The Privileged Kid

by Jelena, Age 6 (CEO of Lopsided Legs and Sarcastic Remarks)

Before I got paralyzed, I was normal.

Well, as normal as a baby who poops in sparkly onesies can be.

I was healthy. Loud. Probably very annoying in a cute way. I’ve seen the pictures. I had fat cheeks and a smug little smirk like I was planning world domination from the crib.

Suddenly - boom.

Vaccine.

One little jab at six months old. One tiny pinch. Standard procedure, they said. That day - everything changed.

I don’t remember it, obviously. I was too busy chewing on my own foot or whatever babies do. But my mom? She remembers. And every time she talks about it, her eyes get that shiny, stormy look. Like she wants to punch the whole world in the face but can’t decide where to start.

They said it was a “bad reaction.”

I say it was a bad decision.

They said it was rare.

I say, lucky me - I’m always extra.

Anyway. That’s how I got childhood paralysis. Just like that. Poof! Congratulations, your legs now work about as well as wet spaghetti. Good luck to do anything with them.

So now I live in the hospital.

At least, I think I do. I mean, I have a house somewhere, but I barely see it. The hospital is my castle. My prison. My weird-smelling spaceship. Depends on the day.

I don’t go to school. School is what kids in books talk about. I don’t even really know what “recess” is, but I think it involves running and screaming and not being hooked up to machines.

My classroom is a hospital bed with buttons that make it go vrrrr if I’m bored.

My classmates are nurses and garbage bins with wheels.

My best friend? A raccoon-shaped stuffed toy someone gave me. I named him Garbage. He’s my lawyer now. He specializes in medical injustice and snack negotiations.

The doctors said I had a 1% chance of ever walking again.

ONE. PERCENT.

Even I know that’s not a lot, and I can’t even do multiplication yet.

Mom cried. A lot. She tried to hide it behind the curtain, but I could hear her sniffing like a leaky faucet.

Dad clenched his teeth so hard I thought his face might break.

They looked at me like I was going to disappear.

So I decided not to.

Instead, I became... privileged.

That’s the word I chose. Not “sick.” Not “disabled.” Not “tragic.”

Privileged.

It sounds fancy. Like royalty. Like maybe I get a throne and a crown and extra pudding cups.

(Still waiting on the pudding, by the way.)

Being in a hospital 24/7 means you get real creative.

I invented a game called Spot the Whisper. That’s where I listen to all the nurses talking outside my door like I’m deaf and clueless.

“She’s got such a strong little spirit.”

“Poor thing, she doesn’t even know.”

“She used to be completely healthy, can you believe that?”

Yes, I can believe it, Susan. I was there. Sort of. Half-conscious, but still present.

Another game I play is called Brace Yourself — it’s when I try to put on my leg brace without screaming loud enough to summon Satan. It never get easy.

And then there’s IV Olympics, which is basically me trying to beat the machine's beeping by pretending it's a race.

I always win.

No price dough.

Sometimes new nurses come in and talk to me like I’m made of wet tissue paper.

“You’re so brave, Jelena,” they say.

No, I’m not. I’m just stuck here. I didn’t choose this. If I had a choice, I’d be running around throwing pinecones at my sister instead of doing stretches that make my knees cry.

Speaking of my sister - she's the normal one. Older. Taller. Doesn’t squeak when she walks.

She visits sometimes and says things like, “It smells like a foot in here,” and I say, “That’s just hope dying slowly.”

She doesn’t get my jokes. But Garbage does.

She walks without thinking about it. Without pain. Without needing someone to help her out of bed or carry her to the bathroom. Sometimes I watch her just exist and I get mad at her bones.

But I still love her.

I think.

Most days.

Walking isn’t just walking anymore.

It’s a war.

Every move I make is a tiny revolution.

I wiggle a toe? That’s a headline.

I bend my knee without crying? Nobel Prize.

I stand up with help? Parade, confetti, and a cake made of mashed potatoes.

It hurts. A lot. My muscles scream. My brain screams louder. But I don’t give up.

Because Mom’s not crying as much these days.

Because Dad's starting to smile again, even if it's crooked.

Because I still want to learn to run — not away from this, but toward everything I was supposed to have.

I may never be fast. Or smooth. Or graceful.

But I will walk.

I will dance.

I will definitely kick my sister in the shin and blame it on my “unpredictable leg.”

And when I do?

I’ll call it justice.

So yeah.

Maybe a vaccine took my legs out of commission. Not in some heroic, save-the-world kind of way.

More like a cosmic joke with the punchline whispered through gritted teeth and fluorescent lighting.

Maybe I lost a “normal” childhood. Whatever that even means. Playgrounds got swapped for hospital beds. My jungle gym became a maze of IV poles and beeping monitors. Instead of birthday parties and soccer games, I got a front-row seat to whispered conversations outside my door and doctors talking like I was already halfway to ghost.

And a stuffed raccoon with judgmental button eyes. Don’t get me started on him. He saw everything. Every tear, every curse word I learned too young, every moment I pretended I wasn’t scared.

But here’s the thing.

I also got perspective.

The kind you can’t fake, and definitely can’t buy.

I got fight.

Not the kind that makes movie montages — the kind that’s ugly and slow and stubborn. The kind where you drag your body forward even when it hates you for it.

I got sarcasm sharper than my IV needle.

And if you’ve ever met an IV needle, you know that’s saying something. Humor became my armor, my weapon, my translator when adults forgot how to talk to kids without pity dripping off every syllable.

And best of all — I got stories.

Real ones. Messy, loud, weird ones that don’t tie up neatly with a Hallmark bow.

Stories that scream and bite and bleed a little. Stories that end with “...and then I kept going,” because that’s what I did.

Because here’s a spoiler: everything’s not fine.

It’s not a linear arc. It’s a maze with no map and a sarcastic raccoon for a tour guide.

But I’m still here.

Still stubborn. Still sarcastic. Still privileged — in the messed-up, beautiful, bittersweet way that surviving makes you.

And if, one day, you’re wandering some sterile hallway and you hear the uneven rhythm of footsteps - soft-slap, hard-thunk, soft-slap - don’t worry.

That’s just me.

Plotting my comeback.

One squeaky step at a time.

And trust me - I make every one of them count.