’t make sense.
Together we can adapt and adventure on… Tell me friend what are you overcoming, what dreams do you need to dig up, what can you do right now that brings joy?
. . .
Below are some photos and videos of my adaptive adventures with my family this year. What you can’t see are the countless hours spent at physical therapy and navigating the medical world and insurance, the pain, tears, sleepless nights, mortifyingly awkward social moments, and more that has been so hard for the past 365 days and will continue to be a challenge. But below is what I want to celebrate from this year, because not only has God kept my family and I together and moving, but we have met so many amazing people and organizations who give of themselves so that when faced with disability people can learn new ways of embracing life instead of giving up. And if you want to read more about my journey this year you can click here.
. . .
Mono-skiing while my kids skied and snowboarded through the United States Adaptive Recreation Center on Big Bear mountain. IG @usadapt >Ice skating on wheels at the Liberty Station fundraiser for Rady’s Children’s Hospital >Kayaking in the rain with REI and my hubby >Horseback riding through Ivey Ranch. In the past I competed through 4-H and at the collegiate level, and I can’t wait to introduce Joy to riding >Hiking some of the awesome accessible trails around San Diego with my family >Completing the Renegade Memorial Day 5k Race with my family, on crutches with my leg in a sling >Celebrating after my first time successfully off-roading on crutches with my leg in a sling >Camping with my family by the beach in a great accessible site with wheels, crutches, and a leg brace >Surfing at an adaptive clinic put on by Challenged Athletes Foundation and Ironman Foundation, and getting inspired by the Team Wattie Ink ladies to start participating in triathlons to fill that hole that not being able to run has left in my heart >Swimming masters swim several times a week to train for triathlon relays and eventually full triathlons as Challenged Athletes Foundation sets me up with adaptive gear to use. IG @cafoundation >Competing in my first triathlon relay at the San Diego Triathlon Series thanks to a grant from Team Catapult. I swam a kilometer, my friend biked 20k since Jesse was out of town for military training, and my son David ran 10k. It was an awesome experience and I can’t wait for the next one! IG @team_catapult >These are super quick video clips of me finishing the 5k on crutches, doing a little off-road assent on crutches and mono-skiing on Big Bear mountain >
After months of using my full leg KAFO brace at home I have begun to wear it into some public settings. I enter at a snail’s pace, all eyes on me. I maneuver by swinging from the hip with my left leg wrapped and locked straight in thick strips of titanium and carbon fiber that extend painfully all the way into my shoe and around my foot, giving the illusion of a slow but usable leg.
When I had to begin using a wheelchair I would sit in the car steeling myself for the awkward stares and conversations, praying I wouldn’t meet an obstacle I didn’t know how to navigate. I would only convince myself to exit the car and roll in after an internal reminder that if it felt too uncomfortable I could wheel out as quickly as I went in.
That is not the case when I wear my leg brace. I inch my way in knowing that a retreat will be just as slow. Knowing that I will be treated like someone with two functioning legs. I will be expected to turn on a dime to get out of people’s way in the grocery store. No matter how much someone walking with me slows down, I will still awkwardly be moving even slower. Unlike in the chair when there is an overabundance of assistance offered, very few people will ask me if I need help navigating obstacles such as doors or stairs. No one will ask me if I need a seat.
They are all just so very happy that I am upright. “It’s good to see you up.”
And they are confused that I am not more delighted about this. They are confused when I sit back down.
“You’re walking now – looking good!” they say. “How long has it been?” they say.
As each new stage of this journey presents itself I have found responses that help ease the discomfort, because social settings rarely lend themselves to in-depth conversations. In response to these frequent one-liners it would be difficult to explain…
…that when I first got the KAFO brace I could only be upright in it for a few minutes and it has taken months of hard work to be stable enough to navigate a short trip into a public place, and I still have not been designated a “community ambulator” by my physical therapist.
…that when I am in the brace I am in more pain than when I am in the chair and that the longer I wear it during the day the more muscle spasms keep me from sleeping at night.
…that I have fallen flat on my face and on my back in this brace and instead of glorying about being 5’9” again I am mostly just concentrating and praying that I don’t end up with my head on the pavement in front of everyone.
…that after almost a year of neuromuscular rehabilitation at an excellent outpatient program, this may be close to as good as it gets, and if there is more progress that will also present hurdles that are as emotionally and physically difficult as standing before them in this brace.
…that I have not been miraculously healed but thanks to good insurance and helpful doctors and physical therapists I have been equipped with equipment and therapy that has helped me to adapt and have access to several different mobility aids that I use interchangeably depending on the situation in order to minimize pain, promote recovery, stay safe, and retain my personhood and role as a mother, wife, friend, woman.
…that although there are always hard things about using the chair, and the initial transition to being in it was more difficult than I can explain – this country is very accessible and I can cover a lot of ground in it which I cannot say the same for with the brace at this point.
…that when I enter a situation in my brace and without my wheelchair I am just desperately hoping that no wrenches get thrown in the plan, because I can’t go back and forth to the parking several times like I can in my chair, I can’t chase a toddler or pick her up in my arms like I can in my chair, and just because I am upright does not mean that I can navigate areas that are not designed to be accessible. That is what I am praying, but inevitably with four kids there is always a wrench in the plans.
…that with every step I am desperately hoping my hip will cooperate when I ask it to swing and that my foot will flex the small amount it can to circumvent the constant texture of the ground that is enough to upend me. And that as I stand I am hoping that my leg doesn’t spasm; that I can just function as “normally” as possible so I don’t feel embarrassed while also wishing that others would understand that nothing about what I am navigating is normal or easy.
…that although it is difficult to have the chair be the first thing everyone sees, and know that it remains the center of attention with anyone who doesn’t know me well enough to be “used” to it – it’s also incredibly difficult that often the leg brace isn’t even noticed if I’m behind a stroller or grocery cart. This means my disability and possible need for assistance is totally unknown. It’s hard to experience a store employee broadcasting over the loudspeaker that a customer in a wheelchair needs help, but it’s equally difficult to have to explain why I need assistance finding something in a store and then watch the employee walk towards it at a speed I can’t possible keep up with.
…that honestly it’s harder emotionally for me to be slow than short. I know it may feel more uncomfortable for others to look down at me and see wheels attached, but I hate the feeling of trying to carefully ease my leg down a flight of stairs or inch up an uneven path knowing that there is a crowd forming behind me while others have to wait because my one-legged self is in their two-legged domain instead of on the accessible path where at least I am speedy in my chair.
…that I feel like less of a mom when I am in the brace relying on crutches because then my hands have also been taken from me and there is little I can do to help with my two-year-old daughter. In the chair I am able to get to her quickly and scoop her up onto my lap which is a place she loves to be. On crutches there is no part of my body that is able to function in the way it was used to, and I have to watch helplessly if she needs something instead of attending to her myself. This isn’t even possible if I don’t have someone with me to help so her and I go most places in the chair together.
…that an Instagrammer I came across, @wheels2walking, said it well when he wrote that although it is hard to be treated as fragile when in the chair, it is even harder to be treated as less disabled when on crutches because often one can do a fraction on crutches of what is possible in the chair.
…that my functionality in the brace not only varies day to day but hour to hour and even moment to moment. If someone sees me up and on my way from a parking spot towards a public gathering place I may look like I am moving somewhat easily, but that will not be the case after I have been standing or moving for some time and am just hoping I can make it back to the car successfully.
…that when I hear others say it’s good to see me up, I know they mean well and are wanting to celebrate with me, but it feels a bit like my worth is being judged on my ability to be up which I can only do a fraction of the time and not in any way that is similar to what they experience. It feels a bit like if someone were to see someone who is struggling with depression who just managed to make it out of the house for the first time in weeks with a brave smile on their face and they said to them, “it’s good to see you happy.”
I long to be able to share all of this.
And I long to say that it would be wonderful to just hear,
“It’s so good to see YOU.”
But I know they mean well. I know everyone is rooting for recovery as much as I am and there is just no way to know the reality of someone’s story without living the nuances yourself.
So instead I give a wry grin and mumble something about, “Well, I’m shuffling,” hoping we can move on to other topics.
Then they tell me I look great, looks like walking to them. A scream wells up inside that I stifle down because it’s not polite to explain that I may be “ambulating” as the physical therapists say, but a typical gait consists of so much more than being on your feet. Yes I’m getting from point A to point B slowly as long as those points are pretty close together, but my knee is not bending with each step like theirs’ do, my leg is not lifting and then supporting weight, my foot is not going through the complex choreography that is a step.
And when I sit down next to them with my brace on, as their bodies find a comfortable position to rest in, weight shifting, legs crossing and uncrossing… My leg is locked into 90 degree angles, a quarter of my body in a cage with the discomfort spreading quickly into my right hip, lower back, and up through my spine. Unless of course I take my brace off, but in these surface encounters I just don’t have the courage to vulnerably set “my leg” next to me with the shoe still attached since it’s easier that way, or struggle to quickly don it if I need to leave my seat.
I wish I could tell them I long to hear that they are just happy to see ME, and if they feel prompted to say more than that when they first see me up in the brace, I would love to hear,
“That must be hard.”
Because it is.
Because I know they are also doing something hard. We all are.
We can’t possibly understand the nuances of each other’s stories, but we can acknowledge that they are difficult, and that it is a miracle that we are all here with each other, walking, shuffling, and hoping through each day.
The reality of these encounters is that I summon the courage to strap the titanium on, lock my leg out, and listen to them say it’s good to see me up while I just try not to fall over.
I mumble and grin and wonder if that means they will be disappointed to see me sit down when the next part of my day requires more speed, agility, or endurance than the brace can offer.
I mumble and grin and say, “It’s so good to see YOU too.”
Because it is.
The miracle is that we are here together, sitting or standing, hearts breaking or hearts full, breathing and greeting each other.
It’s hard and we are here.
If we grow old enough before we leave this world it is inevitable that none of us will stand easy and steady on our two legs. We will all experience the uncertainty that comes with being human. We all learn of frailty and bravery in our own way as we journey through whatever this story throws at us.
I say, “It’s good to see you,” because I know that the smiling face before me is holding their own pain just as I can’t easily explain to them how the titanium hurts, how tonight my nerves will feel like fire, and spasms will shake my leg.
I can’t put into words how I just hope they are happy to see ME whether standing or sitting.
How I hope these words I am writing won’t offend, but will draw us a bit closer so we can lean on each other.
(p.s. pllleeease don’t feel bad if you have ever said the aforementioned phrase to me 😉 Love ya friends! )