Seven

A few weeks ago, I watched the documentary Murderball about the quadriplegics who play wheelchair rugby. It's an amazing documentary, deserving of the praise it was bestowed by the critics. I was astounded by the vigor and strength that the athletes had for the game, but more than that, I was pleasantly surprised that the documentary captured not only the fierceness of the game but the character of the players. I've never seen anything that was more successful at attempting to convey what it feels like to have a spinal cord injury.

Try as I may, I can't ever explain fully what it feels like to suddenly have everything you've known your whole life taken away in an instant and replaced with something dysfunctional. There is a part in the documentary where the camera follows a fresh injury, a kid who fractured his neck on a motorcross bike. He spent months in rehab and he was excited to able to go home. When he got there...when he looked around and saw the modifications to his bedroom and bathroom, you could see on his face in that second that realized his old self was lost forever. It took a moment for it all to sink in. That although remnants of his old self were all around him, he was a completely different person. And that's when I had to hit Pause and grab a Kleenex. I remember that moment.

Being in a rehabilitation hospital sheltered me from reality. I wouldn't call my stay there easy. But I was there with other people who had spinal injuries like me. (Most of them were young black men with gunshot wounds, but I just chalk that up to the area I live in.) I remember one older man in particular. Mr. Nage. Months earlier, he was sleeping in bed with his wife. He woke up and was cold so he stood up to close the window. He lost his balance and fell back over the bed onto the floor and fractured his vertibre on the way. Paralyzed. Everyone has a story.

Therapy included having other people stretch my muscles, sitting on the edge of a mat to work on balance, practicing rolling over, practicing writing, and a variety of other exercises most babies can do more skillfully. I was so excited to leave that horrid hospital, but I wasn't prepared emotionally to face the home I lived in...where every room and wall held a memory. It was home but it wasn't comforting.

Now, seven years later, the memories still get to me and I still struggle to not compare myself to others. Every day I'm reminded that I have limitations. My body won't let me forget. I can't get over this and there is no end in sight. It wasn't supposed to be for 7 years! Yet despite it all -- the leg spasms, the swollen feet, the doctors, the height disadvantage, the expenses, the pain, the inconveniences, and the things I miss like crazy -- I continue to be immune to the depression I want so badly at times to sink into. My own happiness continues to surprise me.

Please wish me and my wheelchair a happy 7-year anniversary!

~ December 20, 1998 ~

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Track of the Day: "So Far Away" by Staind
"This is my life
It's not what it was before
All these feelings I've shared..."