I took another trip this week. I met an internet friend for lunch. Not only does she not know that I have BIID, she has let it be known that she loathes anything that has to do with dev-ism. Her late husband was severely disabled by an injury after they had just found each other. When she found out people could be turned on by what was a tragedy to her, it lit a flame that still hasn't died.
After lunch, we went shopping. I had a full tank of gas in my car, so volunteered to drive. Of course I had to clear out the front seat and there among the old coffee cups and half-empty bottles of water were my crutches.
I took them out to move them to the back seat and she looked at me. And she looked at me. "What are those for?" She pointed at me.
"What are what for?" I held the crutches in my hands but had no idea what she was talking about.
"Those." She pointed a lacquered fingernail at the crutches.
"Oh. My legs hurt sometimes." And it's true, they do. I have very minor medical issues with my legs. When it acts up, walking can be unpleasant.
I'm sure I'm probably projecting this on her, but I saw a little frown cross her forehead. Not of disbelief but of believing that I hadn't told her the truth. Was it something other, something worse? And what, she might have wondered, could make your legs hurt so much that sometimes you need crutches?
Well. How about multiple ankle sprains on both ankles to the point that doctors have been prodding me for a couple of years to have surgery on them to bring the bones back into alignment? How about muscle pulls and tendonitis? Put it all together and it could make for some less than spritely days.
I told the truth. And I don't think she believed me.
Not my problem.
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On my way home, I stopped in a quaint old town that I like. Because I was still close to my luncheon companion's home base, I didn't crutch.
But I realized that as a wheeler, this town would be virtually inaccessible to me. All the charming little store fronts have two granite steps in front of them, each about 4" - 5" tall.
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My crutches don't fit. Surely it's not right that they bruise my forearms? I have no idea what to do about it.
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I finally get the "You help me more by not helping me" thing.
While on the road, whenever I stopped, I crutched. And had five people falling all over themselves to help me.
I came to some conclusions. You probably already know this.
1. You help me more by not helping me. If you rush in front of me to open a door I can open, I'm at risk of losing my balance. That would not be pretty. For anyone. Then you'll really have to help me and you don't want that, trust me.
2. If I'm slower than you - and I am - go around me. One of my favorite poems has the refrain "I have my own velocity." And I do. I'm on my own speed of cruise control and I'm in the slow lane. Go around me.
3. I am fine. I have been fine all my life. I am fine now. Do not, for the space of even a few seconds, take it on yourself to be my protector, my very own rest stop Galahad.
4. To the snotty little girls at Starbucks, you were more interested in talking to each other and giving me attitude than to do what I asked - which was simply to close up the little hole in the top of the lid and give me a bag for the coffee cup. Do you see my hands? Do you see that they are occupied? No. Just give me the bag and no one gets hurt.
5. Take a picture, it lasts longer.
And I have no doubt that in months, years to come, there could easily be photos of me circulating on the Internet. Don't do that. It's demeaning.
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And so the education continues.
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