I’ll live

I was thrust into this world unwillingly, as we all are, and without warning. One minute I was walking around on two legs, minding my own business, the next I was lying on the bathroom floor cursing myself for not being able to put one foot in front of the other without collapsing. It happened in a second. In a bone-crushing second when, ironically, I was supposed to be having fun.

I twisted my ankle, or so I thought. The emergency room told me something different. It’s a fracture. What’s the difference between a fracture and a break? Nothing. I was given the boot, the cold, shiny crutches, an excuse from work, vicodin. None of that really prepares you for the next 6-8 weeks.

You’re young, you’re healthy, you can’t do a damn thing on your own. Cooking is hard. Taking a shower is hard. Picking up the pen you dropped is hard. Cleaning, hard. Carrying a book, impossible. Reminding yourself it could be so much worse, that you are actually lucky, really really hard. I can’t wait to feel an itch on my nose and scratch it while I keep walking. Scratching and walking at the same time. Brilliant. As for now, anything that requires the use of hands must be done in a stationary position. Multitasking? Out the window.

The worst is other people. Strangers mostly. The way they unabashedly stare at your defect, like you got some explaining to do. Wheelchairs have become a relief. They give my arms a break. But then they stare even more. As if they haven’t seen a 23-year-old being pushed around the grocery store in a wheelchair before. I want to motion them in, like I have a secret to divulge, get them real close. Then spit in their face, punch their skull. Punish them for having no shame, for somehow resisting socialization so magnificently.

It hasn’t been all bad. You are excused from pleasantries. You don’t have to apologize for anything, even if you are at fault. Most people apologize to you. They don’t expect much from a broken person. And the guy at the checkout in the wheelchair, obviously for good. There is no healing for him, this is it. His life on wheels. He smiles at me like I’m on the inside of something, like even if for this moment I understand. Because I think I really do. I’ll never look at him the same again.