Showing Itself

The other day at work my co-worker asked me: “Do you take any pain killers?”

I shook my head. “No.” I said.

“Why not? Surely with your Cerebral Palsy, you should be able to?”

I shrug. “I don’t take anything but asprin. I don’t like losing control of myself. I don’t feel like living in a fog. “

“But is it better to remain in pain?” I could tell she was sincerely concerned for me.

“It’s better to live with it rather than trying to put a band aid on it.” I said. “I have to be able to be aware.” I told her. “There are worse things in the world than living with a bit of soreness.”

“Did you take any tylonol today?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yes, it hasn’t kicked in yet.”

“I can tell,” she said. “You’re walking funny today.”

I wondered later about how things change.

Years ago, people didn’t notice my Cerebral Palsy. People were shocked when I told them I had it.

Now, they can see it. It’s as if it no longer wants to hide, no longer wants to keep hidden and is trying to show itself, to make itself known, whether I want it to or not.

Glass Slippers and Falling Leaves

I feel old lately.

The weeks have not been kind to my body. Every day I feel more and more pain with every step I take. The spasms in my legs have been getting worse and I do not know why this is. I do not know how to stop it, how to ease it.

I lift my left foot, feel a blissful second where there is no pain, and feel it shoot up my leg like knifes or needles when I step down again. Every time I take a step there is pain and when I am not walking my legs are spasming.

I feel like I cannot win, as if I’m in a race against something I can’t see. I wonder if I finish the race, if I let my body rip through that piece of ribbon at the finish line, whether or not the pain will cease. But how can I race something I cannot see?

It’s like I’m wearing glass slippers, except that they’re broken; they’re sharp shards and slivers of slick silver that slide into my skin with each step. I know how Cinderella felt but how did she stand to walk in such uncomfortable shoes?

I massage my legs at work, hoping that it might help, that the next time I take a step or have to stand up, my legs won’t cry out in protest.

I’ve been praying a lot lately. Not to God, not religious praying. Not in that sense. I’ve just been praying for the pain to stop, even for an instant, so that I can breathe in again, so that I can breathe out.

I feel old inside my body. But I will not let my legs take me down. I will not let their complaints bring me to a darker place.

I will envision myself like a leaf going through change: dark green to brilliant orange. Brilliant orange to a deep rust. Deep rust to a gorgeous red. And when I fall away from the tree to land softly on the ground, I will finally be able to wear something other than glass slippers.

A Gentle Quiet

I have been quiet lately.

 

This is not due to depression, thank goodness. It is simply due to the fact that life has taken me up in a whirlwind and has only just put me down again. For the past while, I’ve been consumed in a routine: Go to work, go home, write. Go to work, go home, write. Can you guess what I’ve been writing?

 

I’ve been writing my memoir titled One Step at a Time. So, while I have been quiet, I have been active. And I have some amazing news to share with all of you:

 

The memoir is finished.

 

I wrote the last page just under a couple hours ago. If I still smoked, this would be where I would light up a cigarette. Though I can’t compare the experience of writing this memoir to sex, I can compare it to a journey.

 

And, indeed, it has been one. It has helped me heal more than I thought possible and I have learned more about myself while putting its words down on paper than I thought I could know.

 

One thing is clear to me, however: this is the most important piece of writing I have ever written. It is certainly not my favourite as it’s caused me many sleepless nights, nightmares, temper tantrums. You name it and I’ve had it because of writing this book.

 

But I’ve never had the feeling I do now of being free; of having a weight lifted off of me, a weight that I wasn’t even aware I was carrying. The chalice that rests inside me finally feels whole again and I can breathe without feeling any pain.

 

That’s not to say that my Cerebral Palsy has all of a sudden gone away, my family has welcomed me back with open arms and everything is okay. But it does mean that I feel better about myself now, I feel better about being me.

 

I couldn’t ask for anything more.

 

Now that the memoir is finished, I can finally get back to regular blogging, regular writing and other projects that have sat by the wayside. I’m giving it a day and then I’m going to delve into a read through and a little bit of editing.

 

Then it’s off to the publisher.

 

I only hope that the publisher enjoys it. It is my sincere hope that they do and that they do not find it too depressing or badly written. I’ll have to cross my fingers and toes but not my eyes. I’d bump into things that way and I do that enough already.

 

I’ve also submitted a proposal for a second memoir to my wonderful publisher. I can only hope that I’ll be able to continue my story. So, much like before, I will have plenty to worry about.

 

But I also have plenty to be joyous about as well.

 

One (or rather several) of those things is you. Yes, you, reading this blog right now. You have read my words, found enjoyment from them and been enlightened by them. You have sent me emails and comments letting me know how touched you are by my words and I can’t thank you enough.

 

I write for me, for myself but it is a treat, a pleasure and a privilege to write for you. So thank you, reader. I’ll be back on track in a day or two. Your patience means the world to me.

Now that one story is finished I can finally continue to tell another.

A Marked Man

I am still convinced that my legs are trying to get me killed.

 Sure, they may not be trying too hard; but I know it is one of their many efforts aside from walking.

Last Saturday, we went out to celebrate our friend Marks birthday. He was turning 29 again for the third time. He looks gorgeous for 29 and has fantastic skin. They encouraged us to eat, drink and be merry.

All night, Robert kept noticing me grimace. “What’s wrong?” He would ask. “Your legs bothering you?”

I would nod. “They’re sore.” In truth, they were knotted masses of tree trunks, elephant legs grown over night or in mere moments.

He would offer me his seat but that wouldn’t help. It was as if sitting intensified the Elephant Legs, as if sitting forced them to move when they did not want to. I could feel every muscle, every spasm.

I ignored it as best I could as the evening wore on, as they night took hold of us. I talked to others, I drank, I ate more food. All in an effort to ignore what was building in my legs. I could feel it boiling there, as it it wanted to let off steam and it would do so through the pores of my skin.

We went to a bar to ring in Marks birthday, midnight rolling around with both Robert and I hitting our respective walls. Going home in the cab, I could feel my legs protesting what I had put them through tonight. They were very, very vocal. I should have noticed the warning signs. “Drinking, dancing, parties?” They were saying. “Oh, you owe us. You SO owe us.”

I was bringing two glasses of ginger-ale out of the kitchen, walking toward Robert in the living room, when it happened: my legs gave out. They gave out completely. One moment, I was walking and the next I was falling, flying, floating towards the ground.

I hit the ground hard on my right leg and right arm. I think I made a sound but I can’t be sure, I really don’t remember if I did or not. I put the glasses on the table (still more than half full with their golden liquid) and got up.

I looked at my legs. They were numb but I could feel them shaking. I felt like hitting them, berating them for giving out on me. I was worried that there was no warning the moment before they gave away. I wonder if I had pushed them too hard, had forced them to do too much that evening?

I went to bed and thought nothing of the fall until the next morning. I turned over in bed and Robert came into the bedroom, saw me lying there. “What did you do to your leg?” He asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Your leg, it’s bruised.”

I got up and went to the full length mirror. Bruise was such a simple word for what graced my leg. I had a large bruise, about the size of my hand with my fingers stretched out. It was on my right thigh, on the side, and it looked like a big black mass of shadow.

I touched it and felt the swelling, the pain. “It must have been from the fall.” I said.

“You fell really hard.” Robert replied. “You hit the table on the way down too, before you hit the floor.”

I stared at the bruise with awe that my body could produce something so ugly. Robert cringed when he looked at it. “Put some cream on it, some moisturizer.” he said. “That will help the swelling go down.”

I stared at my leg, at the mark that was now on my skin and couldn’t help but be reminded of the novel Treasure Island and the pirate who receives the Black Mark pressed into his palm, marking him for death.

I prodded the bruise, felt a fresh tinge of pain and wondered was I now a marked man? Was I now marked for something to come, for an unforeseen event that I had no inkling of?

The bruise has faded from black to purple to brown to red to yellow. I have watched the rainbow that my legs have given me change and, at the same time, have watched the leaves outside change from green to red and yellow and gold.

It is no longer sore, my legs have been quiet. I think they over extorted themselves last week, they need a rest. But I can’t help but wonder if they have marked me for a reason or if I am simply being overly dramatic. Perhaps a bit of both.

Now, though, I will watch the bruise fade and the leave outside my window as they continue to change colour and then break away from the trees, drifting away on the wind to find their own destiny.