Before my strokes, I was involved in T-Ball, ballet, tap, clogging and many other physical activities. I remember never thinking much of it. Every kid my age was involved in some kind of activity. It would be weird to meet a seven year old who wasn't in dance, a sport, or music lessons of some sort. At this age, children were learning to tie their shoes (if they hadn't mastered that already), riding a bike without training wheels, and how to shoot a basketball. I took my abilities for granted. After surviving three strokes, rounds of chemotherapy, physical and occupational therapy, it dawned on me that I would never be quite as good at physical activities as I was before my brain became so messed up. I tried to play softball the following year but I became too aggitated and would cry everytime that I couldn't do something right. So I quit. I never went back to dance because I was having trouble with keeping my balance and my foot wouldn't move near as fast as it had before. Heck, I was just doing good to walk, talk and write. I had to start completely over when it came to my physical being. I would never learn how to ride a bicycle, or how to tie my shoes or shoot a basketball quite like the rest of my peers did.
Many people do not know just how green with envy I am of people who have the ability to dance. I plaster a smile on my face when I hear about peoples children taking jazz, tap and ballet. I tell them that I used to be a dancer too... not that I can't dance now but I tend to make a fool out of myself on purpose so that at least I can laugh at myself and maybe it won't hurt so bad if someone laughed at me too. This was a technique I learned early on in life from my mother. We would often go into walmart and an older woman would see me and say "Oh you poor thing..." My mother would quickly turn around and say"Poor thing?? She's fine!" and then we go laughing at how I couldn't let go of the shopping cart or how I would say "I'd like for him to hold my bad hand. I'd never let him go AND I could blame it on my stupid hand!" This technique was known as "If you don't laugh, you'll cry." Little did I know that this phrase would be burned into my mind and become quite handy as I entered into the tourchous world known as "high school."
Watching people "Ohhing and awwing" over their children's ability to dance and play sports was something that I always longed for. Sure, I could sing, read, do crafts and I was fascinated by sciences but, for me, that wasn't something that I was necessarily proud of. I choose these activities because I couldn't do what I really wanted to do and I didn't want to be mad at myself or God so I didn't try to do those physical activities that I longed to be apart of. I wanted to be happy with the abilities I had developed and forget the skills and achievements that were stolen from me at such an early age.
Some of you know, I have recently taken up an interest in ice skating. Last week, I ordered myself some ice skates and started looking up ways to improve my balance on the ice. I was beyond excited when I returned to the Jone's Center for the public session. I was ready to see how these skates would feel and how they would glide. Of course, I didn't realize that there was such a big difference in hockey and figure skates. "What is this jagged edge on the toe for?" I thought when I got to looking at my skates. I would quickly learn that the jagged edge was for making me fall flat on my butt/knees/ and/or head. This jagged edge was NOT my friend. I took a moment to look around at all the children, adolescents, and adults who were clearly way better at this than myself. Then I saw her. She looked like a ballerina on the ice. She skated frontward, backward, did a triple axel, and with such ease. She made it look easy. I was in awe. Every hand gesture was fluid and precise. Every movement her legs made had a purpose. I couldn't help but think "That could've been me if this hadn't happened! Ugh!" As I wobbled and strained my back in order to keep my balance, I would look at the clock. 3:00pm. I decided that I was going to stay another hour. I was going to make this work. And that's when I went down for the third time. It happened so quickly that I didn't have time to grab the wall but yet, for my eyes, it was like it was in slow motion. And there I was. Laying on the ice. When I got up, I looked like I just came from Winter Wonder Land as I had shaving of ice all over my black yoga pants and the back of my jacket.
As I walked to my car, sulking over my less than successful day, I couldn't help but think of the many goals I had set out for myself. I did not achieve what I wanted to achieve. I wanted to be be able to say that I didn't fall down. That I was half way graceful. That I was able to help someone else up off the ice. Then as I was getting ready for a hot bath, filled with epsom salts and lavender bubbles, a very still voice whispered in my ear. "You learned to get back up like you have many times before. You don't give yourself enough credit. You did that all by yourself and with so many more physical obstacles than the others."
I may never be able to be like that girl who was a ballerina on the ice, who moved with such grace, but I bet that she has had her own obstacles to overcome as well. So tomorrow when I wake up with my bruised right hip, my banged up knee and all my muscels in my stomache are sore from helping me balance, I'm going to try to remember what that still small voice said. I learned to get back up by myself. That that is an achievement in and of itself.
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