Damaged Upon Delivery : No refunds!
2-3 in every thousand.
Of those 2 to 3, I am in the small 30%.
That 30% whose lives were forever be marred by negligence.
Teetering a line between disabled and able.
Day by day, hour by hour, it can change.
Stretching just a little too far to make up for the difference in length can lead to a red hot blade being forced into my shoulder, a pain of the nerves that doesn't stop.
All to make up for a few inches.
People you know for years, who forget you are deformed, ask for your help with things over your head so you stretch onto your tip toes amd arch your back to make it work. You can pass off as able bodied, but other days you can't.
I am in the 30%, of the 2-3 in a thousand.
The small percentage that doesn't heal over time,
The small group who needs at least one surgery to hopefully live a normal life.
The few babies who grow up with permanent damage from an injury sustained at birth.
There are times I wish my surgery didn't work. Times i wish my arm only hung limply at my side, and nothing more. So I wouldn't have to try so hard to seem normal. I wouldn't work myself into a fit of pain just to live.
Maybe then people would bute their tongues instead of saying,
"If you think you're hurting now, just wait until you're old and broken."
I used to be so mad at my mom for not pushing hard enough to get a cesarean. Maybe if she had tried harder, I would have been perfectly healthy. Instead, I'm a *mostly* one armed wonder.
I hold no hate in my heart for her.
She did the best with the information she had.
She raised me to be strong, resilient.
Whole.
What she wasn't aware of was the pain.
The doctors assured her repeatedly that I wasn't.
They didn't know, because they wouldn't ask. And when they did they didn't believe me.
I was 16 when the doctor said,
"If you believe in Jesus, when you die he'll fix you, in his perfect image."
At 24,
I believe in myself, for I am my own perfect image of imperfection. Some days are harder than others.
Some days I wish I had only 1 arm.
But, I truly believe that I was given those odds to remind myself to take things slow. To enjoy life in the moment, because one day, however far away it may be, I will lose what little I have. The pain will be a distant memory. The cruel insults from kids on the playground will be a memory of the best times I had with my disability.
We are given the shit end of the stick for a reason, at times. And everyday I strive to find my reason.
Maybe my reason is writing this. So someone in my situation can find the truth in the chaotic writings above, and find some part of themselves in my struggles.
