There are certain things that make me nostalgic.
Driving the route that used to be my daily commute to high school, remembering the 7am jazz band practices or late nights following musical dress rehearsals. Going to the Outagamie County Fair and remembering the daily (and then some) runs to Walmart that occurred the week of entry day to finish those last minute 4-H projects that probably should have been done months ago. And today. Today, May 25, always makes me stop and remember.
Today marks six years, adding another tally mark to the side of my life lived in a wheelchair. They’re still drastically unbalanced sides, 21 years walking to a measly six years wheeling but still, that smaller side is growing. It’s like a slow dripping leak into a bucket — a drop here and a drop there doesn’t seem as though it amounts to much so you stop paying attention. Yet suddenly, as if by some dark magic, the bucket is overflowing and making its presence well known to anyone nearby.
Injury anniversaries mean different things to different people, and I’ve been surprised to notice how the meaning of my particular anniversary has changed in my own mind as the years continue to pass by. I’m older, although not necessarily wiser. I’ve done different things and latched on to related, but certainly different passions. I’ve asked a lot of questions and found some answers that were quickly replaced by even more questions. Looking from that frame of reference, I guess it isn’t much of a surprise that each year anniversary has a somewhat different vibe.
Right now I’m sitting outside on my patio, looking down 16 floors at the constantly bustling Chicago streets and sidewalks. As a silent observer watching the strangers moving about below, each at their own pace headed towards a unique destination, I can’t help but think about the times when these roles are reversed and I’m the one being observed. Crossing Michigan Avenue. Ordering a drink at Starbucks. Riding in an elevator. Getting out of my car.
At one point in time, that really bothered me — the feeling of always being watched. Yet, after six years, I usually (and finally) don’t notice the “few seconds to long” stares. But when I do, I no longer feel the need to look away or pretend that if I can’t see them, they can’t see me —- and that’s new.
We all go through life with so many different identities. I’m a daughter, I’m a sister, and more recently I’m an aunt. I’m a Christian. I’m an MD PhD student. And I’m a disabled woman.
I’ve known that last identity exists as a part of my “demographic information” for quite some time, but claiming it and being honestly and truthfully willing to claim, it has taken longer than I want to admit (*cough* 6 years *cough*).