Pushing

Earlier this week, I returned to a volunteer activity that holds immense personal meaning for me.

I couldn’t participate last year for reasons that will be obvious to regular readers of this blog, and I was determined to be well enough to get back to it this September. I was careful to commit in a way that was realistic: I figured that since I could always become more involved over time, it was better to take on too little than too much. Over the summer, as I helped with the planning process, I grew increasingly hyped.

And then, the day of, I got nervous. 

I tend to be really self-conscious when introducing myself to people from the height of my wheelchair. It’s humbling and makes me feel othered, even when whoever I’m interacting with is super accommodating and understanding, as was the case here. My attending events requires extra logistical considerations, which I hate having to ask for. I don’t want to seem like the nuisance I often am.

Trying new things, venturing out of the apartment, especially in the evening—traditionally not the best time for me, seizure- and energy-wise—also requires a leap of faith that isn’t always easy for me to take. Now that I’ve reached a new level of blissfully improved, albeit imperfect, health, I’m loathe to risk everything tumbling down. For the past several months, my life has felt like a house of cards: I’m building it, but I’m well aware that it could collapse in a matter of seconds. Why risk it?

Over time, though, the cards are slowly becoming bricks.

Monday, which was big, full, and motivating, was more proof of that. I had a few really positive appointments, which I’ll (probably) write about in my next post, and I followed through with some health-related goals. There was reminder after reminder of how working hard, consistently doing the right thing, can lead to a markedly better quality of life. A card or two of my wobbly house solidified into those all-important building blocks.

I capped off the day with my meeting. It went better than I could’ve anticipated.

When it was over, my husband and I made our way to a transit stop. As we approached, we watched our ride roll by: we were a minute or two too late, and there was a thirty-minute gap until the next bus was due to arrive.

We waited for a bit, enjoying the novelty of being out past seven. We were both relaxed and in a good mood. Eventually, my husband suggested that he push me home. 

This is where I should note that we were forty minutes or so from our building. Most of the route was up a steep hill.

I’ll admit that I had my doubts, but he did it. I cheered him on, and we laughed the entire way. It was an adventure that we were casually sharing. Relishing, even. We stepped into our apartment chilly from the changing weather but still surfing a wave of excitement and adrenaline. We’d gone out and experienced stuff in a manner that was relatively normal, whatever that means, and accumulated more evidence that we’re inching closer to a future we want.

Pushing myself and being pushed—both literally and metaphorically—are truly paying off. More and more, I’m able to recognize that I have to venture out of my comfort zone and embrace what life has to offer if I want to take back what I’ve lost.

It’s been a group effort, and I’m here for it.