As an anxious Spoonie bride, bewildered graduate student, and fearful sleeper, I own many titles. This weekend I tacked another on to my name.
Mobility aid user.
Mobility aid babe. It’s taken a good bit of mindfulness to come to this conclusion.
I had my bridal shower, and I was convinced I should not go if I could not do my makeup. I was able to prettify myself, but the problem remained that I was in extreme pain and lightheaded.
I decided to grab my dad’s hiking stick and use it as a cane. Thankfully everyone was understanding and only two people asked questions.
Today I attempted to see my friend and I had to use the same hiking stick to cross a parking lot. It was basically an instant KO. The poor hiking stick fell multiple times while we ate at a restaurant and strangers helped me pick it up as they spoke to me like a two year old.
I am not happy about this. Fiancé has been talking about getting me a motorized wheelchair for a while now. As for my opinion on this, it is still no. I have asked for occupational and physical therapy and am hoping it helps.
When my fiancé and I are together we like to dance – he scoops me up into his arms, I cling to him and we sway to our favorite love songs. Before my illness I went swing and salsa dancing. He took dance classes, and is a great dancer. But I mainly love the rhythm, the movement, and his arms.
I know that no matter what mobility aid I rock, he will still dance with me.
Pocket full of starlight: there may be times when you feel like other people define you by your illness, but the ones who matter won’t.
Pocket full of darkness: it’s hard to come to grips with needing a mobility aid, especially if you were once a fit, active person. It’s okay. Feel all the good and bad feelings and take them at face value. I’d worry about you if you weren’t a little freaked.