Erin Kelly reflects on the day her freedom was taken away due to a recent flood in her hometown.
–––
It’s said that you should never make a decision based on someone else’s opinion of you, your reasoning or actions. By the same token, it’s also said that those on the outside looking in should never judge someone based on the choices they make.
I was never actually told these things when I was a kid. The world seemed to have a subtle way of whispering them in my ear. As I got older and experienced my own struggles, however, I came to realize just how true these words were. I grew out of the shadow of my wheelchair—and my cerebral palsy—in the sense that I wasn’t embarrassed or held back by it.
♦◊♦
Society had shown me enough about “getting your hands dirty” and working hard as a little Korean kid with a disability. I made peace with the fact that I had to work a little harder at anything and everything I did. During that process of realization, however, I came to grips with something I didn’t expect or see at the time.
I never seemed to do those things just because I found a way do them—or even because I wanted to do them sometimes. I did them because I constantly had people watching me who thought I was just “a girl in a wheelchair.” I did them because I didn’t just have a point to prove. I had everything to prove—and I still do.
When I write, I’m fighting to give the world something other than the obvious to see. Not only that, but I’m fighting to maintain my validity as a writer as well as a contributing member of society. I often feel the same way about my chair itself, because it allows me to be the kind of writer I want to be—and gives me the freedom to live the life I want to live. It’s difficult for me to simply take my chair out of that equation, even hypothetically. It’s even more difficult to imagine not having the freedom it gives me—and what I’d do without it.
♦◊♦
That hypothetical situation suddenly became my immediate reality last month. A recent hailstorm flooded my hometown of Altoona, Pennsylvania and surrounding areas. It not only left the first floor of my house a wet, muddy disaster where my bedroom is located, but it also took out the motor of my two hundred pound motorized chair.
Rain came first. Then, the sky turned an ominous gray, with peaks of orange hiding behind a pillow of dark clouds. It was unlike any shade of gray I’ve ever seen. I heard my parents yell for my younger brother to come downstairs over the pounding of hailstones hitting my bedroom window.
The last thing I saw before I knew it was unsafe to stay in my chair was a steady stream of water running through the family room—slowly seeping into my room. My mom pulled me out of the chair and took me upstairs, where I stayed for two days until everything attempted to dry out.
I’d forgotten that a button on my joystick pad fell off a few days before all this happened. That tiny hole must have just been big enough for water or moisture to seep inside and short out the electronics in my chair. However, it didn’t stop working until about a week after the flood.
♦◊♦
I actually discovered that it was broken one morning last month, when I finished my breakfast and tried to move over to my computer to check my e-mail. My heart sank at that moment—not because I knew I couldn’t get to where I wanted to be in that instance—but because I knew I’d be resorting to literally being pushed around the next day, plus however many more days that I’d be without my “legs”.
Knowing this, my parents pulled out my manual chair so I could switch between the two if I got stiff or sore. I like to refer to refer to my manual one as “The Chair of Doom” because it has no support or give to it, making it the most uncomfortable thing in the world.
I‘d gone almost two full weeks waiting for my motor to be replaced. I couldn’t help but to feel broken myself. I’m very grateful I’m physically capable of using a motorized chair, because I know there are countless other people in my shoes who aren’t so fortunate. When that ability was suddenly taken away from me, I almost felt like a prisoner. I lost the privilege of having the key to my world, and I didn’t know what else to do but keep my head down and push through.
There were moments in that time frame when I had to swallow my pride and ask my parents—or whomever happened to be home—to come push me because they’d forgotten that I couldn’t do it myself, when I was able to do it two weeks prior. It was like rubbing salt into an open wound.
♦◊♦
My chains were broken the day the repair man came to my house. I was free again—in a way that my entire body hadn’t known for roughly fourteen days. My back and legs had gotten so sore that it felt as if my bones had been replaced by knives.
Even so, it wasn’t just a matter of moving from chair-to-chair, or one being more comfortable than the other, both were equally uncomfortable to sit in, and I’m unable to maneuver the manual one on my own regardless. The motorized chair is the lesser of two evils because it has plenty of padding and support in it. However, it didn’t ease my mind knowing I still had to wait for someone to push me wherever I wanted to go—despite having two chairs.
♦◊♦
I know that for some, this whole scenario may seem like such a small thing. So small that it might not even be worth a second thought—or worth thinking about at all. It’s not because they’re rude, inconsiderate or above me. It’s because they don’t have the weight of a disability on their shoulders, nor the concerns that come with it.
For me, however, this is my world—a huge chunk of which was essentially taken from me. I felt like going outside and doing doughnuts in my front yard after the repair man left that glorious day, just because I could.
All I’ve got left to say is: Thank you, Mother Nature, for making me humble.
—
***
Improve your writing, expand your reach, and monetize your craft.
Join The Good Men Project’s Writers’ Community on Patreon.
We welcome all experience levels.
Learn more on our Patreon page.
***
—
Photo Credit: Jannis_V/Flickr