Left Behind

People often leave me behind. Those Type A’s walk fast! But you don’t have to be a Type A to walk faster than me. Because of my disabilities, I walk much slower than most people. I’m okay with this. I’ve really come to appreciate going through life slower. Many people are addicted to adrenaline. While trying to accomplish more than is humanly possible, they rush through life plowing over the many small miracles that only slower-paced walking and careful observation make possible. That said, it may be that I get so caught up in these beautiful small details that I lose sight of the bigger picture.

Compared to paralysis and the resulting atrophy of my leg muscles, walking slow is no big deal. I’m so grateful for each step (when I’m in the right frame of mind). However, I often face a dilemma presented by people moving on ahead of me. Without thinking, people walking at their normal pace just leave me behind. While I understand that they don’t do this intentionally, I’ve often wondered how I should feel about and respond to this. Many (many!) years ago, in my teenage angst, I would wonder if I should let them get increasingly far from me, and then (sadistically) let them realize how far they have left me behind and let them (hopefully) feel dreadful about it? Or do I gently (but sometimes repeatedly) ask them to slow down and wait for me? Neither option felt great.

This feeling of being left behind has haunted me and left me feeling like I would miss many important events, conversations, and experiences because of being too slow or due to other medical needs which highjack my ability to participate. I’ve had many dreams over the years about being left out or left behind. A few real experiences gave validity to those nightmarish dreams.

Funny how the painful memories stick.

While rehabilitating from physical trauma, anything active is not much fun but, rather, a whole lot of effort usually layered with unsettling emotions. As I recovered from my spinal cord injury, therapists, family, and friends all pushed me to get back to engagement in real life “fun” activities. They were not in the wrong; I needed to be pushed. While the prospect of a high school field trip to a museum in Pittsburgh filled my friends with excited anticipation, it filled me with dread. I’d rather have a normal day at school, handling my normal routine. But I bolstered my spirits and gave it a shot. Just as I anticipated, I got left behind and toured the museum by myself. I couldn’t keep up with my friends who ran from display to display. I acted independent and stoic, as if I enjoyed being alone.

Later, as we trekked through the urban jungle, down an alley for a shortcut to the next destination, the herd of students and teachers left me behind. The icy alley meant I needed to use extra caution. Suddenly, I was alone. With the help of my wooden cane, I tried to keep up with the group of high school friends who had raced ahead to get out of the cold. I’m sure the teachers didn’t realize I was left behind. Worse: no one realized. Obviously, I survived. I don’t remember what happened or who figured out that I couldn’t keep up, but I remember being alone in an alley watching my friends get further away. That hurt.

The next scenario:

This time I’m in Honduras on a service trip. My team of college friends quickly and steadily paced through the city of Tegucigalpa. I’m left behind, but I barely notice. A street girl, who had attached herself to our team, grabbed my hand as soon as it was obvious that I couldn’t keep up. She skillfully navigated me through the city and connected me to my team. I don’t even know if my team realized what had happened – that quite possibly I was escorted by a heavenly messenger who had eyes to see what others had missed.

But truth be told, far more often people have slowed down to walk beside me throughout my 30+ years of walking slow. This steady and encouraging companionship started when my legs were still trussed up with tall, metal leg braces that locked my knees straight, but enabled my hips to start to learn to swing each leg forward. Those days, very patient physical therapists would hold on to the back waist of my pants and steady me as I took each slow step. It would take 10–15 minutes to walk around the PT exercise table. With relief I would collapse back onto the mat victoriously—each step, a celebration. The next day, I did it a bit faster and went a bit further.

Back to high school:

The upcoming Jog-O-Thon, a sports/fundraising day our school held each year held the promise of being a glorious day. After all, I was the so-called “miracle girl” who was never supposed to walk again, but who now walked! The bell rang and everyone took off down the quarter mile track. Even though everyone cheered for me, the left behind feeling slapped me in the face. Everyone else pumped their healthy legs 20+ times around the track, earning money for school. Despite the brutal reality check and seeing the backsides of most of the high school students fading into the distance, I wasn’t left alone this time. Liz and I weren’t very close friends at that time. She was a skilled dancer whose hobbies and spare time all revolved around her physical talent and prowess. Maybe because she was so skilled physically, she could sense the great challenge of my everyday reality. Liz had no need to compete to see how many laps she could earn. She stuck by my side, and we talked and laughed through the 45 minutes of track time. I was not alone. I still remember that feeling. Liz helped me face my reality, and even have a bit of fun.

Walking and talking with loved ones hold an extremely special place in my heart. Do you understand how amazing it is to be able to walk and talk? To have your legs work so well to carry you forward that you don’t even have to think about them? I still need to think about my walking a great deal, but I can walk and talk! (Sometimes, I can talk a whole lot.) My legs are slower than most, but that is okay. I wouldn’t even be able to begin to count those many times people have not hesitated to walk slow with me. Maybe you are one of them!

Now, here is the conclusion I want to pull out from these stories. Once again, far more people have stuck by my side as I went through the process of learning to walk again, cheerleading me all the way. Though I was left behind a few painful and memorable times, the patient and loving people who walked slow beside me helped me continue to move forward. Not one of them shamed me for walking slow. Really—who would do that to someone who obviously has a physical disability? Yet, we (me included) leave many behind who are struggling on the inside. Their challenges are not obvious, so we don’t have as much easy compassion. We get frustrated because they aren’t healing fast enough. Maybe we think they aren’t trying hard enough. Whether this is due to learning disabilities, childhood abuse, the struggle of coming out of an addiction, or persistent depressive feelings of grief, we need to walk slow beside each other no matter what healing process is going on, whether it is internal or external.

I don’t want to miss out on anything God has for me or for my friends. Instead of jumping into this new year, how about we take things slow? Let’s go into it together.