Last week my son and I set out on a quest to shop for all the dorm necessities for his upcoming move into his new home. I had done this once before three years ago, when preparing to send my oldest off to college.
I was looking forward to repeating this special time with my youngest. We fueled up with brunch and set out to find everything he would need to create comfort in his new home away from home.
As he was unloading my wheelchair, I was suddenly overtaken with emotion, remembering that just three years ago, there was no wheelchair for the shopping trip. I told him I needed my wheelchair, and he would push the cart. He said, “but I thought you liked to push the cart.” I said, “I do, but today I can’t.” My eyes filling with tears behind my sunglasses.
No one prepares you for moments like that and they never become easier. Even though the weakness is always there, sometimes it is so boldly in your face that it is painful. The deteriorating state of my muscles taking no prisoners.
The store was full of moms and sons shopping for dorm room necessities. Carts overflowing with fans, shower caddies, and bedding.
We slowly made our way through the crowded store, navigating our cart and my wheelchair. Honestly, it was a strangely special time. We had fun with it.
In the last aisle we were in before wrapping up, another mother pulled up her cart next to us. The way she spoke to me took me by surprise.
She asked my son if he was shopping for college and he told her he was. She looked at me and we shared a moment of unspoken heartbreak as she was doing the same thing. It is hard to let go. She spoke to me as if I were just another mother, not afraid to talk to me because I was in a wheelchair. Often, people avoid talking to me. She carried on a conversation, seamlessly, not missing a beat.
That is so profoundly meaningful when that happens. It is how disabled people always want to be spoken to; just human like everyone else.
It came at a good time, as I was feeling the grief of the stark difference in the state of things compared to three years ago. I appreciated that encounter so much.
Also taking up precious real estate in my mind are thoughts of move in day. There was no wheelchair the last move in day. This one will be different. The thought of that breaks my heart in a way I could never fully articulate. Some things too great for words.
Anxiety is high as I think about how I will make it all work. It is not that I doubt our little tribe. We always find a way whenever humanly possible. Missing move in day is not even a thought.
Although my physical circumstances have changed, one thing that cannot be altered is the love I have for my two boys. I would do anything for them, and they for me. We have a unique bond that cannot be broken by any assistive device that may come along, or barrier my disability creates. Nothing can take that away.
Often in life, our hearts are simultaneously broken by different things. Things out of our control. We must do our best to keep moving forward, taking things as they come.
I know there are many moments of physical losses to come in my future. That has been my life’s path. There truly is no guidebook for navigating such a thing.
Although each of these losses come with grief, they also serve as an ever-present reminder to be grateful for the movement and ability I have today. Focusing on that when I am able is helpful.
Life is changing, and I must keep up. I must keep going. Even smothered by all the newness, I will find a way to continue to live well and with purpose.
Until next time …
Amy Shinneman is a former National Ambassador for the Muscular Dystrophy Association, disability blogger, freelance writer, wife, and mom of two boys. You can find her blog at humblycourageous.com and reach her on Instagram @ashinneman.