I was wandering around campus in between my classes, searching for the well-hidden access ramps to buildings I hadn't yet explored, when someone I'd met at church the previous week shouted my name and ran across the street to join me.
In the hour that followed, he became my first friend in my new home. We talked about Kim Possible, life on a farm vs. life in a city, and what it meant to be a Mormon at a party school. Our conversation was hilariously awkward, just like any first conversation should be, and shortly before we parted ways, he asked "the question."
In the hour that followed, he became my first friend in my new home. We talked about Kim Possible, life on a farm vs. life in a city, and what it meant to be a Mormon at a party school. Our conversation was hilariously awkward, just like any first conversation should be, and shortly before we parted ways, he asked "the question."
For years, I dreaded "the question." I resented my disability, and talking about what happened to me was the last thing I ever wanted to do.
In the months after my baptism and before I moved to Morgantown, as my life was turned upside down and I learned more than I'd ever wanted to know about myself, I had come to accept my disability and to feel at peace with its cause. But I hadn't had to talk about it -- everyone in my small town already knew, and the handful of people I'd met hadn't been interested in the details.
In the months after my baptism and before I moved to Morgantown, as my life was turned upside down and I learned more than I'd ever wanted to know about myself, I had come to accept my disability and to feel at peace with its cause. But I hadn't had to talk about it -- everyone in my small town already knew, and the handful of people I'd met hadn't been interested in the details.
My initial response to "the question" that day... well, it wasn't so great. I said something like "It's called Charcot-Marie-Tooth and it's kind of like muscular dystrophy but not really... and there's nothing wrong with my teeth."
My new friend chuckled somewhat nervously at the tooth comment and asked if I'd always been in a wheelchair. "No, I could walk until I was eleven. I had to have surgery and the doctor screwed up and I couldn't walk anymore after that."
He hesitated for a moment before making his next comment: "So after that you still converted? I don't know if I would have been able to do that."
Long pause. "Well... I decided eight years of bitterness was enough for me."
"Really? I think I would have gone for at least twelve."
And just like that, talking about it became okay. The spell of silence about my disability was broken. I was damaged, I was healing, and it was okay to laugh.
The word "cripple" entered my everyday vocabulary, and it felt right. The sassy t-shirt that screams "hey, my legs don't work and I can laugh about it so you can too" was pulled out of the closet.
Eventually, the friend who had so awkwardly asked "the question" that first time began calling me Wheels (it could have at least been more original, for crying out loud) and making cripple jokes of his own, and every time I hear one I'm reminded of that pivotal moment.
Eventually, the friend who had so awkwardly asked "the question" that first time began calling me Wheels (it could have at least been more original, for crying out loud) and making cripple jokes of his own, and every time I hear one I'm reminded of that pivotal moment.
No, my feet don't work.
No, I don't want to go for a run.
Yes, it's funny because I'm in a wheelchair.
Yes, I'm finally okay.
