A different pain

 

   On Sunday, I had a choice.  I could go to the choir concert at 2 at Scripps College or the band concert at Pomona College at 3.

   I decided to go to the choir concert. 

   Before I had my spinal surgery, when I was able to zip all over in my wheelchair on my own all the time, I would have done both.  I would have gone to the choir concert, then head down to Pomona College where the college band was playing outdoors, probably due to COVID, and catch the remainder of its concert.  Even if it was indoors, I would have snuck in (the college concerts here are usually free)! Getting home from the theater where the choir concert was on my own is now a dicey proposition.   

   When my attendant dropped me off at the choir concert, he asked the usher what time the concert was over, so that he could let the attendant who came on a 3 when to pick me up, and the usher said 3. Okay.  So the attendant would be there at about 3:15. I would just wait, which was fine. 

   Perhaps the usher meant when the theater would be closing, because it turned out the concert was short and sweet, as they say, and I was outside at 2:40. I sat in the sun for a few minutes, then meandered around the pleasant music department complex to kill time.  It was a lovely day, but I was mad and frustrated. 

   It was warm, and the band concert was close enough for me to easily get to, but I had no way to tell my attendant where to pick me up or what time to expect me if I decided to head home on my own. I also could have had my attendant return at 2:45, leave the choir concert a bit early if it was indeed ending at 3 and be dropped off at the band concert. 

   Along with if not more than this coulda-woulda-shoulda frustration and anger, what I was really feeling, I noticed, was hurt. I was surprised at this and wondered what it was about.  I realized that it felt like something has been taken from me, something that was rightfully mine.  I felt like I was cheated, like I was robbed. 

   Indeed, I was.  The fact is, I have to admit, something has been taken from me, something that was rightfully mine or that I should have.  And that is the ability to do certain things, things that I used to be able to do. 

   These were all the more valuable, are all the more missed, because I learned how to do them despite of the considerable disability I already had. They are missed, because I earned them. 

   More than this, more than the abilities than I had gained and was taken, what was taken, what I missed, was my independence – which I had also achieved despite being disabled.  What was taken was my not needing a ride and having to tell someone where I am. 

   With all the physical pains I now contend with, this stings.