This past weekend, my son and I stayed at my boyfriend’s house.
We arrived Thursday night after some moonlight madness shopping, and then drove down to his house for an activity I’d signed my son up for the following morning.
The boyfriend and I have been dating nearly two years now, and he has come a long way as far as being a part of our world. Dating when you have a kid is a lot bigger than dating when you don’t. It can be a big challenge to take on a family unit; and my unit comes with my disability, my chatty child, and my very involved family. I also have three identical cats.
It used to be a lot for him, but he has really come into it in the last year.
For these reasons, staying over at boyfriend’s house is usually limited to one night a week or so. It can also be hard to coordinate around my son’s school and our work schedules. This weekend we just had a lot planned together. The activity day, a museum trip, shopping, boyfriend’s birthday party and it all amounted to four days away.
Now the other big issue that I haven’t mentioned is that when I am over at his house, I am fairly incapacitated. There are stairs to his front door, stairs to the living room and don’t even get me started on the bathroom.
Suffice to say, I can’t get into the house by myself, I can’t get into bed by myself, I can’t shower or even go to the bathroom by myself.
There’s no place like home really takes on a whole new meaning, doesn’t it?
Boyfriend is always unbelievably supportive in helping with my limitations, but being back at home I’ve definitely noticed how much I’ve taken for granted in the last couple years.
After getting pregnant in 2014, my body completely fell apart. My disability became stronger day by day, taking almost every independence I’d always had away from me. I used to be able to do so much more. I could even walk, albeit with a huge limp.
In the only eight months that I was able to carry that pregnancy, I had lost almost all of my physical capabilities. I couldn’t dress myself, feed myself, or even sit up unsupported. I used to spend my days parked in front of my laptop at the kitchen table with my feet up. I’d have my snacks within reach, and my spillproof water cup rationed so I didn’t need the bathroom before my ex-husband got home eight hours later.
I remember after my perfect son was born, I had to be flown home because the doctors were so worried about my condition. I was sent on the tiny plane alone, needing to be carried in and out of my seats by total strangers.
I remember doctors telling me that my body would not ever get any better, and that I should continue to do physiotherapy ‘if I thought it would help’.
I was terrified. Feeling so low; a brand-new mom who couldn’t even hold her own son.
If my arm fell off my lap, I could not lift it back up. If I had an itch anywhere, I could not scratch it. I remember the days when the thing I wanted most in the world was to hold my son, to change his diapers, give him bottles and be his mom. I wanted to just be able to slide my body onto the toilet and go to the bathroom whenever I wanted too. Such little, simple dreams, but so far away for me.
Well now when I look at my life and see all the feats I barley dared to dream of a part of my every day. Eight years later, I’ve been fighting my uphill battle. I live in my own home, unaided by home care attendants. I can get dressed, shower, cook, clean, stand, and even taking a few shaky steps alongside my parallel bars.
Some days I feel so empowered and strong, other days I feel weak and terrified. It is so amazing for me to have been at boyfriend’s house, feeing stuck in my own body, reflecting on my limitations and to just see how far I’ve come.
My independence has been a long, hard-fought road. And though I am nowhere near where I would like to be physically, this weekend has reminded me how lucky I truly am. This weekend gave me a real look at how strong I really am to have come from all that.
