Six weeks after meniscus repair surgery, I am currently re-learning how to walk. Actually, I can already walk, but with a limp – I’m re-learning how to walk “properly.” That is, like a princess, like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. Several times a week, in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror either at my physical therapists’ office or at home, I slowly take steps, deliberately bending and straightening my legs in a precise, exaggerated motion. According to my doctor and physical therapists, I have to re-learn how to hold my leg perfectly, 180 degrees-straight within a few weeks or else I’ll be stuck with an essentially permanent limp. Truth be told, the prospect of a lifelong limp is frightening enough to scare me into doing my draining physical therapy exercises, which I had otherwise been avoiding. Suddenly, I feel strong motivation to get fully invested in my exercises and “get better.”
I feel surprised and ashamed about how anxious I am to “resolve” my limp. Clearly, this situation has triggered an ableist mentality that had previously lain dormant inside me. Because really, what is so bad about limping? Maybe it’s “bad” because it indicates a story of some kind, some event my life that would separate me from others. A limp would indicate that I am different than “everyone else,” and difference makes other people curious and uncomfortable.
Which brings me to something I’ve learned since experiencing this temporary disability. When you are (visibly) physically disabled, you are a public figure. That is, every time you venture out into public, people you don’t know will enthusiastically approach you and start asking questions. They are also eager to talk about how their sister-in-law, nephew, or whoever also had/has a similar disability. And like a politician or a singer “conversing” with the audience between songs, you find yourself repeating the exact same lines over and over again, in my case, “I had meniscus repair surgery,” “about six weeks,” “I don’t quite remember how it happened,” “I’m doing alright,” and “Yes, I hope so.”
Maybe some people like this kind of constant interaction, but I don’t. I mean, I don’t even have a Facebook! When the brace comes off next year and my limp “disappears,” I can go back to being a “private citizen” again. I guess able-bodied privilege involves the privilege of being left alone, which only sounds like a negative thing if you’ve never lost it.
I totally understand your pain about people talking to you. I’m a fairly quiet person when it comes down to it (or I’m left alone/not in the company of people I’m comfortable with). Having people talk to me when I’m just going about my business is fairly unsettling- especially if I don’t want to talk to them to begin with. I don’t understand why people, especially if a person has a physical disability or change in their appearance, feel the need to talk to the person about it. I mean, who cares if your aunt’s in-law’s cousin also had a cast on his leg?
It’s probably for them. The person trying to relate to you, anyway.It’s for them to feel better or inclined to believe that they are making you feel better. I mean, sure, hearing that others got through a similar situation is alright… once or twice. Maybe. Once you hit the dozens, it’s annoying and time consuming and cringe-worthy. But let’s be honest- it’s for the story teller. Everything humans do probably have an underlying cause of it benefits themselves. Even acts that may seem unselfish, like donating clothes, eventually come back to the person (someone gets the clothes to survive better which could lead to them getting a job and leading them to better the economy or something. I don’t know. I guess I’m a little jaded).
But I digress. About a paragraph and a half ago.
While I see where you come from when you say you’re afraid of having a limp, if only that it would provoke a story, there is another viewpoint. It makes you unique. It’s something that’s yours and yes, maybe there is a story, but if you have a limp, it’s a small thing. In reality, how many people are going to ask about the story of a limp? It’s not like you’re missing 3 fingers and a permanent twitch on your right eye. If you happen to obtain a small limp, I wouldn’t be ashamed (after all, you are trying to avoid it, so it’s not like you’re worsening your degree-of-limp).
As I’ve been on the floor of one of the academic buildings writing this, I’ve seen plenty of people walk by in the last 20 minutes as I think about how to approach this post. And I don’t think I’ve seen a single person walk exactly like any other person. The way a pair of legs move is as unique as a finger print. Someone I saw had their knees slightly pointed inward. There were even one or two who had a small limp. So yeah. Embrace the results of physical theory good or bad.
Many apologies for the rambly-ness. This was very much a “thought stream” comment.
You make a good point about it being “for the story teller,” which I hadn’t thought of. It’s so true – whenever we try to “do good” for someone else, it’s because, on some deeper level, it also makes us feel good about ourselves. I don’t want to be resentful about that since I’ve been like that too.
And hey, after reading Exile and Pride, I’ve come to realize that people asking me questions is at least better than people silently gawking at me, as described in Part II. Being asked the same questions again and again isn’t as bad as being the silent object of a voyeuristic gaze.