Invisible

I'm 23 years old. On my 23rd birthday I was still 40-lbs swollen, still on the renal diet, still convinced that I'd be back at school in a few more days, and still unaware of what it's like to be sick long term. But I had tickets to Wicked; tickets lovingly given to me as a Christmas present the year before, tickets that were so good I felt like it was worth it to be nauseous and in pain so I could share those 3 hours with my best friend, my mom and my cousin. It was SO worth it. Smuggling instant ice packs into the theater was easier than I thought, and my steady stream of painkillers didn't detract from the awesomeness that was our seats.

But the other best part of that day? We bought a cane. A standard CVS black metal cane, with the funny S-curve at the top with a foam handle. I wanted it because, and I quote "I'd rather have people know that I'm sick than just think I'm a fat girl who walks slow." It was one of the best $20 I think my mom has spent on me in the last 3 months. Except maybe that time she let me eat french toast with real butter at Coco's--that was a good meal. Anyway, the cane has been used every day I was able to walk of the last few months, making possible a lot of things that I would continue to avoid---like, say, leaving the house.

You see, for me, the cane is a sign of my increased mobility, the sign that I'm getting better. The older people who look at me with what seems like a mixture of pity and relief that it's not them, always seem sad that I'm walking with a cane. People my age look down or away, anywhere but at my face--seemingly afraid that they'll see themselves mirrored in whatever it is that makes me weak. One of my Young Life girls, on a day when I needed the wheelchair, told me "I usually feel uncomfortable around people in wheelchairs, but with you, I'm just glad you're able to be here." A part of me is glad that I have the cane, that people don't bump into me and are sometimes surprisingly kind in opening doors or offering to help. I love that people ask if they can hug me and are wary of giving me their germs. But a very big part is waiting for a time when I can blend in again, when I'm strong enough to walk quickly without the cane, when my mom doesn't have to haul our rented wheelchair around in the back of her SUV in case I have a bad day.

My physical therapists keep reminding me that I'm getting so much better. They rave about my ability to do 2 lb arm curls or 10 lb leg presses. Every minute I can do on the stationary bike is a tired, sweaty accomplishment that merits ultrasound massages, heating pads and ice packs. I'm strong enough now that there have been times when I barely leaned on my cane. Of course, there have also been moments of intense pain where I lean heavily on it, thanking God for metal stability.

The cane makes me visibly different. My mom has mentioned that she thinks most people look at me and assume I've been in an accident. When I went to church last week 4 different people came up and asked me how my foot was. "My foot?" I said "Oh, right, the cane. Actually, I experienced kidney failure a couple of months ago and I'm still really weak." The look of shock on person #1's face helped me tone it down for the next few people. I was a bit sad that people at my home church had only the glimpse of me hobbling around weeks earlier to know I was ill, when churches around the world have been praying for me by name. But then, my personality does not lend itself to asking for help; I barely let my parents help me when I collapse or have to crawl up the stairs. The cane, my constant companion, has taken away my invisibility and has grouped me in with the disabled.

At 23, I'm not giving up without a fight. I've stubbornly resisted going through the DMV rigamarole of getting a Handicapped Parking Pass. I'm rationing my energy better, choosing to save my energy for class and physical therapy, doctor's appointments and blood tests. Lord willing, I should be walking without my cane soon. I'm looking forward to a world without my cane. It's been a perfect crutch for the last 3 months, but I like dreaming of the day when I can move it to the back of my closet and not bring it out again for another 60-odd years.