THE MEANING OF (MY) LIFE: OR, THAT CHICK’S GOT CRIP CRED OUT THE YIN-YANG

Earthbound Tomboy

By Heidi Johnson-Wright

I’m ecstatic, ebullient. Over the moon.   My mind is blown and my heart is a-flutter.

You see, I’ve had an epiphany of Biblical proportions. I have discovered the meaning of life, or rather the meaning of my life.  And I didn’t have to go to an ashram in India to do it. It simply came to me out of the blue.

I now understand why I was put on this Earth, and it’s not about my own personal journey of self-discovery or growth. In fact, it’s not about me at all.

I exist solely to make non-crips feel good about themselves.

That’s right: the purpose of my existence is to reassure those who don’t (yet) use canes, crutches or wheelchairs to get around.

Why, you might ask, do those folks – the ones who don’t move through the world in gimpy fashion – need reassurance?

I’ll tell you: when you can get out of bed in the morning without pain and go about your day without restrictions in movement, it’s pretty dang scary.

I mean, who wouldn’t be rattled by having no worries about whether your caregiver will show up on time because you don’t need a caregiver at all? Putting on your own clothes and making your own breakfast is stressful. Not having to rely on para-transit to get you to work on time is nerve-wracking.

OK, I’m just going to say it: non-gimps have a pretty crappy life.

But, see, that’s where I come in. I am absolutely, positively, undeniably disabled. For one thing, I use a power wheelchair for mobility. And on the rare occasions that I stand up and take a few steps on my own two feet, ain’t nobody gonna mistake me for an Olympic athlete.

In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to someday overhear someone whisper: “Say what you want to about Heidi, but that chick’s got crip cred out the yin-yang.”

Clearly, my life’s purpose is not to be a valued, autonomous human being with my own meaningful existence. No sir. I was conceived, raised and put out into the world to serve as an example of what NOT to be. Of what to be thankful that you’re not. A sort of goofus gimpy human being to serve as a foil for the non-gimpy gallant ones.

I’m a living embodiment of the tried-and-true bromide: “I was sad that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.” (In this case, I’m the one who has no feet. Except in reality, I do have feet, though they’re mangled and pretty messed up.)

Imagine, a half-century I’ve spent contemplating the purpose of my existence. All the wisdom I’ve sought from the teachings of philosophers and sages. Countless hours of ruminating.

All along the answer was to be found in the pity-filled gazes of non-gimps not-so-secretly grateful that they’re not me.

Thank you ever so much, all you graceful-gaited, altruistic non-gimps.

Without you, I would be nothing.