One afternoon many years ago, I dropped my bag in the middle of Prague. I don’t remember where I was heading, but I do recall that it was the first time I’d been alone in the dizzying Wenceslas Square during my semester abroad.
The cerebral palsy I was born with — which makes my legs criss cross and my balance erratic — meant that I couldn’t easily weave between cars, and the cobblestones under my feel didn’t help. Nevertheless, I had to get from one side to the other. And as I got to the final curb, I tripped. My bag flew off my shoulder, landing a couple of paces in front of me. I stood up as quickly as I could to grab my bag off the ground, but coins had already spilled out and a few people ran up and grabbed them. I don’t remember being hurt. I remember being embarrassed and angry.
Still, when I think back on that semester, I see it the victory lap of a childhood spent in training. From preschool to college, I’d go several times a month to the same grayscale physical therapy building filled with people who were committed to helping me fit in. We’d practice tying shoelaces and buttoning cardigans, as well as walking up stairs and crossing large rooms. They’d stretch my legs, as we chatted about the little dramas and passions that occupied my childhood thoughts, and then I’d watch them scribble down measurements that described my degrees of flexibility. Our shared goal throughout these years of appointments and post-surgery recoveries: I needed to get as close to normal as I could.
They cheered when I shedded my walker, then crutches, then cane, as I learned to move unassisted. Wheelchairs were reserved for special occasions, like theme parks and airports, and I took pride in finding ways to minimize my differences. By the time I arrived in Prague, I felt the type of invincibility you can only feel at 20. But there was also a stubbornness to my confidence. I wanted to prove my normalcy.
Friends learned to lock their arms in mine as we walked across cobblestones, and that intimate connection lasted. Nowadays, during the rare times we actually walk in Los Angeles, we often stroll arm-in-arm. But over the decade since college, my body has changed. I can’t push it the way I used to, and it doesn’t forgive me as quickly. There’s more soreness and more resting. The balance I honed over countless hours of physical therapy has become dependent on my sleep. For a long time, I hid all of this, of course. To be normal.
“Have you ever thought about getting a cane?” my sister asked me not long ago. She said it in the way that big sisters do — like she’d been thinking about it and was now laying the groundwork. I told her that I stored our grandma’s cane in the trunk of my car. “But I didn’t need it,” I said. “I’ve worked hard not to need it.” She said something along the lines of “yeah, but…” before letting it go. Then, this summer, my cousin reopened the conversation. “If it helps, why not?” she asked. My cousin had lived in New York City for years and knew I’d be visiting soon on my own. What a good reason to get a new cane, we all agreed. The stubbornness, while still there, was loosening its grip.
A few days later, I received an email from Michael Graves, a designer who focuses on accessibility. His team was debuting the Streamlined Cane, a sleek accessory that could be disassembled and reassembled in one accordion-like motion. I gratefully accepted his offer to try it, and the fateful package arrived just before my trip to New York.
No one knows my body better than I do. I know its limits and pains, I know what makes it feel comfortable and what makes it euphoric. I’m the steward of this near-constant project, the overseer of this thing that keeps me locked in but alive. At the same time, what a mystery my body is to me! What an open secret it is to the people who care about me. And what a labor of love it is to live with that tension. As I get older, I hope to better accept my needs as they evolve, rather than force my body to meet societal expectations that obstinately stay the same. I can be normal, or I can be natural
On a recent rainy afternoon, I was waiting on a curb in Soho, as cars zoomed past and people hurried by. I was calm yet full of energy, with the cane firmly in my grip. A lady looked it up and down and complimented its beauty.
“It’s so helpful,” I replied. “I don’t know why I didn’t want one before.”
Kelly Dawson is a writer, editor, and media consultant based in Los Angeles. She’s written for Cup of Jo about dating with a disability and inviting a disabled friend over. Follow her on Instagram, if you’d like.
P.S. Disability can be funny (trust me) and five disabled folks on how to welcome everyone during the holidays.
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