To him, I am simply just “Mom” and he expects me to be just that. It’s probably been my saving grace all along.

When he started school, a psychologist recommended that I stay away so that he wouldn’t feel different to his classmates. I felt so hurt.

By then, I knew that my disability wasn’t going to miraculously disappear. I could choose to hang my head in shame and give up or lift my head high and look the world in the eye.

Over time I learnt that disabilities evoke fears and insecurities in those not challenged with them. Facing any type of disability is far too traumatic for most adults to comprehend.

Children, on the other hand, have the most remarkable natural tolerance and ability to accept differences. They are not are not born prejudiced. Sadly they learn to discriminate by mimicking the adults in their world.

Luckily I’m stubborn. I didn’t listen to the psychologist. It turned out to be the best decision I have ever made.

I have always been very involved in Chad’s life so his schoolmates are used to seeing me around. Chad and his friends have grown up with me in their lives just like any other Mom.

When he was in the second grade, he changed schools. In the first week he told me that some of the kids were asking him questions about me. It broke my heart.

I asked him if he would like me to speak to the children.

He said: Yes please, Mom!

I made arrangements with the school and spoke to all the juniors one morning, explaining to them exactly what had happened to me and why I was in a wheelchair.

Then, I invited them to ask me questions, which they did. Many. I answered every single one, honestly.

I told them that if they saw me around the school, they were welcome to come and ask me anything, any time.

After that, if any of the kids asked Chad anything about me, his standard answer was: I don’t know, ask my Mom.

No child should ever have to face questions like: How does your Mom pee?

The most difficult thing that he probably has to deal with is questions about me.

Chad has never complained of kids being mean to him because of my disability.

Thankfully my son has a strong character with a keen sense of who he is which definitely helps.

He is presently at boarding school. When I do go to watch him play cricket or rugby, he happily introduces me to his new friends.

People often make unfounded assumptions that he has had a really hard life because of my physical circumstances. That has come to light many times over the years.

Just recently my dad overheard a conversation between one of Chad’s teammates and his father. Chad walked past the grandstand where they were all waiting for the first team game to begin.

Teammate: Dad that’s the guy I’ve been telling you about, Chad Todd.

Dad: He looks a bit small to be playing rugby.

(Chad is quite a bit shorter than most of his teammates yet still quite stocky.)

Teammate: Dad that guy is as strong as an ox. He grew up hard. His Mom is in a wheelchair and he had to push her everywhere.

When the story was relayed back to me, I nearly fell off my chair laughing. Chad has never had to push me anywhere. I’ve always had a power chair. Nobody pushes me anywhere.

The truth is that Chad grew up sitting on my lap, getting a free ride, probably the envy of every other child who was dragged off to the shops by their mothers and had to walk everywhere.

He has never been expected to take any responsibility for my care, in any way. Ever.  I’ve been particularly conscious of that, so much so that I seldom ask him to do anything for me.

If anything, he has probably grown up a little spoilt, having my personal care assistants constantly at his beck and call.

Life these days is not easy for many children. Some have to deal with parents who abuse drugs and alcohol or, even worse, abuse them physically and emotionally.

In South Africa, we are all too aware of the dire circumstances of many of our children as a result of crime, poverty and HIV AIDS. There are so many different scenarios worldwide of children living lives of misery and hell.

Chad has the love, care and support of both his parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends. What more could a kid want?

For him, for us, this is our normal.

He is almost 16, an age where most teenagers don’t want much to do with their parents. On Mother’s Day earlier this month he wrote the following as his status for all to see:

My mom might be different to most mothers, but those differences make her better than all the other mothers. Love you.

I think that says it all.

Chad Ross Todd I love you with all my heart and I am so proud to be your mom.

As a result of my disability, I have been asked many questions.

I don’t mind.

Questions provide an invitation for you to get to know me; a chance for me to bring you into my world; an opportunity for me to expose my heart and soul so that you can see that I’m not as different as you think I am.

Sometimes it’s not the questions themselves, rather who is asking them that matters most.

I was honoured to be a guest speaker at the Africa Young Round Square Conference held at Penryn College. The audience was mainly 12-and 13-year-olds from countries like Namibia, Ghana, Kenya and South Africa.

I was blown away by their insightful, thought-provoking questions after my presentation.

I thought that I would share my answers with you as I would answer them, today, cheekily taking advantage of the time I’ve had to think and, of course, hindsight.

Did you ever feel like just giving up?

Yes. Many times.

The most difficult part of being paralysed from the neck down is not the immobility; it is the relentless battle that goes on in my head.

I don’t believe that I will ever be able to get to the point where I can fully accept my state of being trapped by my own body, having to live like a sort of modern-day mummy.

I recognise that I will still face a lifetime of mind-wars which will probably leave me weary and feeling defeated, at times.

But, I know that I must continue to do my utmost to make peace with this way of life.

I make a conscious decision, everyday, to put a smile on my face and to be positive, in order to get on with life, as is.  If not for me, then for my loved ones, most especially, my son.

Do you think that it was your destiny to be paralysed?

Do any of us really know what our destiny is?

I can’t accept that it would be anybody’s destiny to live a life of extreme disability.

No, I don’t buy into that whole notion that there is a plan for your life, set out from the day you are born.

I believe that life happens – to all of us. Sometimes it’s good. Sometimes it’s bad. No, life is not fair. Then, no one ever promised that it would be.

It was my choice to take off my seat belt minutes before the accident.

This is my reality. I must live it.

If you could change what happened to you, would you?

Yes. This kind of life is extreme. The frustrations of complete physical immobility are sometimes incommunicable.

I try to focus on what I can do and what I have rather than what I can’t do and what I don’t have.

I continue to remind myself that there are people worse off.

But, to be honest, it doesn’t stop me secretly yearning to do more and wishing that things were different.

Have you changed as a person because of what happened to you?

Yes. I’ve changed. I believe we all change as we grow older.

There will always be familiar personality traits, unique to each of us, which are fundamental to whom we are as people.

But, continual exposure to knowledge must reshape you. Awareness and understanding can re-form you. Events and happenings will mould you.

Most profoundly, unpredictable joys and sorrows redefine your essence as a human being, time and time again.

Life changes you. It’s called experience.

If there was only one thing you could do again, what would you choose?

At the top of a very long list would have to be the ability to put my arms around the people who I love.

I don’t need my legs. I don’t even need my hands. All I want is the use of my arms. Surely that is not too much to ask?

I wish more than anything that I could reach out and hug, especially my son.

There were two more questions:

How does your son cope? Was he bullied or treated differently as a result of your circumstances?

I’ve decided to answer those questions separately in a blog post, coming soon.

Please feel free to ask me anything, any time – nothing is too personal. There are no stupid questions. The only thing that makes you stupid is ignorance.

Ask me. Come on. You know you want to.
**Photo credit: Penny Andre**

A decision to remove my seatbelt in the front passenger seat of the car while it was still moving, climb over into the back to tend to my baby was most likely the reason I was left a C4 quadriplegic after an accident a few seconds later. For a while, I was attached to a ventilator, unable to even breathe on my own.

April is my anniversary month. It’s been 15 years. I can hardly believe it.

If it were a marriage I’d be getting a gift of crystal, glass or a watch.

Instead, life itself is my gift – every day. That is reason enough to celebrate.

Although the daily challenges, physical and psychological, are many and living life paralysed from the neck down is tough, it’s not impossible.

It’s been so worth it. I’m grateful to have shared 15 more years on this earth with all the people that I love, especially my son.

Besides being surrounded by my incomparable parents, family and friends, I have the love, care and support of my community, many of whom I have never even met.

The year has already been good to me so I have much to be thankful for.

I’ve had some great speaking engagements. I got a brand-new, oh-so-sexy wheelchair – a real luxury ride.  My  Sexy Legs is spending a lot more time here. 

What more could one ask for?

The public tend to put me up on a pedestal, often labelling me an inspiration, when all I do is sit dead still, give orders and smile whilst behind-the-scenes there are an army of people who work tirelessly to tend to my every need.

They are the true heroes of this story.

An African proverb says, “It takes a whole village to raise a child”.

That may be so.

But, it takes an entire community of Earth Angels to enable a quadriplegic to live a full, meaningful life.

I thank God for each and every one who touches my life.

And to you, my blog readers, even though I don’t write very regularly anymore, never underestimate the power of the difference that you make.

With gratitude and love,

Tracy

Not long afterwards, I became aware of her presence in my room.  I knew immediately that it was her.  She has an unmistakable, distinctive sound – instantly recognizable and highly annoying.

I sighed – loudly and irritably.

Through a clenched jaw, I said a silent little prayer.

Oh please God, not again.  Not tonight.  Please.

My heart pounded because I knew, deep down, that she was there to stay, for a while at least, until she had her way and got what she came for, whether I liked it or not.

I was filled with dread as she began her familiar little ritual of approaching slowly, sounding more intense, exposing herself in the light filtering through the bathroom blinds, illuminating my bedroom, just enough for me to see shapes and movement .

Then, she would retreat almost out of earshot, hiding beyond my peripheral vision and concealing herself behind something in the room.

Seconds later she would appear again, right up close, brushing my cheek as she continued her sinister little game of dancing in the dark, teasing and tormenting me as she went along.

Anxiously, I struggled to control my breathing, trying not to panic.

But, she’s attracted to fear, it seems.

The faster you breathe in, the quicker and harder you breathe out.  The more carbon dioxide you exhale, the more excited she becomes, spiralling her into an attacking frenzy.

I spotted her in the red hue of the clock radio beside my bed as she bore down, sucking on my thumb.

She stared at me, boldly, head-on.

I glared back at her.

She stayed there just long enough to show that she was in charge, confirming her dominatrix fearlessness, seemingly mocking my powerlessness and inability to move.

How dare she?

I wanted to scream but, I didn’t want to give her that satisfaction.

She appeared delicate, almost fragile looking but, I knew different.

My personal experience and her reputation leave no doubt that she’s dangerous, so cunning and extremely calculating.

Instinctively, every fibre of my being wanted to protect myself against her.  I wanted to jump up and lash out at her physically, grabbing something to use as a weapon against her – anything that would do her serious harm or, preferably, kill her.

Very few have the ability to bring out such a violent reaction within me.

But, being paralysed from the neck down, my rage is mostly confined to a pitiable quivering of the lip and a pathetic shaking of my head from side to side against the pillow, as violently as possible, to which she paid absolutely no attention.

Clearly mistaking my lack of action and immobility for submissiveness, she moved swiftly into my neck with only one goal and that was to satisfy her own needs or fetish.

She claimed me, then, for the night, despite my disgust.

She started prodding me all over, looking for a suitable place to insert it, as if I was her own personal red room of pain, to use and abuse at her convenience without the bother of all the strapping and hassle with bondage.

She was pure evil – definitely no Christian.  The only grey was whether she was carrying the deadly disease or not.

Still, she had no qualms about doing it, viciously drawing blood in the process, also leaving behind some saliva as she drank me in.

I was left inflamed, sore and swollen and feeling utterly violated, crying tears of frustration and complete helplessness.

Sadly, for me, the torture will continue long after she leaves, often lasting many days especially since I have no way of touching, rubbing or scratching to ease the discomfort.

Worst of all is she probably went away bursting, feeling fulfilled, energized and satisfied, boasting to all her buddies, encouraging them to join in the following night – inviting them over for an orgy.  They will all come.  Again.  And again.  Trust me.

If you think that you are too small to make a difference then you have never spent a night with a mosquito.  Believe me.

If you see a mosquito, swat it.  Just for me.  Just because you can.

Dear God, please get her to bite me anywhere below my neck so that I don’t go insane from not being able to scratch.

If you enjoyed reading this post, please share it with my gratitude and love.  Thank you!

His unique, green eyes looked familiar and ever-adoring.  There was no mistaking his love for me – a love so pure and real – one difficult to go without once experienced, and one rarely found among most people.

His giant-like stature belied his true docile nature – a genuine gentleman with an unwavering loyalty.

Irrespective of the intensity of my mood, his mere presence in a room had the ability to soothe my mind and comfort my heart better than any meditation technique I’ve ever attempted.

I couldn’t keep my eyes off of him.

My immobility enabled me to fake calmness in sharp contrast to the frenzy of emotion going on inside of me.

I knew that he trusted me wholeheartedly which made things even more difficult.

Overwhelming, self-consuming guilt forced me to look away.

How could I do this?  How could I?

But, I had to.  I argued with myself.   It was the right thing to do.  Wasn’t it?

Then, why did I feel so doubtful?  Why did it feel like I was committing the ultimate betrayal?  Why did I feel sick to my stomach?

Dear God, why did I have to be the one to make this decision?

I had made the call.  Now, all that was left was to wait.

The vet was on his way.

In the animal world it’s known as euthanasia.  In the human world, we call it assisted suicide.

Matfield (3 March 2008 – 2 November 2012)

When you eventually get to a point where you have got to make the choice to “put your best friend down”, it feels like murder.

You can play with semantics all you like, when you share a deep love and respect, it remains the most gut-wrenching, soul destroying option on the planet.

Not too long ago, Matfield, my gentle giant of a Great Dane was diagnosed with Degenerative Myelopathy, a progressive condition that would result in him being paralysed.

I was in shock.  I was not expecting that.  My big, clumsy baby was only four-and-a-half years old.

Matfield had led a happy and healthy life.  I was aware that all large dogs, more especially the giant-breed canines, are often prone to hip, bone and spine complications.  But, not so soon.  Surely?

But, I still had time.  I consoled myself.

Although the vet warned that in some dogs the progression is rapid, I chose to ignore that.

I read up as much as I could on the disease so that I could prepare myself mentally for what was coming.  I knew that he wasn’t going to experience any pain.  My vet also confirmed that there was nothing that could be done.

I hadn’t noticed but, Matfield had displayed all of the early warning signs.  I tortured myself.   How on earth could I have been so blind?

No amount of reading or psychological priming could prepare me for the events of last week and its aftermath.  I’m utterly gutted.

Seeing my most cherished companion unable to get up with untold fear in his eyes and panicked panting in confused response; hearing my protector’s last fighting, deep-throated growl as the needle went in; smelling the deadly anesthesia as it permeated the air with me, at that very moment, secretly and shamefully wishing to accidentally be given a dose as well; not even being able hold my loyal guardian myself, having to rely on poor old Dad, who himself was distraught, to keep him calm is enough torment to last ten lifetimes.

Today, one week ago, Matfield crossed over the rainbow bridge.

Dear God, when I die, may I please go where Matfield went.

I can give you many reasons why but they will just all seem like excuses.  So, I’m not even going to try.

The purpose I started writing a blog, at first, was to be able to stand up and tell the world what a raw deal life had dealt me – how being paralysed from the neck down is a living hell.

I had an urge to rage about my situation, without feeling guilt for hurting the people I love most in the world or offending all those who do so much for me on a daily basis.

I needed somewhere to convey my sad story by sharing excruciating frustrations, revealing unimaginable physical challenges, stating deep, emotional pain, showing pitiful vulnerability, disclosing some shameful secrets and basically exposing my pathetic life as a quadriplegic.

I wanted a refuge where I could cower and feel sorry for myself away from the pedestal many able-bodied people had put me upon, removing the Miss Inspiration sash and fake smile.

Instead, this blog landed me right in the middle of an unexpected sanctuary as I slowly opened up, bringing on a serene sense of calm to my troubled mind, gently reviving a bruised and battered spirit and providing some profound healing which I didn’t even know that I still needed.

It brought all you special souls from all across the globe into my life, enabling me to feel connected, astonishingly useful and so alive.

Your heartfelt comments encouraged me, providing comfort and solace without you even being aware of it.

This space, then, became a haven where I felt safe enough to continue speaking my truth, baring my soul and expressing my heart.

I can never thank you enough for that, my dear Readers.

Yet, still, I’ve neglected an important part of my life – a vital part of who I am.  It’s no wonder, then, that I’ve been feeling an unfathomable restlessness the past months, like a chunk of my soul is missing.

I know, now, where it is.  It’s here.

I need to write again.  For me.

Kristin of Halfway to Normal wrote a post about why she does not run.

Anything to do with running always catches my attention because it is close to my heart, embedded deeply into the motherboard of my being, somehow.

I wasn’t a great runner.  Really.

But, for some inexplicable reason, I was captivated by its power, particularly its control over my psyche.  Running had the authority to relocate my mind, mysteriously separating it from gruelling physical pain in my body, transporting me through extreme emotions, forcing my moodiness into submission and gently placing me in another more comfortable, happy-place.

Never have I allowed anything else or any other human being such dominance over me.  So, running, very quickly, became my drug of choice.

I always came back from a run feeling calm and relaxed with a deep sense of peacefulness in my spirit no matter how sore my muscles and aching joints were.

To say that I miss running would be an understatement.  There are days that I wish I could just put on my running shoes and run, and run, and run.

The last time I ran, was on a beautiful, unspoiled stretch of beach on the Eastern Cape coast, South Africa.

Then, I got into the car with my husband and ten-month-old baby to travel home after our first holiday together as a family – the happiest time of my life.

I made it home, eventually, paralysed from the neck down.

Since then, every fibre of my being has craved, wanted, wished and dreamed of running again.

But, no matter how much I pray, plead, beg, cry, scream or rage I am never going to be able to run, ever again.

In her blog post, Kristin writes:

“Running says all kinds of positive things about a person: that you’re serious about your health and fitness; that you’re disciplined, and able to push past the pain; that you’re someone to be reckoned with.”

There was a time in my life where I would have agreed with that 100%.  In fact, I was living it.  Arrogantly, I felt a little sorry for the non-runners, thinking that they were really missing out on truly living.

Kristin goes on to write:

 ”Not running, of course, seems to say the opposite: unhealthy, undisciplined, uninspired, unintimidating. I am the un of running. Yuck.”

Shamefully, when I was running, I would have nodded my head in agreement to that statement.

Thankfully, running did give me many skills, I still use today, to cope with the difficulties of being a quadriplegic.  But, I’m grateful that my mind has now been opened because there is nothing more limiting than a closed mind.

Gladly, I can say that I am most certainly not the un of running.

By the grace of God, I am healthy.  I’ve not even had the flu in the past five years.

I am disciplined – living this life trapped in my corporeal prison demands strict routine to enable small things to function optimally like, my bowel and bladder being emptied at specific times of the day, every day, for the rest of my life.

I am inspired to make the most of each day and each moment I have on this Earth.  I know what it‘s like to face death, survive and realize what a privilege it is to have been gifted an extra 13 years with my son, family and friends.

I must be incredibly intimidating.  I spent many hours alongside my running-buddies, pounding the pavements, covering thousands of kilometres whilst pouring our hearts out to one another and most of them were too afraid to even face me after my accident.  But, I understand that mindset so, I forgive them.  Most people have an innate fear of physical differences and disabilities because it evokes their own personal dread and insecurities.   One just has to go out to the shops with me to see how scary I really am to other people.  Some can barely look at me whilst others will stare so that their mouths literally hang open.  I can’t say I blame them because I often feel like an alien living in a world specifically designed for able-bodied people.

What I do know is that I am strong – maybe not physically but, more importantly, emotionally.

Society views disability a weakness yet, it demands the utmost of strength for those of us living this life.  I do believe that I gained this valuable characteristic from running.

If I had a choice, I would choose to run, without a doubt.  But, since I was stripped of that option, I decided to rebuild a new, meaningful life in a different body, learning many, sometimes very hard, life lessons along the way.

Besides, if you have been following my blog you will know that I completed last year’s Comrades Marathon through my very special Sexy Legs.  So, running will forever be in my blood.

Mostly, I have made peace with my situation and always try to remind myself that I am… ENOUGH.

If you like running and you are still able to do so, then, go put on your running shoes, now, if you can.  When you are really tired, thinking that you cannot go on anymore, take a few extra steps, just because you can.

If you don’t like running, go for a walk, jump on the bike, go to the gym or for a swim – whatever you can, just because you can.

If you, like me, are no longer able to walk or run, help me to encourage all those other able lazy buggers to use their arms and legs while they still can.

I still get enough exercise, pushing my luck!

We are the only species on the planet who feel the need to hide in tiny, walled-up cubicles, preferably soundproof and well-ventilated, to do our business. 

Depending on gender, likes, dislikes or OCD’s we position ourselves on, over or in front of a toilet which is usually a large, ceramic-type bowl for urinating or defecating into, typically plumbed into a sewage system, with a flushing mechanism. 

We take care to aim carefully so as not to make a noise.  Some even go to the extent of layering toilet paper over the water in the bowl to muffle the sound of the pee-stream or preventing the inevitable poo-splash.  Heaven forbid that anybody else may hear what we are doing in there, despite knowing that all people do exactly the same things behind that closed door. 

If we dare make a smell, which other people may find offensive, we get all stressed out and frantically start opening windows or spraying some vile-smelling-lavender-toilet-spray into the atmosphere to try to hide the stink, fooling ourselves into believing that nobody will notice.

Like everybody else, I have had all of this branded into the motherboard of my being.  I like my privacy in the loo but, I will never get it back.  Ever.  Again.

For me, not being able to use my arms and legs has become the easiest part of being a quadriplegic.  It’s everything else that goes with being paralysed that is difficult to deal with.  Ask anybody living with a spinal cord injury what their biggest challenge is.  If they were to be honest, I’ll bet that there answer would be dealing with bowel and bladder issues.

My entire life is ruled by my pee and poo routines.  My bowel and bladder need to be physically and manually emptied, by my care assistant, at specific times – something I am still not used to and probably will never entirely be able to make peace with.

To this day, so many years later, I still feel embarrassment and a deep humiliation every time I have to go.  The sense of shame is overwhelming.  I resent my loss of privacy, my loss of independence and my loss of dignity.

Dear God, will these feelings ever go away?

I didn’t ever think that I would miss sitting on a toilet.  I do.

Even more than that, I miss being able to wipe my own butt.

There are days I wish I was an elephant or any other animal, for that matter. 

I love how they just empty their bladders in a torrential downpour and simply lift their tails to drop their load, leaving behind a steaming-mini-mine-dump while continuing to feed, surrounded by their herd-buddies, without a care about who’s watching or what they’re thinking.  If we humans are watching we gasp in mock-shock or make fun of them, giggling our stupid heads off. 

Animals truly know how to live out the mantra, “what others think of you is their business”.

Dear God, please may I be an elephant in my next life, if there is one?  But, please don’t give me any tusks because I don’t want some selfish human being shooting me for them.

Chad’s school often plays sport against teams from upcountry.  As parents, we are expected to host at least two children from the visiting school for the weekend. 

Over the years, I have hosted many boys, resulting in new friendships and valuable life experience for all involved.

So, when I received a text message from Chad’s coach asking if I could host two boys from a private school in Johannesburg for the weekend, I didn’t hesitate to reply: YES.

After all, Chad would be playing.  And he is Captain of the first cricket team.  I’m a very proud Mommy.

In preparation, I stocked up on more-than-enough food, snacks and drinks because I know, from experience, that teenage boys have a huge hole in their stomachs which mysteriously enlarges when they are active.  Sheesh!  Who knows how they can eat so much?

My support system jumped into action to help me organize meals, which my care assistant just needed to warm up, for both nights, in case the cricket games went on too late.  Dad would play chauffeur, as usual. 

We were at the school in time to watch the game on Friday afternoon.  I was in my wheelchair inside the Combi (VW van) parked in the disabled parking bay, beneath the shade of Acacia trees, overlooking the cricket field.  It was a warm, breezy afternoon.  I chose to stay inside the car because the wind literally force-feeds me by pushing my hair into my mouth with the intention of flossing my teeth every time I open it to speak to somebody.  It is enough to drive me insane. 

The doors and windows were wide open for ventilation and, although I’m almost in my own private box, I can still be sociable with the other parents who were all sitting around on their deck chairs.

Of all the boys from the visiting school, the only two who had their parents accompany the tour happened to be the two boys staying with me.  Just my luck! 

It was quite amusing to see how those parents appeared visibly panicked when they realized that I was Chad’s mom. 

Both sets of parents came over to introduce themselves and nervously expressed their concern as to whether I would cope with their boys.  I was dying to be facetious.  Hmmm… can your children feed themselves?  And wipe their own butts?  Yeah, then I’ll be fine.

But, I bit my tongue, smiled and assured them that I was quite able to take good care of their children. 

Chad came over and I introduced him to the parents.  He shook their hands and greeted them politely.

Mischievously, he pointed at the one mother.  Oh!  It was your son who just caught me out.  He is definitely sleeping with the dogs tonight.

I could have kicked him.   Aah, you just gotta love my kid’s sense of humour.

The father replied.  Oh that’s okay, my son loves dogs.

The other mother chipped in.  Oh no!  My son is petrified of dogs.  What dogs do you have?

Me.  Great Danes.

In response to the sheer horror on her face, I explained that they were gentle giants.  I also assured her that I would keep the dogs well away from the boys.

She immediately told me that her son had never been hosted by another family before and they’d decided, since he was starting high school next year, that they should allow him to experience it at least once.  But, obviously they had traveled down to keep a very close watch on their boy.

I had absolutely no problem with that.  I’m a mother too.  I understand that we live in a beautiful world full of evil and parents want to, and should, protect their children.  We are constantly bombarded, by the media, with all the things that can go wrong.  Rather be safe, than sorry.

She then went on to tell me that her son would only be staying one night, as they had to rush back to Johannesburg on Saturday, after the game, due to other commitments.  Although I didn’t show it or say so, I was a little irritated because I had gone to the trouble of being properly prepared for having two extra boys for the weekend.  I assumed, then, that the other boy wouldn’t stay a second night on his own.  I know that it is school policy that at least two children from a school need to be hosted together for understandable reasons.

Once more, I patiently assured the parents, that I was quite capable of taking very good care of their children, after being asked again whether I would be able to handle so many boys.  Hmmm… Yeah!  There’re only three.

After the game, the anxious parents stood around and watched as the boys loaded all their cricket bags into the vehicle.  Dad introduced himself to them.  I think they were so thankful to see an able-body in the mix.  Little did they know that Dad doesn’t even live on the same property as I do.

I could hear the parents apprehensively talking to their children just behind the car.

My heart was racing. 

What if they refused to allow their children to come home with me?  

As parents, that’s their prerogative.  I am strong and emotionally mature enough to completely understand their fears even though, I knew, deep down, that it would be their loss.

But, how would Chad feel? 

He had been looking so forward to the weekend.  I would be left to deal with his disappointment and confusion.  My heart aches for my son. 

I smiled bravely and confidently as one of the mothers popped her head into the car to say that the children were shy, trying to explain away the delay.

I wanted to speak out loud.

Disability isn’t contagious but, ignorance is.

After all, we weren’t born prejudiced.  We were made that way by the lack of knowledge – unawareness of parents, bias of friends, narrow-mindedness of community and the unsophisticated attitudes of our broader society.

I breathed a deep, silent sigh of relief as the boys climbed into the car and I instructed them to buckle-up.

I felt really sorry for the four parents as we drove away.  I knew they would probably be worried sick about the children.  I could feel their eyes on us but, I didn’t even look in their direction as I fought to keep my composure.  There was roller-coaster of emotion surging within me.

I wanted to cry.  I wanted to laugh.  I wanted to scream.

A part of me wanted to hang my head in shame, in submission to my disability as I felt watched, judged and criticized.  Again.

I was annoyed with myself.  No, Tracy.  You have come too far to allow these people to bring you down.

So, I lifted my head in pride, fully aware of my limitations and having a sleepover with a group of boys certainly is not one of them.

Sometimes things happen in our lives that brings something more precious than an emotional reaction.  It brings understanding.

By the time we got to the gate of the school, I’d pulled myself back together and started up a conversation with the boys.

Let me share a little secret… 

Both boys are delightful young men who conversed freely and comfortably.  I would not class either of them as shy.

And another secret…

The boy who was terrified of dogs loved mine and was not intimidated by their size in the least.  He patted, stroked and played with them as though he had been around them forever.

And lastly…

The boys survived the night.

I do think, though, that their parents were very relieved to see them the following day.

The parents of the boy going back to Johannesburg a day early came over to thank me, warmly, for having their son, saying that he had a wonderful time.

I just smiled.  Of course, I already knew that.

I was delighted when the remaining boy insisted on spending the second night with Chad and I, despite his parent’s plea for him to rather stay with them in a guesthouse, proving that he was quite comfortable with my paralysis and he felt safe enough to stay on in my home without his friend. 

I felt a deep sense of satisfaction and oh-so-triumphant.  You just gotta love kids with their natural tolerance and acceptance of people with differences.  Adults could learn a lot from these attitudes.

The scary thing is that parents would feel far happier handing over their children to a fully-functioning, able-bodied person just because that person looked physically good.  What if that person abused children?  What if…

I also think that the school deserves some credit.  They would never send children to a home if they felt they were putting them at risk or in any danger.

I got a heartfelt text message from the parents, thanking me for having their boys.  From the tone, the change in mindset towards me was clearly evident. 

For me, that is the real victory. 

I believe that those parents have learned a life lesson from their children and hopefully they will think twice before being so judgmental towards people with disabilities.

I also like to think that those children are privileged to have had an opportunity to experience a weekend with a quadriplegic, something that I wish I had been exposed to when I was young because I, too, carried many stereotypical, discriminatory opinions about people living with disabilities until I had my accident.

There is nothing more limiting than a closed mind.  Sadly, I had to break my neck to learn that lesson.

Perhaps, this is my life purpose?

By inviting people into my world I am creating awareness, giving me the power to change mindsets.  One.  At.  A. Time.

Almost every day, someone new subscribes to my blog.  Usually that brings me great joy – a sense of achievement.  Amazing. 

Somebody actually wants to read what I have to say.  My chest bursting with pride, I would be patting myself on the back.  If only, I could. 

It’s another opportunity to share my world, to teach, to create an awareness, to touch a heart and change a mindset (hopefully).  Yay! 

Lately, though, when I get that notification in my inbox, I feel guilt because I know what that means.

It means that I have a new reader to my blog, filled with expectation of I-don’t-know-what but, obviously they have enjoyed what they have read so far and like what they see.  I know that they will be waiting, trusting that they will be receiving regular blog posts, conveniently straight into their inbox.  I am momentarily overcome by shame, completely aware that I have not posted anything in a while.  I hate broken promises.

It’s not that I haven’t had anything to write about, I have.  Hey, I may spend my time sitting on my butt all day long but, it’s not boring.

Often, I wish it was.  Hey, be careful what you wish for, Tracy.

My life is never without drama, unique challenges and erratic ups and downs.  Any quadriplegic would be able to testify to that. 

But, I do believe that human struggles are all the same, no matter where or how one lives and that is exactly what binds us to one another as a species, whether we choose to believe it or not.  Although, I have to add, that there are monsters among us who have no conscience whatsoever, with a cruel ability to abuse children and animals.  I have no words for those evil beasts.

Generally, to be human is to be a mass of contradiction.  It is to seek peace but to relish argument.  To be forever wanting to explode in fury whilst struggling to remain calm and contained.  It is to be sweetly open-minded yet bitterly prejudiced, compassionate yet selfish, arrogant yet insecure.  It is to smile while feeling depressed, be brave while feeling afraid, and to act restrained whilst passion surges secretly through you.  No, not my words but, this is true for everybody, no matter who, or what, you are.

So, I’ve learned that there are common threads and that is why all types of people are able to relate to my stories.  I definitely think that everything is worth exposing.  You know me, especially if you have been following my blog, I do kiss-and-tell. 

It’s just that I have lost my focus – a little.  The truth is I’ve been having a tough time the past few months, physically and emotionally.  I’ve been caught up in my own inner struggles.  Okay, I’ll admit, I’ve been feeling very sorry for myself.

I market myself as an inspirational speaker.  I feel like a fraud. 

People have put me up on a pedestal, seeing me as a motivator, a source of encouragement, an inspiration.  I feel so undeserving.

Over the past month my community newspaper has referred to me as one of its bravest, an inspiration and local heroine – all stories dying to be told.  How does one possibly live up to these kinds of accolades? 

Initially, I started my blog because I wanted a place to express my anger, joy, frustration, love, tears and pain.  I wanted somewhere for my emotions to run wild, to be free.  I wanted a place to tell someone, anyone, who was willing to listen, how tough my life is – what a cruel existence it is to be living, paralysed, from the neck down. 

Comments flooded in, appreciating my frankness and brutal truths.  I was flabbergasted.  Still am.

With a renewed sense of intent, I wanted to tell all about my life, with open abandon and raw honesty.  I don’t want to hide the good, the bad and the ugly.

It was all going so well.  I found my voice, a logical purpose and a place to regain my passion of teaching – albeit to a very different audience in a classroom too big to imagine. 

I get many e-mails and private messages on Facebook  and Twitter, from people around the world who have discovered my blog (even today) and are reading it (scary), loving it (yay) and wondering why I haven’t posted anything since July.  July!  What?  Has it really been that long?  Oh my God.

With an angry-at-myself-reproach, I attempt to start writing a new blog entry.  As a result, I now have a folder full of incomplete stories, life experiences and insights that are begging to be shared.

My positive energy has been waning.  I use that word deliberately because I do believe that, like the moon, I’ll rise again.  Just.  Because.  I.  Can.

Thank you for your messages of love, care and support.  You will never know the positive impact they have on my life and how your words encourage me to dig deep, lift my head and look outward again.  I appreciate each and every letter.

Hang on, I’ll be back.

Click here to read my post.

While you are over there, check out Kristin Noelle’s Trust Tending blog.  I have no doubt that she will inspire you as much as she has done me with her thought-provoking, meaningful writing.  Believe me, it will be worth your while.

Enjoy and let us know what you think.  I would love for you to be part of this conversation.

Thank you for your love, care and support.  I am truly grateful to each and every one of you, my readers.

The sad truth is that: I’m not.  I’m not.  I’m not.

The agonizing reality is that I have a beautiful, free, soaring, independent spirit which is cruelly trapped and confined inside of a pathetically, needy, dependent body. *Scream*

A vicious punch-in-the-face moment this week, confirmed it, once again.

I woke up to the quiet murmurings of my care assistants in the room next door.  It was still pitch dark.  But, it’s midwinter and even my usual 6 AM get-up-time is still dark, and cold.  Somehow I just sensed that it was still too early. 

The radio was on. 

Sometime during the long night I had asked my care assistant to put it on because I couldn’t sleep.  The enforced silence of the dark night, for hours on end, is not only physically uncomfortable when you cannot move a muscle but, psychologically, sometimes it is close to intolerable.  Often, I just need a distraction from my ridiculously overactive mind.  Believe me, the pleasures of mental agility are much over-stated by those not exclusively dependent upon them.  The radio can act as a perfect diversion from my soul-destroying-negative thoughts in the dead of the night.

I must have fallen asleep again, thankfully.

I craned my neck and my digital-alarm-clock-radio confirmed that there was still an hour to go before my care assistants were expected to get me up. 

I was immediately annoyed and irritated that they had woken me up because now I would have to lie there and wait for them.  That sixty minutes can be excruciating.  It’s not like you lose the desire to stretch, yawn, throw your legs over the side of the bed, sit, stretch some more, rub your eyes and then get up.  It’s just that when the urge comes over you there is nothing – nothing – that you can do.

So, I lay focusing on the radio, listening to my care assistants getting themselves ready, fighting my frustration of not being able to get up into my wheelchair and waited.  Waited.  Waited.

At last, the door opened.  I breathed a deep sigh of relief as I heard my care assistants coming into my room.

If the prospect of being transferred into a wheelchair lifts one’s spirit, it has to say something about the loneliness and gloom of the night’s journey.

I turned my head to greet my care assistants.  I immediately noticed that one of the ladies was not in uniform but rather in the same smart clothes she had arrived in the day before.  Oh no!

What’s wrong?  I asked her anxiously.

She knelt down next to my bed to explain. 

Her nanny, who was allegedly taking care of her nine-month-old baby, had called earlier to say that she must meet her at the police station at 7 AM and take her baby.  She needed to leave immediately.

I begged: Oh my God, please don’t do this to me.  Please.  Please.  Please.

I desperately pleaded some more:  How am I going to get up?  I need to get onto the commode for my bowel routine and shower.  Then, I need to get onto my wheelchair.  There is no way only one lady will manage to do all that, on her own, especially with the severe spasms my body is experiencing at present.

She said: I know.  And I’m sorry.  I really am.  But, I have to go.

And she left.

Feeling mortified, I broke down, crying hysterically.

I was angry.  Not at her.  Okay, yes, I was mad at her – dammit!

Although, deep down, I understood. 

If it had been my baby, I would have done exactly the same thing.  No doubt.

I was still enraged but, more so, by my entire dismal situation.

I don’t know when last I felt such despair – so vulnerable, weak and helpless.  I cannot put down on this page my exact thoughts, for fear of hurting the ones I care about most.

I had this overwhelming need to tell someone, to share my pain, my dilemma.  I asked my remaining care assistant to help me call Roy.  I cried as I related the story to him.  I could hear his concern as he tried to comfort me.  I knew that there was nothing he could really do but, I was just grateful to have had his ear at that ridiculously early hour.

Immediately after the call I was overcome with guilt.  Why had I burdened him with this, knowing that he was so far away and that he would be worried about me?

I ran through my long list of friends in my mind.  Who could I call to come and help?

Everybody has a family, a husband or partner, children, work, responsibilities.  I know that any of them would drop everything and come at a moment’s notice but, I just couldn’t call.  Something – pride, dignity, guilt, self-doubt – I don’t know – prevented me from reaching out in my time of need.

Helplessness is humiliating.  Even, in a passing crisis.  Imagine or recall some occasion when you have fallen down or required assistance from strangers or even family or friends.  How embarrassing!  Right?

So, I just lay there and sobbed.  And sobbed.  And sobbed.

The tears, stinging my cheeks and flooding my ears seemed to have no end, causing me to wonder if my brain had perhaps melted and the fluids were escaping through my eyes.

I felt so abandoned.  Just imagine not being able to get up in the morning, go to the loo or take a shower.

Like Tony Judt once said:  Being paralysed from the neck down is like being confined to a cold, unforgiving iron suit.  I’m motionless like a modern-day mummy, alone in my corporeal prison feeling like nobody really understands.

Eventually, I pulled myself together, knowing that I have faced this challenge before, and far worse, and I coped.  You can do it again, Tracy.

Living alone and basically being at the mercy of care assistants whose first priority cannot really be me, is often daunting but I wouldn’t have it any other way, unless, of course, a drop-dead-gorgeous man with sexy legs came to my rescue.

Anyway, I put my mind, what was left of it after the melting episode, into proactive mode and made one phone call to my Dad.  Speak of humiliating!

He was here within 45 minutes to just help my care assistant to lift me.  I was got up, dressed, hair and makeup done.  The bits in-between are incommunicable.

I put on my brave face and started making some phone calls.  By lunchtime I had a new care assistant.  I’m not sure if she’s the right person as she is a little overwhelmed at present but, at least, I have two pairs of hands today.  If she runs away, that’s another day’s problem.

One day at a time.  That’s the only way I know how to deal with this.

(2 July 1918 – …)

To my dearest Granny

93 today.  Wow.  Wow.  Wow.

There was a time in my life when I would have said, “OMG.  Ninety-three?  That’s ancient!” 

I mean, 1918 is prehistoric.  Isn’t it?

Sorry, Gran.

But, you know what it’s like when you’re young.  And stupid.

Now, I’m 40-something and the aging process has me firmly in its grasp.  And there’s no getting away from it.

When I was young and physically able, the days were short and the years were long.  Everybody’s first 20 years is the longest half of their life.  Since my accident the years have become short and the days excruciatingly long.  That, along with the humiliation of not being able to pee or poo on my own, has given me a whole new appreciation, and understanding, of the sometimes undignified probabilities of growing old for some.

Gran, spending time with you recently made me realise that getting to an old-age is a privilege that many people are denied.  Yet, so many take it for granted.  Including me.  At one stage I arrogantly assumed that I would live to a ripe old age.  After all, longevity is highly prevalent among the women of our family.  Right?

As we sat in the warm winter sun having tea together, I looked at you through different eyes – mature eyes.  Yes, Gran, your eldest granddaughter has finally grown up.

When I think of you now my eyes fill with tears – not sad tears – but rather, tears of awareness – regret that I didn’t make the most of the opportunity to spend more time with you when you lived with us all those years ago; joy that my son (your eldest great-grandchild) has the privilege of truly knowing you; panic because I want to spend a lot more time with you because you have so much to teach and I have so much more to learn from you; admiration for everything you are; appreciation of the true blessing you are to me and your entire family.

Without you being aware of it you have taught me many lessons by merely living your life with grace and dignity.

You have given me the gift of:

Faith: You and Oupa* gave me my first Bible.  I still have it.

Faithfulness: You and Oupa* got married when you were at the tender age of 20.  You have three very special and beautiful daughters.  You were a fine example of the true meaning of marriage.   You stayed faithful to him and your shared love by choosing to be alone for about 30 years without him by your side and you still speak so fondly of him.  We all loved him deeply.  I remember feeling shame at my divorce, the first in the family, as we were all taught that marriage is for life.

Honesty: The first, and last, time I ever lied to you as a little girl you put pepper in my mouth.  Sheesh Gran, that stuff was hot.  I only just started eating it again a few months ago.

Work Ethic: I remember how you and Oupa* woke up at 4:30 AM to have tea together before he went off to work.  Then, I would go to work with you for the day.  Even after you retired, you were always busy doing something with enthusiasm.

Strength: I watched how you picked up the pieces after Oupa* died, stayed strong for your family and carried on with life.

Courage: Even at the age of 90-something you are not afraid to get on a plane by yourself and fly across the country to one of your children.  You gave me the courage to do the same except I needed my care assistant.  Old age ain’t no place for sissies.  And neither is disability.

Compassion: You unselfishly moved in with your older sister to take care of your terminally ill brother.  You gave generously of your time to mend broken toys for charity for many years.

Perceptiveness: You may be a little hard of hearing but you see things in others that most of us miss.  You observe quietly and you’re usually a good judge of character.

Food Favourites: You made us the most divine roast chicken every time we went out to the dam which is still my favourite dish finished off with your recipe of lemon-meringue-without-the-meringue.  It’s the best meal on the planet.

Independence: You like to do things for yourself in your own way and you’re fiercely independent to this day.

Family: You are extremely protective of your children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren always putting them first.  Even in your grand age anyone of your three daughters wouldn’t hesitate to have you live with them and that includes grandchildren.  You can live with me any day, Gran.  At the age of 90 you took on a huge responsibility of taking care of a baby, your tiny great-grandson, during the day.  Where do you get the energy?  Amazing.

Intelligence: Your mind is incredibly sharp and you exercise it daily.  You have been doing crossword puzzles for as long as I can remember and still going strong.

Health: Since I was paralysed, I’ve often joked that I am trapped inside an 80-year-old body.  But, when I compare to it to yours, I see how truly amazing you are.  You’re fit and walk so fast that even your daughters struggle to keep up with you.  You continue to take good care of your body, following doctor’s orders.

Pride: You always take pride in everything you do, working meticulously and methodically.  You take pride in your appearance – always neat and clean.

Beauty: I’ve seen some photographs of you on your wedding day and you are genuinely beautiful.  To me, you always look exactly as you do now because your true beauty is in your heart, mind and soul.

Wisdom: You have few earthly possessions yet, you are satisfied.  You are living proof that a contented mind and a loving heart is the truest wisdom.

Age, like paralysis, is a prison from which we cannot escape but, with our genes we can handle anything that life throws at us.

Oh, I definitely got my stubbornness from you.  But, I’m proudly stubborn.  It has navigated me through many tough times.

My fondest memory of you my  Darling Granny is playing with all that lovely, soft, stretchy skin on your hands when I was little and asking you over and over again: “Granny, why are your hands like this?”  And you would always answer patiently: “I don’t know, my girl, maybe I’m just old.”

But, you were wrong.  You have never been old.

And my wish is that I can play with that lovely skin on your hands.  Just.  One.  More.  Time.

Oh, by the way, happy birthday to my sweet and special Granny.

I love you.

Oupa* Afrikaans for Granddad.

I’m sorry that I hurt you by breaking our neck all those years ago.  I was young, with an arrogant attitude to life that I was invincible.  I didn’t appreciate your youthful beauty at the time, I know, but I’ve since learned many valuable lessons.  I know, now, that I have a duty to keep you healthy because you are the only one I can and will ever live in.

Believe it or not, I eventually grew to love you, despite being useless paralysed.

By the grace of God, with the love, care and support of my son, family, friends and community I managed to successfully rebuild a new, meaningful life with you.  And for that, I am grateful.

I know that you’re far smarter than I am and that is why I have tried to learn from you.  You have a wisdom which I lack.  I’ve tried my best to listen to you and, more importantly, understand you.  But, you gotta help me here a little bit more.  I’m at a loss.

I’ve been really worried about you.  I’ve felt you crying out for help with every fibre of your being. I know that I can’t feel the pain anymore.  But, I do understand that you still feel it and that it hurts like hell.  I knew with all our heart that you were in severe pain by the way you were suddenly acting.  You’ve taught me well.  I’ve learned to listen to you and I can recognize the signs of pain when you spasm or contract awkwardly.  I also know how dangerous autonomic dysreflexia can be.

So, I did the right thing.  Don’t you remember?  I took you off to the doctor – the smartest guy I know. 

Secretly, we rolled our eyes at his concerns of a possible bladder infection or bowel impaction.  But, we can forgive him, because he doesn’t know how intimately I know you and I trust that he always has our best interests at heart because of his thoroughness.  So, for the sake of peace of mind, we cooperated.

He immediately sent us for an abdominal x-ray, a sonar, urine tests and blood tests.  Yes, I know that we hate needles but, sometimes it’s necessary.  Our arm didn’t pull away too violently so it couldn’t have been that bad.  At least the nurse was friendly and I thought it was really nice of her to visit us at home.

He told us that there was some faecal loading in our bowel.  Well, we certainly didn’t need an x-ray to tell us that.  Besides, we are all-woman and it’s our prerogative to be full of shit sometimes.  Is it not?

So, I punished our poor tummy by drinking the most disgusting stuff in order to get rid of all the shit.  I think our taste buds are still recovering from the shock.  After excessive groaning, burping and farting, our bowels eventually emptied themselves much to the disgust of our oversensitive nasal passages.  I have to admit that I felt really sorry for my care assistant as it was rather foul.

While we are on that topic, I have to tell you that you often make me feel humiliated.  You burp and fart at the most inappropriate times.  Have you forgotten that we are a lady?

Anyway, the emptied bowels didn’t help.  Your right-hand side was still writhing around in pain, especially our right leg.  I was convinced that there was something wrong with our knee or hip.

Our physiotherapists couldn’t find anything unusual.  A friend sent her chiropractor over to check us out, and she couldn’t really find anything strange.  We even had photographs taken of our entire body to establish if there were any hotspots as a result of a buildup of heat energy due to the pain.  They didn’t even come up with a teeny-weeny, little hot spot.  Nevermind.  As far as we are concerned, we are hot, hot, HOT.  Yes, and oh-so-sexy.

Hey, I even took you off to that drop-dead-gorgeous ear doctor to relieve the pressure in our ear in the hopes of making you feel better.  I know our eyes enjoyed the visit.  The candy gave them a much-needed spin.  And as for our ears, well I think that they thought they had momentarily died and gone to heaven every time he touched them.  Oooh… it was good.

Flesh is so contradictory, isn’t it?  It goes on pleasuring and humiliating until the day we die.  It would be nice if we could focus more on the pleasurable side of things, if only you would do your bit and play along.

The spasms got so bad that we were now struggling to sit in the wheelchair without falling over.  You kept me awake night after night with your contortions.

You had me so worried.  I feared the worst.  I thought we’d gone and developed a syrinx in the spinal cord or something equally as terrifying.  We went back to the doctor and neurosurgeon.  We had a CT scan, a bone density scan as well as a cervical MRI.  I know that it was a little cold and uncomfortable for you but it was bloody scary for me.  After a nerve-racking wait for the results, they came up with nothing.  I was relieved.  But so, so, so frustrated.

We put you onto some special drugs to prevent spasms, which I hate, but anything to get you back to normal.  They didn’t help.  And I was getting desperate.

I took you halfway across the country, at great expense, to specialist doctors at a spinal unit where they told me, after many more tests and an isotopes bone scan that our trochanter (upper femur) had a stress fracture.  The doctor wanted to know what I had been doing to you to break our bones.  I can’t share all our secrets now, can I?

I know that I was extremely joyous at the news.  It wasn’t that I was celebrating your pain and injury.  It was just that I was relieved to finally have an answer so that we could treat you and get you all better.  So, after a week in hospital, we went home.  Doctor’ s orders were to take it easy and I was to make sure we take all the medication.  No more swinging from the chandeliers either.  You sure know how to spoil a girl’s fun, don’t you?

I was very good about taking the medication and I treated you really well.  Our poor tummy ended up with an ulcer because of all the anti-inflammatories and pain medication.  I had to do something as it was becoming unbearable and your behaviour was getting out of hand.

You must still have some sort of charm about you because you managed to get my doctor, the orthopedic surgeon and his lovely wife, who happens to be my friend, to do an after-hours housecall.

So, back we went for another full MRI scan and CT scan.  Now they are not even sure if your leg was ever broken in the first place.  That’s nice.  How do you think I feel?  Well, let me tell you.  Like a complete idiot.

As a last-ditch attempt, the physiotherapists have agreed to see me everyday for the next two weeks to see if their intensive treatments and acupuncture will make a difference.  At this stage, I think my physio’s are the only ones who still want anything to do with us.  But, don’t push your luck.

The doctors are at a complete loss.  My medical aid is depleted.  I have stopped all the medication which seemed to be doing us more harm than good.  I have done everything within my power to try and help you. 

Three months on and you are still behaving just as badly, preventing me from having any sort of life at all, keeping me housebound.  Is this really necessary?  Don’t you remember that we are social beings and need to see other people?  Do you care that I’m feeling lonely?

I feel as if I am constantly at war with you.  I don’t want to be mean but, you’re holding me back, confining me and, quite honestly, irritating the hell out of me.

You’re humiliating me and making me feel awkward and insecure.  I worked so hard to rebuild my self-esteem, self-worth and self confidence and you are compromising that at the moment with your bad behaviour.

I know that you don’t agree with me, but, walking is really overrated.  Seriously.  All I want is to be able to sit in my wheelchair without making a complete freak show of myself.  Is this too much to ask?

I take full responsibility for turning you into a quadriplegic and for that I have apologised over and over again.  Who knew you would be so unforgiving.  And relentless.  Is this your revenge?  I probably deserve it but will I ever get a break?

I feel like screaming at the top of our lungs: Hey, Universe, when is it my turn? 

So, Body what exactly do you want me to do now?

The story is about a lady who was left paralysed after things went wrong at the birth of her triplets.  Four years later she is fighting her ex-husband, along with her parents, to have access and visitation rights to her children.  What was meant to be the happiest day of her life, turned into a never-ending, lifelong nightmare.

Click here to read the story, and here to read the outcome.

After I was left paralysed from the neck down and consequently divorced, sole custody of our son was awarded to my ex-husband.  I was devastated. 

Although I was granted visitation and access to my son, the journey has not been simple or easy.  I’ll spare you all the gory details.

As with most divorces, nothing seems fair, things often get ugly, emotions run wild and unfortunately, material things, money and children become the weapons in the war between the two broken souls who once loved one another enough to make a commitment and declare publicly “… I … take you … until death us do part.”

I have to wonder why we still insist on getting married, making these vows to one another when we do not really intend to keep them or they are loaded with conditions.

I was angry.  I was bitter.  I was scared.  But, most of all, I was sad.  Just.  So.  Sad.

Who do I blame?  God?  Myself?  My ex-husband?  The psychologist?  The lawyers?  The judge?  The system?

Yes, a part of me will always be critical of choices and decisions at the time because I was traumatized, rejected and hurt, physically and emotionally, in the worst possible way imaginable.

But, if I am to be brutally honest, we are all a product of the same society – one that does not know sincere compassion, have real understanding of differences and sadly, lacks true empathy.

So, then, we are all to blame.   

We’re part of a culture that is not only ignorant but is ashamed of imperfections. We are constantly bombarded by images of perfection, extreme outer beauty or good looks through the media.  We are made to feel inferior and are pressured to have plastic surgery, implants, Botox, teeth whitened, laser treatments and every other so-called beautifying process.  We risk being shunned if we have skew teeth, a crooked nose or, heaven forbid, wrinkles.

So, as a result, facing any type of permanent disability – or even a serious temporary injury – is far too traumatic for most people to comprehend.

We are all human where our primal instinct is to “fight or flight” when faced with a terrifying situation.  When it comes to disability the flight instinct, for most of us, wins hands down.

Disabilities immediately evoke fears of abandonment, rejection, loneliness and frustration – and understandably so – because that is just human nature.

Many of us are obsessed with finding ways to become happier, more fulfilled and better people on the inside.  Is it, perhaps, because we are trying to compensate for not fitting the perfect mold that society expects of us?

Yet, when real life punches us in the face in a desperate attempt to teach us, we run.  We hot-tail it out of there as fast as we can.  We don’t seem brave enough to stay in order to learn the lessons, the skills and coping mechanisms we need to move on in life as empathetic beings.  It takes courage to learn.  Often, we don’t have the guts to stay, to learn the teachings of the universe and that’s why we will continue to make the same mistakes time and time again.

There was a time in my life when I also believed that a person with a disability was incapable of making a positive contribution to society, let alone, be a parent.  Until, it happened to me.  And for that, I am truly sorry.

Well, I couldn’t run, this time.  I had to stay and deal with my paralysis.  I had to put up with people staring at me, some with pity in their eyes and others with a smirk on their faces, whilst hiding my intense heartache.  But, I have learned valuable lessons which have forever changed me, cleansing my spirit, removing staining judgments, prejudices and intolerances.  And for that, I am grateful.

My resilient maternal instinct refused to give up, forcing me to fight, not only for survival and adaptation to almost incomprehensible change, but, for persevering and pursuing a relationship with my son.  And for that, I have no words.

I don’t blame his dad for making the decisions that he did at the time as, after all, he is also a captive of humanity’s present mindset.

Maybe, in my own small way, I can make a difference, even if it is, just changing one mindset at a time.

Disability can strike anyone at any time.  I long for a society that can embrace uniqueness or disability and just celebrate life in all its raw, natural states.

Does it scare you to be part of a world, that you know, could turn their backs on you should you become disabled in anyway?