It was just a regular old Friday evening. We got home from work. We went shopping. Dinner was made. Television was watched. Both missed final Jeopardy. Snuggled into bed to read. Fell asleep.
But it was a wonderful evening.
I woke up this morning and lay in bed for a little while. I've been thinking about 'the day' on and off for a couple of weeks now. I had been planning to set down the story of my own disability, how I went from walking to rolling in about four days. So it's been playing through in my mind. Sometimes I write things spontaneously, like today, but other times I need to mull through the story first. It's hard to understand the flow when you are on the boat.
So I've been thinking about that day. And I remembered my right leg losing the power to hold me up. Of falling. And falling. And falling. I remembered laying in bed and wondering if it was all over. Wondering if there would be no more days made special by their very, wonderful, comforting ordinariness. This fear is probably at the base of so much despair ... I'll never be me again ... I'll never live another normal day.
Even though I knew people who fell, and laughed. I knew people who rolled and contributed. I knew people with disabilities and saw how both their personhood and their disability folded up into a uniquely cool package. But it didn't matter. That was 'special them' this was 'only me'.
I didn't realize that it didn't take courage to turn disability into normality. It didn't take, God Forbid, spunk to turn extraordinary circumstances into wonderfully ordinary days.
It only took time.