A combination of things has had me pondering my identity this week. I could wax on about that, but as I just finished reading a retelling of Hamlet with the emo teenager unable to stop talking about his feelings but never really getting anywhere, I’ll refrain from doing the same on the internet. (Side note, has anyone done a rewrite of Hamlet as the ultimate angsty blogger?)
Not that my emotions and identity aren’t a holistic part of me worth sharing on the internet, but the real drama comes in carefully crafted tellings of my wobbling walks.
Thursday was a holiday, so I didn’t have school, but a few of the remaining staff who arrived in the fall of 2013 gathered together up the hillside in Kandern for an informal picnic. My friend Christal was coordinating it, and she’d confirmed I’d be able to get to the grillplatz before setting that location. “If you’re patient with me, I can do pretty much anything slowly,” is my standard response, and I was pretty sure I’d be fine. The Barkmans drove up the road and continued on the walking path to get me right next to the big wooden benches. With my sticks before me and my braces on, I confidently exited the car and cautiously picked secure placement for my feet and walking aides on the uneven gravelly grass surface.
I managed to sit somewhat comfortably for a while before my left leg started to complain. Complaints from my leg, as you may recall, come in the form of various spasms. This started as a tight cramping. Nothing new for me. Christal, smart woman that she is, had brought blankets to sit on, so the light padding provided some relief as I adjusted my weight frequently to try to appease Lefty (who I’m considering naming Virgil for vaguely divinely comedic reasons – and my right leg I’d call Beatrice – this is why I have so few friends). Overall, it was a wonderful evening chatting with people who all met me pre-accident but have more experience of me as a person post-accident.
Anybody living this side of the Atlantic has more experience of me post-accident, but as a former student visiting for tea yesterday brought up, this graduating class is the last group of students who ever knew me pre-accident. My current juniors might have heard about me in middle school, but never had any interaction with me until I was in a wheelchair.
I’m still coming to terms with what a huge part of my identity the Professor (my wheelchair) is, but it’s not permanent in my mind. This is a part of my story that will never go away, but I’ll keep moving forward, keep growing, and keep walking a little more each day. I spent this Saturday mostly reading, as I’ve always loved to do, but I also took an intentional and successful braceless venture with my sticks down the street and back. My ankles were feeling tight as I first stood up this morning, so I had my cup of coffee standing and reading at my dresser before venturing outside. Once Virgil, Beatrice, and I were all awake, my guides carried me to the lamppost and back. By the time we returned to my driveway, both ankles were ready to express some tiredness and perhaps anger. I watched my neighbors ride up on bikes as they were just returning from Hammerstein. I’ll make it there and back myself too, someday. I’m determined. That’s who I am, in my core, the girl who walked again.
[Bonus nerd paragraph: if you thought my Dante jokes were dumb, you should be thankful I didn’t find a way to reference Rhett and Link’s So Dang Dark music video. I actually spent a good amount of time trying to figure out how I could start my blog with the line “Should I go back to law school?” without confusing anyone about the fact I’ve never been to law school and knowing probably only one reader even knows that reference.]
