Living With a Physical Disability
But it did, and one can ever turn back the hands of time. Six years ago, I was involved in a boating accident from which I sustained a burst lumbar fracture. The surgery required a T-10 to T-12 bone graft, fusion and the implantation of a Pyramesh cage and wires to hold what was left of my ribs together. I am a walking mass of metal and titanium. Getting through airport security can either be relatively painless or a massive undertaking, depending upon the airport and its level of security. I set off the security alarm while visiting the United Nations Building two years ago with my youngest daughter. Luckily, I carry a doctor’s note that states what my injuries are and what was done to me in the way of titanium implants as a result. While the United Nations security men pored over the card, I was actually desperate enough that I lifed the side of my cotton tee shirt to show them the beginning of the 22″ long scar that I will carry for life, proof, at least to me, that I am not a dangerous criminal but merely a woman who suffered a terrible injury. Once the guards caught sight of the base of the scar, I was quickly dismissed, my card returned, my daughter mortified beyond words, and we were on our way – such as it was.
While I rarely have to go through that degree of ‘justification’, it does happen, and at the oddest times. But over time, I have learned to accept the fact that to some people, I will forever have to make my case that I am disabled. When I used my permanent disability parking sticker in a crowded parking lot, you would be amazed at the folks who give me looks of disgust and really what amounts to looks of distrust. I once wondered if I should just stand there and raise the side of my shirt yet again to show them that while I may not appear disabled at first blush, I really, truly am. Over time, I have learned to brush aside those looks and just move on with my business. Using my disability parking sticker has met with mixed results from my family. While they are somewhat grateful that I have it if we are in tight parking situations, my daughters (both of them teenagers) considered to be really mortified and embarrassed by their mother. Not only am I ‘uncool’ much of the time, I also have to park in a handicapped spot! Apparently to their line of thinking, these spots should be reserved only for extremely elderly folks using either a walker, a cane, or a wheelchair. (Since my own injury, I have used all three at one time or another. I pride myself that I have used physical therapy and exercise to the point where I now no longer rely upon them. But as time goes on and I age, with no chance of my disability ever going away, I may very well be back in that wheelchair or depending upon that cane to walk even the shortest of distances.)
Because of a very capable and caring staff of surgeons, physicians and physical therapists, today I can walk for relatively long periods of time without pain. Because of the availability of Vicodin and Oxycontin, I can make it through the day somewhat pain-free. Two years ago, I was gulping down Vicodin like M&M’s. I developed flu-like symptoms and still had severe pain. My pain therapist, a charming Chinese physician, sat me down and told me we were going to try a new medication and cut way back on the Vicodin. When he prescribed Oxycontin, I had really mixed feelings. Did I really want to start taking such a ‘controversial’ drug that had a bit of a stigma attached to it? Would I end up being dependent upon it for life if it did work? Like everything in life, the results were mixed. 20 milligrams every morning of Oxycontin had been a miracle for me. The pain, the stiffness I feel in my back and sides are still there, but the drug masks that hot, burning feeling I would get and literally gets me through the day. It’s been two years now since I started taking Oxycontin, and I am truly a believer! For myself, it has worked wonders, and 20 milligrams is a reasonable amount. The Vicodin prescription is now down to one capsule at night. I can get through an average day without having to cling to the sides of a shopping cart in pain, without having to find the nearest chair, set, bench upon which to rest until the pain subsided, without having to literally stop in my tracks and lean against a wall or any solid surface until the throbbing subsided.
Do I consider myself an ‘addict’? The only way that I can answer that question is to ask if I consider myself disabled. Since the accident occurred, not one day has gone by without my feeling inordinate amounts of pain, always in my lower back, always in my side. If it’s the choice between taking pain-relieving drugs or lying in my bed whimpering under the covers because I feel so horrible, I’ll take those drugs, thank you, in a heartbeat. If you are stricken with cancer, if you have diabetes, if arthritis causes you misery, then you too can understand that the ‘miracle of drugs’ is truly enormous. It makes the difference between a life worth taking a crack at living, or one which finds you physically, emotionally and socially confined.
I still have days when the pain sneaks up and overcomes me, especially during very rainy and very cold weather. This month of December here in New Jersey has been especially tough with temperatures hovering in the mid-30’s or lower. I faithfully follow my prescription regime, and most days turn out to be actually okay. You will see me walking down the street to the post office, trotting down my long driveway to retrieve the mail, putting groceries into my cart. But just because I may look all right doesn’t mean that I’m not disabled. Like many of my fellow brethren who find themselves caught in this situation, we chose to make the best of it and struggle manfully to live a ‘normal’ life every day. It’s a decision that we’ve made when we get out of bed every morning. It’s a decision that we hope you can one day understand. If we were forced or chose to use a walker, a cane or a wheelchair, we would have your immediate, unspoken sympathy. Just because we try every day not to use those devices and garner your sympathy and understanding doesn’t mean that we are any less entitled to your sympathy and your understanding. When I carefully pull myself out of the driver’s seat of my car, parking in the handicapped space, don’t automatically assume that I am ‘scamming’ you or anyone else. Many of us hide our disabilities sometimes a little too well.
