The Blessings of having a disability

My physical challenges are not something I discuss very often because I don't let them stop me from doing what I want to do. After all, I traveled to Chicago for the first AWP conference on two canes, a month after hip replacement surgery, and performed poetry at the Green Mill Jazz Club.

 My condition has resulted in severe arthritis in all my joints. As a one-year-old, I had congenital hip dislocation, and had to be in a full body cast for a year and braces for the next two years, a daytime one that came up from a shoe to buckle around my pelvis and a nighttime one that was a long rod between my feet (I learned to walk around the house by swinging from one foot to the other). When I turned 12, the doctors discovered my hip shelf had never developed. I had surgery on both hips which involved bone graphs, a giant pin and smaller pins, and a body cast from under my breasts to my feet, followed by crutches. (8 weeks in cast and 10 weeks on crutches on left side, 10 weeks in cast and 12 weeks on crutches on right side.)

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But after that, I was very active! I danced, walked, biked, did yoga, and carried kids on my hips as a mother

and as a professional nanny. I carried boxes of groceries to feed the homeless, hiked up hillsides to camp, and moved furniture as a preschool teacher. I carried babies on my back and split wood for the wood stove. I walked two miles to work and back, and then went out dancing!

Dancing with Poetry: with Word Dancers in Santa Fe

The hip replacements were not a surprise at ages 54 and 55. The pain was intolerable due to being bone-on-bone. The surprise was when my doctor told me my bones were like those of a 70-year-old woman. I have no cartilage in my hands, and my feet are telling me maybe there as well. My orthopedic surgeon is aware that I am reluctant to do more surgery; I am grateful for the hip replacements but my hips are not the same.

 The blessing is that I was able to get on disability and Medicare, which enabled me to focus on my writing. I didn't have to search for another full time job that involved being on my feet.

 The blessing was to appreciate all that my body has learned and enjoyed, knowing that some of those activities will never feel the same. The blessing is learning about prana healing and healing circles and the power of prayer.

 Today I walked around the duck pond, walking past the pain in my back, to enjoy the fresh air and sun on my face. After one circle and a rest, the second trip around was better. I used to love being outside and could get almost anywhere by walking or biking—I took so much for granted.

 Today I am grateful for the yoga classes on line that help with flexibility and stamina. I notice that yoga is being added to writers' conferences and retreats. I'm not the only one who needs a break from sitting to stretch and breathe deeply.

 I am grateful to better understand my students in writing workshops who deal with chronic pain. At least mine can be assuaged with arnica, CBD oil, and the infrared heating pad. Tylenol only when desperate....

 I am grateful for the fact that my condition was passed down through the women in my family and I have a son and grandsons.

 The blessings of my disability is that I am not always spontaneous and can't just run out the door, hoping to get everything done. I have to plan my steps, how much is realistic and where to stop and rest. That may not seem like a blessing to you but in fact, it makes me more productive in the long run because it makes me more focused.

 The blessing is that whenever we are different from the models shown to us on the media, we know we also have gifts, talents, and an authentic presence. We are quick to compare ourselves and judge. I hope that the checkout clerk will be patient when I pack up my groceries. I wave on the driver of the car paused at the corner who may not be patient enough to give me the time I need to cross the street, in particular if it is icy. And I have to swallow my pride and tell the bus drivers to lower the ramp so I can ascend and descend, or they will be watching me hesitate, cling to the handle, and haul myself up.

 I don't mind the silver in my hair but I do mourn the way my body once was able to joyfully express itself without holding back or paying the consequences later. I don't mind that my body is a map of desires, births, accidents, and inheritance, but lately getting up from kneeling is a project accompanied by pain in the knees. (O no!)

 Thank God for suitcases on wheels and for Uber drivers! For friends who help push the grocery cart and unload the trunk. For the grace to receive the help I need instead of resentment that I need it. For grabbers and extra-long shoehorns. For all the ways my body has been my horse, as the poem goes, and is now my nag.

 Question
       By May Swenson  
 Body my house
my horse my hound  
what will I do
when you are fallen
 
Where will I sleep  
How will I ride  
What will I hunt
 
Where can I go
without my mount  
all eager and quick  
How will I know  
in thicket ahead
is danger or treasure  
when Body my good  
bright dog is dead
 
How will it be
to lie in the sky
without roof or door  
and wind for an eye
 
With cloud for shift  
how will I hide?