Yesterday, as Mike stood poised at the bannister to go downstairs and out the door for a walk, he said something as he said goodbye. I don’t remember what he said. I don’t remember what we were talking about. All I remember is that he used one word to refer to me, disabled.
Disabled.
I spent much of the fall mourning my ability. I have so much less energy that when people want to talk for very long, I have to take it into account in what energy I have to spend. It’s why I haven’t been here. It takes a good part of my daily energy. My students take up most of my energy on the days I tutor them. I work with them seven hours a week. Seven. I even struggle more when I try to convince doctors that something is wrong. It hasn’t been going well with most of my doctors.
But I got used to the idea that I’m changed, diminished. I learned not to expect much of the rest of my life. I grieved. I went through all of the stages of grief. I tried to catch people up who lagged behind that process. My sister finally listened to me. My friends who said it was just stress without really listening finally managed to see who I am now. I’ve lost friends. I thought I’d made peace with that.
I can feel the shaking coming on, so I don’t have much time right now. Plus, I need to have enough energy for one student today. I need to figure out what we’re going to have for dinner. Can I even make dinner? That’s not always a given.
Mike said I was disabled. Disabled.
It hit me hard yesterday. I’m disabled.
I guess I’m not done grieving for my life.
Thank you for listening, jules