I’m not permanently disabled, at least I hope I’m not, but it’s been close to 90 days that I haven’t been able to walk like a “normal” person. Nor sit in any old chair, or lower myself onto the seat of a commode, or look at a flight of stairs without fear. Or leave the apartment without my cane, which I wear as a warning to other pedestrians, or rather a plea for their recognition and indulgence of my weakness—if I drop it, I can’t bend far enough to pick it up. If I fall, I can’t get to my feet unless I can crawl to some fixture and use my arms to lift me, or can rely on the kindness of younger, stronger strangers: it’s happened twice already, and I expect it will again. My legs are that useless, still, almost dead limbs that won’t move “naturally,” only as much as I force them to.
Every day, every hour, I have to make these minute calculations about where and how I can position and deploy my limbs. Can I climb into that vehicle? Can I open that door? Is that curb too high, even if I leverage it with my cane? Can I get out of this chair if I decide to sit down? Where’s the ramp? Where’s the elevator, does this subway station have one? Can I lift that object with one hand? Can I stand long enough to cook a meal for myself? Forget the socks, how do I get these shoes on? Earlier on in my recovery, the questions were more basic. Can I get out of this bed they put me in? If not, do I have to use a fucking bedpan, for God’s sake? How would I lift myself to do that, anyway? Will I ever be able to stand upright again, lift my head, look up and see something, anything, above the fifth floor? Is the sky still there? How can this hurt so much?
That word, “recovery,” is the difference between me and permanently disabled people, who have to ask these questions every day, every hour, for the rest of their lives. Whether or not they live with chronic pain, they have to be preoccupied with their bodies, or rather their body parts, because these are prosthetic devices, inert extensions, mere protrusions, from torsos that require their own kind of close attention and manipulation. Or so I imagine them to be, having experienced this new distance between my self and my limbs. I’m playing a video game in extremely slow motion, making my own body, now removed from me, do what I tell it to.
I know a man whose gestures convey his thoughts in the most enchanting, convincing way. When he speaks, his hands flutter, his fingers open upward, as if he’s releasing birds, giving wings to his words. You can almost watch them fly away. He’s never so persuasive on the page, in what he writes, and this difference is, I think, what separates him from physically disabled persons, who can never be unconscious of their body’s movements, and thus persuasive without meticulous, or even coherent, argument.
You might think that an acute consciousness of the body’s movements would make for a self at home in the world. A self at ease, for example, like a good dancer or musician or athlete, whose body is a laboratory, a site of constant testing and experiment. But their movements are as unconscious as the gestures of the man whose words take flight—they don’t think about what they’re doing with their bodies, not anymore, not after all that practice. The disabled person has to, because nothing works as it’s supposed to. Grace is out of reach, except in repose.
Everything is out of reach, except repose itself. But for someone in recovery, who hopes to be “normal,” to walk a block or climb some stairs without thinking, that’s a death trap. For the law of dreams is simple: keep moving, or die.
Jim- I'm so very sorry that recovery is slow and painful. Are you getting routine pt or are you now on your own? Please let me know if there's anything I can do to help in any small way. Your resiliency did not come easy and I am confident you will fight back as uou always have, if only one step at a time. Your love for people and the outdoors will factor into your recovery when your mind tells you otherwise. Cheering you on, Jim. ❤️
Really beautifully said.