Beginning to End

What happened?

That’s the thing with a visible disability. People are never interested in present you, it’s always past you that gets the airtime. Your story always starts at the hiccup that changed the course of your life, stuck in post-accident purgatory. People define you by that single day, that past you, and all the thousands of choices that followed, what you made with the hand you’ve been dealt, the present you, that all pales in comparison with the big question.

What happened?

Yeah, nah.

That’s not me.

#

The Beginning...

“Can you feel that?” the doctor asks, touching his pen to the underside of my foot.

I nod.

He glances at me, his thick eyebrows creeping into a frown. “You can feel that?” he asks again, pressing in a different spot.

I nod.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

A nurse clatters down the corridor, wheeling a trolley with a squeaking wheel. I’m nine years old and it’s one-thirty in the morning. I’ve had a big day.

I just want to go home.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Tell me when I’m touching you.”

The pen moves.

“Now.”

The pen moves again.

“Now.”

He holds my gaze. “Only tell me if you can feel it,” he says.

I nod.

The pen moves.

“Now.”

Pen.

“Now.”

He pauses. “Tell me when you feel the pen touch your foot,” he says.

I have been telling him when it touches my foot. I’m not sure what more he wants.

The pen moves.

“Now.”

“Close your eyes.”

I lie there and wait for the pen to touch. I wait. And wait. The time stretches on, and I wonder why the doctor is waiting.

Beside me, I hear the crinkle of Dad’s suit as he shuffles in his chair. And the muffled sobs of my mum as she begins to cry.

The doctor clears his throat. “The news isn’t great,” he says.

#

The End...

I crouch on the ice, hands resting on my knees, head bowed, waiting for the music to start. Beside me Ally hiccups, which then escalates into a nervous giggle.

“We’ve got this, queen,” I whisper.

To be honest, I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince because it will be a bloody miracle if we don’t all break a femur in the pinwheel. The crowd cheers and I swallow, focusing on clearing my mind. They’re cheering for us.

I wiggle my toes in my skates, but only one foot complies. On the first beats of the music, the ice crunches under my blade as I push off, gliding, hands raised, head high.

Visible. Seen. Worthy.

I lean and tighten my curve, spiraling it smaller and smaller until I’m meant to feel it start to spin. I don’t feel anything. I never do. But I push down through the ball of my foot and straighten my knee anyway. I don’t need to feel it to know what to do.

The spin starts, it’s centered and well balanced and I pull in my arms, increasing my speed. I can hear the blades of my teammates swishing as they spin beside me.

The music blares. The competition has begun.

We’re doing this.

#

Sitting here, on the beach under an umbrella, my leg wrapped in a black garbage bag like some homemade solar oven, watching my cousins swim and play, run, it’s hard. Like proper hard. But that's life now, one hard thing after another. Endless disappointments.

A pretty shell lies on the sand beside me, crisp and white in the sunshine. I poke at the sand under it with one of my crutches, leaving it teetering on the precipice of the hollow. The shell tumbles in and I push sand over it, burying it.

“Sux to be in a cast for summer,” Vic, my older cousin, says, flopping into the sand next to me. He hands me a biscuit, contraband stolen from my aunt’s chilly bin, and I gratefully accept.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Must be itchy,” Vic says, nodding at my leg.

“Yeah,” I say again.

It’s not itchy though. I wish it was itchy. I’d give anything to be desperate for the sweet relief of a coat hanger. But I’ve got nothing. Nothing at all.

I try to wiggle my toes in my cast and imagine they’re moving inside the black rubbish bag.

Even I don’t believe the lie.

I poke at the sand again, searching for the shell and I try on the doctor’s words in my mind.

Nerve damage.

Loss of use.

Permanent.

#

“Waltz jumps, today,” the coach says to our group. I’ve moved up a class, and the caliber is scary.

“A waltz jump?” I try to keep my voice neutral and fail.

The coach laughs. “A waltz jump, not a triple axel, Beth.”

It might as well be.

I move away so I don’t take anyone out when I fall. The noises of my group aren’t exactly reassuring. There’s scraping of toe picks, thumping of blades, swishing as skaters skid across the ice on their backs.

The coach sees me dithering and skates over, his eyes kind under his cap. “Any new jump is scary at first.”

It’s true. I am scared. But it’s not the jump that’s scaring me. I’m scared this might be the point where my disability catches up with me.

“Just give it a go,” he prompts. “Don’t overthink it.”

I close my eyes and suck in a breath. I have a choice here. Try and maybe fail.

Or don’t try and don’t succeed. I’ve made this choice already, and I push off.

Cross, mohawk, jump.

It’s terrifying.

I land surprisingly successfully on my good leg, but a nanosecond later, my bad leg flails around and kicks out the blade of my other foot.

I am the only person I know who can kick out their own skates from under them. It’s like my own special superpower.

The ice is hard. My hip hurts. And my elbow. God, I think I might have broken my tail bone. Imagine that. Beth Jackson breaking her tail bone ice skating.

It’s delicious.

I look up at the coach. He’s smiling.

“Your jump was great,” he says, then shrugs. “The landing needs some work.”

I roll onto my back.

Again.

#

“Hey Beth,” the physio says, her face kind and smiling. “How are you feeling today?”

“Fine.”

“Let’s start with the wobble board,” she says, and I stifle a groan.

Still, the wobble board is better than the tens machine. Anything is better than that.

She must sense my pause because she adds, “You’re doing really well, Beth. Your hard work is paying off.”

The physio is kind. I wonder if it’s because of the jagged scar on her face. She might be a person who knows about relentless questions and sticking out. 

“Right, wobble board,” she says, directing me to the bar on the wall and wobbly round disc on the floor.

I step on with my good leg, but I can’t balance on my bad leg to get on it and I fall off. I try getting on with my bad leg while balancing on my good leg, but I can’t even get close to stepping on that way. Back to the good leg first.

I fall off.

Bad leg.

Fall.

Good.

Fall.

Bad.

Fall.

The tears prick in my eyes, and I suck in a deep breath. I can’t even get on the stupid thing.

“Use the bar to get on,” she prompts, her voice gentle, giving me space to figure it out.

I grab the bar and leap, pull, flail in one ungainly move and then there I am on top of the wobble board.

I crack a smile. And I almost have time to catch her eye and grin before I fall off.

“Better,” she says.

I move to sit down on the bed, but she frowns.

“Oh no, that’s not it, Beth. Again.”

“But—”

She nods at my crutches, points at the brace on my leg. “You wanna get rid of that, Beth?” she asks.

I nod.

“Well, again then.”

I pause, thinking of the man in the black suit with the shiny shoes, and all he had to say. “I didn’t think I could.”

“Couldn't what?”

“Get rid of my brace.”

She freezes, her eyes flashing. “Who said that?”

“The doctor man. The surgeon.”

“Well, he doesn’t know everything,” she says, her voice thick. “He doesn’t know you. Or us. Or what we’re doing here.”

She points at the wobble board. “Again.”

#

The kids are in bed when I drag out the wobble board, giving it a person sized radius of space around it in the lounge.

“If you want to learn to jump, you'll need to improve your balance,” the coach said to me in class earlier today.

So here I am, thirty years later, standing in front of the bastard thing again. Hello old friend.

I glimpse myself reflected in the ranchslider. No crutches, no splints, not even a brace and I’m doing off ice training. Hoping to move up into the group that does competitions.

Yeah, go queen.

I close my eyes and quiet my mind, it would be easy to drown in the emotion of this moment.

But I don’t.

I leave thirty years of trauma behind, and I step onto the wobble board, good leg first, then the bad one.

And I stand there.

And once I’m settled, I slowly lift a leg, until I catch a sight of myself, standing there, on the wobble board, on one foot, the foot the medical profession deemed useless, beyond hope.

Slay queen, slay.

#

I lean against the windowsill, face pressed against the glass, watching the kids play outside. The sun’s come out now, but everything is still wet from the earlier rain. I press my finger on the glass, covering a droplet of water on the other side. It moves, meandering down the window, dragging down other drops in its wake.

One kid kicks a ball and half the group cheer, the others trundle back into the middle of the yard. We’re at a family reunion. It’s insufferable. Conversations stop every time I click-thump into a room.

Someone else has the ball now. The kids are running, chasing, squabbling. I can’t quite remember how those games go. The kids just seem to know. Who’s winning, who’s on your team, which leg to kick with, how to run, how to walk.

I shuffle on the ledge and my crutch falls to the ground, clattering in the emptiness of the room. Outside, the kids cheer again, someone’s scored a goal. Run, jump, kick, cartwheel.

I try to wiggle my toes. Stupid, useless toes. Lift my foot. Stupid, useless foot. Move. Do it. Everyone else can.

I bite down on my jealousy. Dumb, stupid, useless leg. My cousins are outside, playing and learning cartwheels, and here I am learning to walk.

Or not learning to walk.

“You okay in here?” Mum asks, appearing in the doorway.

“Just reading,” I say.

Mum nods, her gaze drift to the kids out the window. “Are they including you?”

“I’m fine.”

She bristles. “I’ll talk to them.”

“No Mum, it’s fine.”

The fact is, they are including me. Everyone always includes. Every time I turn up, they bend over backwards to change their game so I can join in. They’re lovely, kind, they never complain, never make it seem like a hassle.

It’s exhausting.

Being responsible for spoiling all their fun.

Mum stares out the window some more. “Anna’s out there, she’s on crutches, too.”

I want to tell Mum that six weeks from now, Anna’s broken ankle will be all healed. That she won’t have to go to physio three times a week for a year, to still be on crutches and not walking. That it’s not the same. But she looks at me with such desperation, such fear and sadness in her eyes that I can’t do it.

“Cool, I’ll go play with them, Mum.”

And pick up my crutch off the floor and click-thump outside to spoil some fun.

#

Ice rinks are surprisingly cold. I didn’t notice last time, but standing here, beside the ice, waiting for my first lesson to begin, the cold creeps around me.

“My toes are cold,” a lady says, jiggling her feet a little.

“Same,” I say, although only some of my toes feel cold. “I’m Beth.”

She smiles. “Ally.”

“It’s my first lesson,” I say.

“Same,” she says. “I’ve always wanted to learn.” She shrugs. “Figured now was as good a time as any.”

I nod. “I’ve always wanted to learn, too.”

And I’ve had quite a journey to be here.

The coach arrives wearing a red cap and a red jacket with COACH on the back.

“We’re going to start with a quick lesson on how to fall over,” he says.

Seems a little harsh, but fair.

“Actually, falling over isn’t too tricky when you’re starting.” He laughs. “It’s the getting up again that we really need to learn how to do.”

Well, isn’t that a metaphor for life?

#

The End of the Beginning...

I’m sweating. My shirt is sticking to my back and my blood roars in my ears. Thump, thump, thump. The nausea rises. I’m losing control. I want to collapse on the ground, crumple into a ball and admit defeat. My mind screams I’m walking on a leg that isn’t there and the ensuing sense of horror is all-consuming.

But my leg isn’t missing, it’s still there, it’s just useless.

I take another step.

Although it’s getting less useless, despite what the surgeons had to say.

“You’ve got this, keep going,” the physio says.

I take another step. And another.

And another, but my leg collapses and I fall onto a crumpled heap on the ground. I roll onto my back and lie there, looking up at the ceiling, panting.

“Five,” I say.

“Well done,” the physio replies.

I close my eyes, but the tears seep out anyway. I want to be proud, relish in my victory, but it feels so hollow. The fear inches across my chest, curling around my throat and I swallow. What if this is as good as it gets? What if I never do more than this?

What if I've peaked at five steps?

The physio nudges me with her foot. “Get up, we’re not done yet.”

I sit up and stare at her. “I just walked five steps,” I say.

“Yes, you’re very clever. Now get up.”

I get to my feet without a crutch or brace and lift my chin.

She nods. “Again.”

I think of the doctor, sitting me on his bed, describing a bleak future for me. Yeah, nah. That’s not me.

I step forward.

#

A group of teenagers play on the ice, their blades zing, zinging, as they rush each other and stop. Fast. Showering a spray of ice over their mates and the glass in front of me.

They disappear into the crowd, skating off to another corner of the rink. The ice turns to water on the glass, one fat droplet meandering down, catching others in its wake. I trail my finger over it.

“Come get on the ice, Mum,” my daughter says, teetering on the ice, face pressed against the glass. “It’s fun.”

“I can’t,” I say.

“Why?” She does her little jiggle dance, the one she does when she really wants something. She’s nine years old and hilarious.

“Cos I had an accident when I was about your age,” I say. “My leg doesn’t work well enough to skate.”

She stares at me for a moment. “You look good enough to me,” she says and skates off, sliding and thumping with all the grace of a baby rhinoceros, to join her friends.

I’d love to skate like a baby rhinoceros.

Her words linger after she’s gone, “You look good enough to me”. Kids are funny like that, seeing us for what we are instead of what we’re not.

It’s not much, but I feel it, this pivotal choice, this moment that changes everything. Isn’t life just the sum total of our small choices, and so I choose.

You look good enough to me.

And I am good enough.

It takes me ten minutes to figure out how to get the skates on. And another five, hesitating at the gate. I lift my left leg, balancing on my good one, and I close my eyes, centering myself, tuning out the roaring wave of self-doubt.

And very carefully, very slowly, place my left foot on the ice. It makes the first step on this journey. Out of necessity, to be honest, rather than some poetic metaphor. But still, it’s a little satisfying it takes the first step of the beginning of the end.

And then I’m there, joining this new world.

I shuffle along, gripping the wall with both hands, teeth clenched, sweating, panting. Terrified. And bit by bit, I inch around the rink. One foot in front of the other. The buckles click on one of my skates and the other thumps as I put it down flat-footed. It makes a familiar sound.

Click-thump.

Click-thump.

Click-thump.

But this time, I'm on the other side of the glass.

With everyone else. Thumping around like a baby rhinoceros.

I've chosen to try, and maybe fail, but try none the less.

Because past me, on the other side of the glass,

yeah, nah, that’s not me.