The day started in a fog of self-pity, a state amplified by my husband being out of town. Every small, daily task felt monumental, so going to the courthouse (to visit the passport office) seemed completely unfathomable. But I needed to go, and as I walked into the building, the pain from my spine reared to life.
Beep! Beep! I stepped through the metal detector repeatedly to no avail. Frustrated, a woman came out from behind the bullet-proof glass. “Do you have a belt on?”
I shook my head. “I’m so sorry about this. I have a pain pump in my stomach and a metal cage in my spine from where doctors removed a cancerous tumor.”
She tried to hide her shock, and then, in the most wonderfully direct Idaho fashion, said, “Honey, if the pain pump is supposed to help you with pain,” she looked at my hunched back, “then I don’t think it’s working!”
I broke out laughing, a genuine, startled belly laugh that momentarily cut through the tension. That absurd, honest comment somehow brightened my day.
The passport office rests at the end of a looong corridor that wasn’t made for those with disabilities, and by the time I reached the halfway mark, I hunched over in so much pain that hot tears formed in my eyes. Two young men eyed me with such open pity then that my face flushed with embarrassment.
Pity… I thought about the word and decided it’s one of the worst things in the world.
I shuffled past the men, feeling fragile and broken.
Things didn't turn around until I got to the passport counter. The woman there, Jen, beamed—so sweet and helpful. Her kindness took away all negative thoughts because she made me feel…normal. She didn’t ask if I was all right or wonder aloud what was wrong or if I hurt my back… She didn’t treat me with sympathy because of how I stand. Instead, she helped me as if I didn’t have any obvious health issues at all!
Finally, after Jen finished helping me, I shuffled over and collapsed into a visitors' chair. And that was it, the moment when my whole week changed. As I sank down, the world tilted. That simple, unremarkable chair—of all things—seemed like the most wonderful invention in the whole world. It wasn't fancy or aesthetically pleasing. It was made of simple plastic and metal. Yet, in that moment, it was such a lifesaver. It sounds ridiculous, but the relief to be sitting down became so overwhelming that an enormous wave of gratitude washed over me. I sat there, savoring the brief absence of pain. Thank goodness there are things that exist like chairs!
My thoughts turned to my dear friend, Sheri, who passed away last year. She’d reached a point where the pain from cancer had become too severe. Whether she stood, sat, or even rested in bed, she could never find a reprieve. I grieved for her losses when she did, but toward the end, it was so horrendous seeing her in such terrible pain.
My thoughts turned to my current predicament. Sure it can hurt for me to stand too long or walk more than a short distance, but I can still find respite—and I should be incredibly grateful for that. Life can be hard, but sometimes, often in the most mundane places, it gives you a small, unexpected gift. I can still walk, laugh, find incredible people like Jen, and, most importantly, I can still spend time with my family.
We are so often surrounded by wonderful things, but sometimes we need to look for them. They could be as close as a waiting room chair or as conspicuous as a kind receptionist.
Today, I remembered once again that a win is a win. I can enjoy life and live to the fullest, vowing to find the good in everything that I can, and that is pretty amazing.
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