Perhaps it is a result of having literally grown up from infancy with significant medical issues, but one of the fastest ways to witness my honest redheaded German Irish temper is to pity me. I detest the word pity, I detest the connotations of the word pity, and I loathe being on the receiving end of it. To me "pity" is a direct message that my life and existence is clearly less than that of others, and for that someone feels great sorrow. Pity brings to mind images of helplessness, of brokenness, of one step below whatever "normal" is in society. I don't want pity any more than I want the Bubonic plague or head lice or the Swine-dog-bird flu hybrid. My life may have radically changed without anyone bothering to ask my permission, but that does not mean that I have changed. I have never defined my identity, my worth as a person, my value and meaning and purpose by my body. Who I am and what I am is so far beyond my body, my body is just a storage container and a tool. Sure, some people have containers that are less dinged up by life than mine, but are the contents the same? Have they learned just how precious each and every single moment of life truly is? Do they know the joy of celebrating the small things? Can they witness the world through the eyes of a child, full of wonder and amazement? Are they living in a world focused on materialism and "more", on things that do not matter, or a world that is clear on the things that truly have meaning in life - love, helping one another, relationships, memories, the moment, one another? Do they carry with them the education of three years of the world's wisest professors, of children the world sees as having disabilities but who have wisdom, joy, perseverance, determination, faith, hope, and resilience beyond measure? Can they say that they have lived their lives with no regrets?
I don't want to sound like I am a saint, because I am as flesh and blood human as anyone else. Just yesterday I had a moment of sarcastic bitterness that escaped. For twenty minutes I listened to a young woman loudly and proudly describe in vivid, and lewd, detail to her friends how she was actively destroying her life and taking her three year old daughter along for the ride. As she skipped off of the bus and walked away, I could not edit the comment that came out. "And SHE gets the legs that work?!?" I use sarcasm and humor to deal with situations, like people who stare or ask rude questions. I have run into people with my wheelchair because they walked directly in front of me, having made eye contact with me but deciding I could stop for them and I was not about to wear the skin off my hands for them (there is no ABS on my wheelchair, sorry. And the leather on my gloves is expensive too.). But I don't want pity, or anyone to feel bad for me. I do want understanding, knowledge, accessibility, awareness, and some good old fashioned manners. Heck, if a girl can dream I would love to have people stop thinking that handicapped parking spots are also designated for the lazy. But save the pity. My life may be different, it may be hard, but it is so worth every second and so much more than what you see in a body in a wheelchair.