As a man with
Cerebral Palsy (CP), I absolutely love this. It speaks to me in so many ways
that only few could ever understand. Yet, while my case of CP is mild, you
wouldn't believe how profoundly connected I feel to those that are living a
life very different than my own; they possess a tenacity—a strength—which
enables them to live life in a way that I never will know.
Today, I remember
Melissa, who also has CP. We met in 2005; she was a smiling nine year old girl
that found immense joy in filling the pages of her coloring books (even if she
couldn’t stay within the lines). When I became her hospital roommate at
Shriner’s Hospital for Children, I was eleven years old and had just undergone
my second surgical procedure.
I didn’t get to know
Melissa right away, as I spent the majority of the day visiting with family
members who had come to see me. They brought balloons, food, books, and movies
in an effort to cheer me up despite the pain I experienced following the
procedure. However, as my side of the room filled with gifts, I felt guilty as
I glanced over to Melissa’s side—which was empty with the exception of a
stuffed teddy bear in a nearby chair. As the day came to a close, my family
would leave and Melissa and I would be left alone.
As the darkness of
night would enter our room, I would begin reading a Scooby-Doo book my
grandmother had brought me. I always loved Scooby-Doo, despite how repetitive
the stories were. Just as the Mystery Gang was about to unmask another
evil-doer, a small voice from the other side of the butterfly-covered curtains
interrupted the moment.
“Kyle, how old are
you?”
Melissa had broken
the silence. I told her I was eleven.
“Do you like sports?”
“Yes, baseball is my favorite.
Do you have a favorite?”
“Yeah, I like
dancing.”
I asked Melissa if
she was a dancer. There was a moment of silence before she spoke again.
“No, I can’t use my legs.” She replied with sadness weighing
down on her voice.
I asked her if she
used braces like I did, as they improved my ability to walk by improving my
range of motion. She was silent a moment more, then replied,
“I won’t ever be able
to stand up or walk.”
I felt sad; all I
could tell her was that I was sorry. A minute or so passed, and then she asked
me another question.
“Kyle, what’s it like
to walk?”
I thought about how to answer the question. I had
been walking since I was two years old and I didn’t know how to describe it.
The more I thought of how I could answer her, the more I grew frustrated with
myself.
Tears began to fill my eyes. “I don’t know how to
explain it.”
“That’s okay; nobody I ask really knows either.”
Then the nurse walked in and told us that it was
time for bed, opened the curtains that separated us, and turned off the light
with a flick of his wrist. The room went dark—which was comforting. I didn’t
want Melissa to see that the tears had broken away and began streaming down my
face as—one by one—they would begin to blotch the little brown bears of my hospital
gown.
“Goodnight Kyle.”
I mustered up what strength I could to reply.
“Goodnight Melissa…”
The next morning, I woke to find Melissa had
switched rooms. I felt bad and poked at my breakfast alone. I would never
forget the night before.
It was moments such as these that have contributed
to my own personal journey with Cerebral Palsy. Moments such as these which
have given me with the desire to serve as a Future Health Professional. Moments
such as these which have given me the experience to treasure what ability I
have each day.
I know you’ll never see
this Melissa, but I thank you.
