On April 26, 2011, I will turn 51. Had you told me two years ago that I would be living as I am now, I would have laughed at you. Yet, in 2011, here I am. This is the life I am called to live.
When I left the paid work world, I was not at all sure what my life was supposed to be, much less than what I wanted it to be. I was not retiring, yet, I did not know what to call my new life stage. Retired, as I had witnessed it in my life, did not describe what I was entering. In closest terms for me to describe, I was on disability. But, what did that mean?
My transition from full-time employment to on disability was abrupt. Most people left their place of employment on a long-anticipated, established date. Coworkers, and supervisors knew the date, and there was time to say thank you, to reconcile any short-term or long-term differences. There were no conversations regarding, "What are you going to do, once you do not have to go to work each day," and "If I were leaving work, I would...." There was no time to prepare for such a drastic change in living. Retirees returned to work, and said, "I don't miss the work, I miss the people." That was inconceivable to me. How could 24 years of my life be erased from my memory? Yet, that is what I would say now. I do not miss all of the people I worked with for more than 24 years. I do miss some of those people. I am in touch with some people. I do not miss the pressures of work. I do miss the treasure hunt for information that I traveled with those who had questions, and needed answers. That treasure hunt was not a daily journey, yet, when I loved that journey, and I am guilty of infecting many.
When I tried to conceive what my life on long-term disability would be, I had no model to consult. I felt guilty. My conception of long-term disability was someone who was completely unable to leave their home. Perhaps, the person's life circumstances were more drastic than that. I had no idea. As much as I told former colleagues that I would be "The next chapter will be to strengthen myself physically as much as is possible....I must discover opportunities that call upon my mind, rather than tax my physical abilities." I had no idea what the words I had been given to express meant. I had no idea.
The physical weakening that led to my exit from the work world defined my life for the next year and a half. I needed to embrace the Serenity Prayer.
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.
I sought the courage to identify what I could not change about my new old self. I needed to learn how to accommodate to my weakening body--my right ankle--and my capacity to stand up from the ground. For a lifetime, I had resisted fiercely anyone who dared to say that I could not do a task that I was undertaking. After all, I had never lived with the capacity to use both hands. From birth, my right leg had been shorter than my life. I did not undertake tasks that required a perfect balance. OK, I dressed up as a little ballerina. But, the balance beam was not narrow, by any stretch of the imagination. I never was a gambler in any casinos. The only challenge I undertook was that of a response to, "Do you think you can do that?" As much as I resented the comment--the lack of faith in me, all I could say was, "Do you want to make a bet?"
Oddly, the suggestion that I consider going on long-term disability was made in Las Vegas. In my mind, it was a long shot--the biggest gamble I had ever made. The stakes were high--my future. What was I getting myself into? This gamble flew in the face of all that I had been taught. "You will learn to live independently."
Courage to change the things I can.
This entailed identifying what, how much, and how I could restore my compromised right ankle, my weakening left hand--I could not lose her strength, I just couldn't--and my capacity to stand up from the ground. Accepting the things I could not change was more elusive for me to identify. Yet, the things of courage were more concrete to identify. Though identified more concretely, the things of courage were much more difficult to change. Bending from my knees to the ground were not a part of my things of courage. I knew better than to squander any courage I might be given on a youth's capacity that I had relinquished to an accommodating life. My things of courage calling for attention were my right ankle--she was on her last leg--and my left hand--she was my sole source by which I could squeeze everything out of my life.
How much?
To what degree could I hope to be restored? Before I could accept my compromised health, I needed to identify what my restored self would look like life--what would she feel like. What was I praying to be restored was essential. What was I not praying to be restored in my body?
What did a resurrected body look like to me? Others' conceptions--even those closest to me mattered little, if I did not have a strong sense of it in my own life. I am not saying that my vision would be perfect, or what a resurrected body would look like--would be in my life. But, if I was to have any hope than I better change resurrected body from a it--a thing--to an intimate in my life.
I could not jump to the step of addressing the how before I understood the how much. Though not fully understood by some who loved, and love me, by the grace of God, I knew that the answer to how could change on the basis of how much, my right ankle could be restored to her younger self. My right ankle, my left hand, my left hip, each and every body part of my body is not an it. They are my intimates. They are she, they are her. Only when I call them by their given names am I worthy to make decisions in their best interests--decisions in our best interests for a full life together.
My vehicle to understanding how much was ankle surgery. That action would reveal to me an answer to how much.
How?
This question frightened me. To some, the concrete form of how--a scooter, or a wheelchair--seemed clear. Yet, I had not arrived at the concrete foundation I needed in order to wheel forward. Others' attitudes, physical boundaries--navigating those physical boundaries--and my perceptions of individuals I had seen in my life were my biggest obstacles.
Wisdom to know the difference.
Before I could find solace, and embrace any wisdom, I needed to return to the matter of courage. What of courage was I not addressing? Now that I knew answers to today's things of courage was I not acting upon? Only after I answered and acted upon those questions could I hope to be granted any wisdom.
The Serenity Prayer is not a prayer to be navigated, and lived once and for all. That might be nice, but, life doesn't work that way.
On April 14, 2011, I was given a gift that I would never have imagined to be a gift--a wheelchair. With the accommodations of recent years, I need to discover where I want to go outside of my home that I put out of my mind as unrealistic destinations. With compromised stamina now restored, I may look at the outside world again, and try to get back into circulation once again.
Had you told me two years ago that I would be living the life I am, I would have laughed at you. Yet, this is the life I am called to live. Yikes!
What did a resurrected body look like to me? Others' conceptions--even those closest to me mattered little, if I did not have a strong sense of it in my own life. I am not saying that my vision would be perfect, or what a resurrected body would look like--would be in my life. But, if I was to have any hope than I better change resurrected body from an it--a thing--to an intimate in my life.
My vision is far from perfect. Intimate though my resurrected body may be, if there is any hope of my intimate being perfected--fulfilled--such intimacy must be shared--respected, and embraced.
Yikes!
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