Wheelchair Wisdom: Let Go of the Loss and Move On

Today, I still need my scooter and wheelchair to get around. But something inside me has changed. I have a sense of freedom that is in some ways more powerful and sustainable than what I felt when I could walk and dance and run and play.
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"Courage is mastery of fear, not absence of fear." -- Mark Twain

So much in life seems to change -- does change -- when someone becomes wheelchair bound. That designation in itself, "wheelchair bound," speaks volumes. The wheelchair binds us. It becomes our sole means of transport, the wheels we rely on for motion, the position from which we see the world. Even though the wheelchair provides mobility, we immediately begin to think of ourselves as held back by its limitations. And then comes the day -- I hope -- when you realize that even if you are in a wheelchair, your life is still full of possibilities.

For me, that realization came at a flower show.

It was March of 1991, the Philadelphia Flower Show, an event held annually at the downtown Civic Center. Outside, the skies were gray, the trees leafless. The bite of winter was still in the air. Indoors, the world was transformed into a haven and heaven of outrageously flamboyant color; of tableaux from country gardens to suburban backyards. And the fragrance! It was almost overwhelming--a fantasy landscape where every flower, every vine, every leaf was enjoying the fullness of a conjured springtime.

I vividly recall my scooter, too. It was clunky and huge (not at all like the one I have today -- which is a fashionable, sleek, metallic-green model). But I could steer it and maneuver it with very little assistance. Which meant it was good enough for me.

Some months before, I'd taken this scooter on a very significant "trial run" on Peace Prayer Day, an event I attended at the U.N. General Assembly Hall in New York City. My scooter had served me well at that event. I had been able to participate with a feeling of complete freedom, as if the machine that toted me around did not even exist. That had been a liberating experience. And now, here, at the Flower Show, I was hoping that once again I would be able to enjoy the feeling of utter liberation that I had experienced once before.

What I wondered, as we entered the Civic Center, was whether I could forget that I was Linda-in-a-wheelchair -- and forget about what I looked like, what my limitations were, or where I couldn't go. It seemed like the place to just be Linda again. In the years before I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, I had always looked forward to this annual show. I had loved gardening, flowers, color. I was a graduate of a premier East Coast art and design college -- a graphic artist and designer. What could be more thrilling than this profusion of blossoms and the palette of infinite colors that greeted the visitor descending from a March landscape of beiges and grays?

I had loved it all -- and yet, that experience was in the past, before the diagnosis, before the wheelchair, before I had allowed my identity to change from "normal" to "handicapped." Could I reclaim the sense of freedom I had felt in the years before the beginning of wheelchair-life -- the freedom I had tasted once again, so briefly, at that U.N. occasion? Would I be able to forget the whirring motor and the awkward controls that determined my movements and, instead, let my heart, my soul, and my imagination be absorbed by the visions of springtime that would surround me at the flower show?

And then -- yes, it happened. I forgot about my scooter. It wasn't part of me. I forgot about my illness. It wasn't me, either. I was simply there, relishing each moment, keenly tuned into all the pleasures of sight, scent, and spectacle that were once again mine to enjoy.

Though I didn't know it then, that was the beginning of a time when my whole world began to open up. I could easily plan outings to concerts or museums, or even to the mall. I began to travel -- to New York City, Sarasota, Florida, the steep hills and inclines of San Francisco, and eventually to Israel and Egypt. And I made discoveries that, I believe, apply to anyone who is wheelchair bound.

Today, I still need my scooter and wheelchair to get around. But something inside me has changed. I have a sense of freedom that is in some ways more powerful and sustainable than what I felt when I could walk and dance and run and play. Sure, I live with memories. I live with sorrow. But I am trapped by neither -- and certainly, least of all by the wheelchair and other "equipment" that I need to get by.

Here's an exercise for you to try:

Imagine yourself attached to your loss with a rope. The rope has a knot in it. Imagine yourself untying this knot, saying goodbye to your loss, releasing the rope, turning from the loss, and moving on.

  • How do you feel?
  • Is there anything tugging at you or holding you back? If so, what?
  • Imagine cutting those ties. What feelings do you have about the loss behind?
  • What specific next steps do you need to take in your life to move on?
  • Are you willing to take it?

These are just guidelines. I put them forth as they work for me, and I have tried to use personal examples where they will help; but if your path does not exactly match mine, that is fine. We are all going in the same direction.

Blessings,
Linda

Linda Noble Topf is author of You Are Not Your Illness: Seven Principles for Meeting the Challenge, Simon & Schuster, 1995. Wheelchair Wisdom: Awaken Your Spirit Through Adversity, will be published in 2013 by Berrett-Koehler & iUniverse.

Contact Linda for practical spiritual counseling, and transform adversity into a spiritual awakening. Visit www.lindanobletopf.com for more information.

For more by Linda Noble Topf, click here.

For more on emotional wellness, click here.

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