When I think of space, I think of Ender’s Game where Ender’s greatest strength was that he could see all the possibilities of zero gravity. He looked at space and realized there is no “up”. Recently, I’ve been following Commander Chris Hadfield’s journey, and I’ve been looking at space, wondering if there is no disability. This is way oversimplified and the answer is yes, there is still disability, but like everything else in space, it’s different. Legs are for walking. Or running, jumping, climbing. Locomotion. But the thing is, legs evolved on a world with gravity. So when you get into orbit, legs, while not exactly useless, are certainly not going to be fulfilling their original job description. Hence the reason Lois McMaster Bujold introduced the concept of “quaddies”, genetically constructed humans with four arms, who were designed specifically to live and work in zero gravity. Because an extra pair of arms seems a lot more useful in space than legs.

Now, Bujold writes science fiction, so I couldn’t trade my legs in for another set of arms even if I wanted to, but it does make me think

of zero gravity as an equalizer for paraplegics. It won’t matter if our legs don’t work because we wouldn’t need them all that much anyway. The only problem I can see is floating legs. I don’t have the muscles that keep my legs straight and together, so when I swim, they float every which way. Kind of amusing to watch, kind of annoying to swim with. And I imagine the same problem of weightless, uncontrolled limbs would crop up in zero gravity. I can just see myself typing away at some console and finding my foot brushing my ear. Though that’s easily fixed with a stick and some duct tape.

This is all a moot point because only the healthiest go to space right now, but we’re looking at a future where space travel will be as common as flights between continents are here on Earth. One day, people with disabilities could be astronauts.

And one of the things I find interesting is that the human body is not made for zero gravity, so even the most perfect specimens of humanity are at a disadvantage in space. They have to learn new movement patterns and develop different reflexes to cope and adapt to their new environment. Just like someone facing a disability for the first time. Maybe space programs should already be drawing from those of us with disabilities because we’re used to adapting to new circumstances and new ability.

I realize I’ve only explored a very narrow view of disability, namely lower body weakness, because that is what I’m most familiar with and what I’ve spent the most time speculating on. But there are hundreds of different disabilities out there that could also benefit from space travel, or be even more hindered by it. Let’s face it, quadriplegia is going to suck no matter what planet you’re on. Unless you find one where you can plug your brain into some kind of virtual reality. And I could see things like OCD or depression getting worse by being trapped in a box for six months.

Either way, I thought the concept was interesting and I’d love to explore more aspects of it. And now I think I’m going to have to write about a space cowboy with paraplegia because that is just too awesome to pass up.

Out of My Mind by Sharon M Draper Eleven year old Melody has never spoken a word. She has never been able to walk or dress or feed herself. But Melody has something to say and with the help of some loyal friends she’s finally going to say it.

This book was beautiful. And so so hard. Thanks go to my mom and my little sister for the recommendation. I really admire an author that can keep me that close to laughter or tears for page after page. Maybe if I keep reading books like this some of that perfection will rub off on me and infuse my own words.

I started this with the impression that it was going to be a happy story. I’ll warn you, it’s not. But it is real. I try not to spoil endings in my reviews, but I want to say that bad things happen. Humans can be awful. And sometimes we have to make our own sort of happy ending through all the crap. Sharon Draper recognizes this and doesn’t try to dip it in honey.

I did feel like the story started off slow. It took about ninety pages to establish Melody’s “ordinary world” before things started changing and she could start growing. Still, I was caught by Melody’s voice from her first words. She was brilliant and funny and courageous, and I even found myself wanting to be her at times. Every witty observation, every sharp retort made me appreciate the irony: I loved the voice of a character who couldn’t actually talk.

The same irony was woven through most of Melody’s struggles. She wants to be normal. She doesn’t want to be one of the “special ed” kids. But she also doesn’t want to be the star. She wants to fit in. She doesn’t want to look stupid. She wants the other kids to like her. What “normal” eleven year old hasn’t wished for all of these things? Melody had no idea just how relatable she really was.

My favorite aspect of this book was Melody’s role as an observer and how that changed through the story. She was the ultimate anthropologist, seeing and cataloging the people around her until she finally found the means to affect the world she had been studying. We watched her reach out to change the way people saw her, watched her learn there were some things she’d probably never be able to change. And in the end we watched her decide which was more important.

Last night I met with the local writing group at our library and as usual we shared our responses to a writing prompt. One of the things I find amazing about writers is how we can look at the same picture and all see something different. Our work reflects our senses of humor, our backgrounds, our writing styles. Each experience molds and shapes us as writers and only becomes obvious once our words are laid out on the page. So I thought I would share a couple pieces that came from the same inspiration. The picture was our prompt. The first response is mine, and the second, my sister, Arielle’s.

Alex shuffled her feet, heedless of the dew that soaked through her shoes as she made her way across the garden. Her throat burned as she fetched up against the side of the old wishing well, but she fought the tears with everything she’d gained from years of quiet perseverance.

Her fingers gripped the crumbling stone and she leaned over the still water as though she would leap into the depths. Her pale face stared up at her. She dropped a rock into the water, shattering her reflection the way Rob had shattered her that morning.

When the water smoothed, Alex gasped and jerked back. There were two reflections below her now.

She looked up at the figure beside her, only just stifling a scream. Her own face stared back at her, her own eyes slanted in satisfaction, and her own lips quirked in an unpleasant smile.

“What-?” Alex started. “Who are you?”

The other Alex cocked her head. “I am you,” she said. Her eyes narrowed. “The only you.”

She shoved Alex with a vicious grin and Alex stumbled back…over the low stone wall. And down, into the cold and damp.

Above her the other Alex laughed.

I have been many things, and I have been none of them. I’ve been you. When you smile, I smile. When you frown, I frown. When you talk to me, my lips move with yours. I see you, but you don’t see me. You look at me and see yourself. I am you, but only when you’re with me. When you leave, I cannot follow. I am left to wait for your return. Then silently I will show you yourself again. You will hate me for it. You will use me to make yourself better, but I will always tell you you’re not good enough. And you will never know I didn’t want to. It’s only what I was made for.

We both managed to turn out something fairly creepy (and to be fair, we are related, with similar backgrounds and influences), but there were other responses in our group that were amusing, nostalgic or passionate without the darker shading. I liked how some of us saw the girl looking in a mirror, and others saw her looking at her reflection in water. Some saw her as a tomboy, others thought she seemed fragile or abused.

At first, it may seem like there is only one truth here. There is a little girl, well dressed, looking down at her reflection. And this may be the one truth. But there are many stories.

Izzy, willy-nilly by Cynthia Voigt When Izzy loses her leg in a car accident with a drunk driver, she feels like she’s lost her whole life. Her friends can’t relate to her, and her family doesn’t understand what she’s going through. But when another outcast reaches out in friendship, Izzy learns that, despite everything, she hasn’t lost herself.

Plot wise this book was a little slow. Not a lot happened. And yet, I loved it. I loved Izzy’s journey, her realizations. I loved the way she learned more about herself and her relationships with her family and friends through her trials than she ever had before. Sometimes it’s only through struggle that we can really know ourselves.

Cynthia Voigt did a fantastic job portraying Izzy. So many of her feelings and her reactions echoed my own. And Izzy is a teenager, only fifteen, so she’s already a mess of uncertainties and crises. She’s still trying to learn who she is and who she wants to be when the process is interrupted by tragedy.

That was one of the things that made Izzy feel so real. Her emotions were not simple or straightforward. Most of the time, she didn’t know what she felt or thought, and that’s so true of life. What goes on in our heads is not black and white. I loved the line: “I was wishing I could leave the table, because – because my being there, in the family, was making demands, and they were acting like I wanted to make them or had no right to make them.” Voigt puts words to a feeling I’ve never been able to properly express. How do I give voice to such a confusing mix of emotions? Even when people try to anticipate your needs and accommodate them, or try to do something nice for you, you still feel like you’re in the way. Even when they’re nice about it and you know it’s no trouble to them, you still feel like you’re an imposition. And being an imposition is not a comfortable feeling.

Although, Izzy was really good at hiding what was going on inside. When someone asks “How are you?”, it’s so much easier to say “I’m fine”, even when you’re breaking up inside and absolutely nothing is right. And that’s where someone like fellow outcast, Rosamunde, makes all the difference. You need someone to counteract both extremes. Someone who won’t pretend that nothing has changed but also won’t coddle you. My someone wasn’t as perfectly tactless as Rosamunde, but he was a lifeline. He knew and acknowledged that my life had changed, and at the same time, he was there beside me the whole way.

Also, I thought Voigt had some interesting things to say on how disability can change the nature of friendships. In reality, disability makes most people uncomfortable on some level. I know. I used to be one of them. Being uncomfortable isn’t a crime, but the real friends are the ones who stick around despite the awkwardness. The ones who try to make the effort, and who occasionally screw up and say the wrong thing. I’ve realized how blessed I was during my recovery to have the friends I did. And do. Thanks guys.

When shadows creep and fall

Walk on, walk on

Against the wind and tide

Trudge on, trudge on

If you’re ever weak and lonely

Limp on, limp on

When darkness hides the light

Crawl on, crawl on

And the glow of hope is dim

Hold on, hold on

Or:

Why I Hate Have Extremely Mixed Feelings About Avatar

I’ve put off writing this post because I wasn’t sure I could put my thoughts (and my knee-jerk reactions) into words. But it’s been years now, and I still haven’t managed to sort it all out. So I’m going to go with what I have and see if I can’t find some clarity by the time we come out the other side. This post will contain spoilers for Avatar and The King’s Speech, so if you don’t know how those two movies end and the title of this post hasn’t already given the game away, then stop reading.

Characters need flaws in order to be interesting. They need challenges to face and overcome. This is a very basic concept of fiction and most authors who don’t get this usually don’t get past the submission process. Some have taken it to the next level and given their characters staggering physical challenges. But if that character is suddenly healed by the end of the story, somehow it feels like cheating. It feels like the author is saying, “You’ve got the strength and the skill to make it through, but if you want to stand on this pedestal and be called a hero, you have to look the part.”

I recognize this is not what they want to say or what most people see when they finish the book. I recognize some of my disgust comes from my own hang ups and insecurities. But that doesn’t change the fact that I finished watching Avatar and felt like James Cameron was telling me I couldn’t be a hero because I use a wheelchair. Jake chose the healthy, studly body over the broken one, and it made sense from a practical standpoint. But that put a twist on the ending. Jake ran away from harsh reality and was rewarded by getting to live a fantasy, and that left a sour taste in my mouth.

So my problem might have something to do with the way the healing is treated in the story. For example, there was no sour taste at the end of The King’s Speech. The whole movie was about King George fighting against and eventually managing his speech impediment. The resolution was triumphant instead of disappointing. I think it’s because he wasn’t “healed”. The problem or flaw didn’t go away entirely. He learned to work with it, speak around it. His reward was self-confidence and respect. Whereas in Avatar, Jake’s healing was more like a prize. “Yay, you saved the day! Here have this body. It’s bigger and better than the old one!”

Healing offered as a reward for a job well done seems like a slap in the face. As if all the growth and challenges the character went through don’t mean anything unless there’s a really spectacular prize at the end. Like legs that work. I guess that was the point I was looking for. Does the healing add breadth and depth to a character or is it more a convenience? You can tell which I prefer.

I wrote this to start a discussion because I feel like there could be a lot more sides to the issue. So what do you think about healing characters with disabilities?

One of my favorite things about using a wheelchair is flying down ramps, but I think I can safely say I will never be as brave as this guy. Aaron Fotheringham might be one of my new heroes. He's a 21 year-old wheelchair moto-cross athlete with spina bifida. I love the way he's made his own hybrid sport out of his disability. Aaron is known for landing the first wheelchair backflip and the first double backflip and now he tours the world, performing his gravity defying tricks and showing kids with disabilities that wheelchairs aren't limiting in the least.

He makes me feel less guilty about zipping around Costco as fast as I can and testing my braking distance around their corners. Note: super slick floors plus nice high pressure wheels equals lots of exciting sliding. I really liked what he had to say about changing the way people see wheelchairs. And how a wheelchair isn't part of you, it's just something you're riding. Like a bike. And bikes are fun, right?

Breath by Donna Jo Napoli

In a time of superstition, before modern medicine, Salz struggles to breathe. A strange disease leaves him weak and marked for death. Except… he hasn’t died. And when a plague of madness strikes his town, Salz is the only one left unscathed. But is this a blessing or a curse? Because with the reprieve comes suspicion. Is Salz the source of the plague? Or will he be the salvation of them all?

A good book makes me feel the whole gamut of emotions: joy, sorrow, anger, frustration, and shock. A great book does all that, but it also keeps me thinking long after I’ve turned the last past. Breath didn’t have the most engaging plotline or amazing characters, but it had some fascinating things to say about health and illness, disability and heroism, faith and hypocrisy.

I know Donna Jo Napoli for her fairytale re-tellings. I really liked Beast and I've got Sirena waiting on my to-read shelf. I'm a huge sucker for fairytales, so when I realized Breath was a retelling of The Pied Piper of Hamelin (one of the more chilling fairytales) and might possibly have something to do with the plague (a subject I find morbidly riveting), I grabbed it without a second thought. Then I realized I had a disability topic in my hands.

Salz suffered from Cystic Fibrosis, something that should have killed him long before, but among the medieval remedies his grandmother dosed him with were some potent pieces of wisdom which kept him alive. Someone suffering from Cystic Fibrosis today wouldn’t necessarily do a hand stand every time they start coughing, but the acrobatics helped Salz clear his lungs and breathe easier.

I loved how intertwined the perceptions of health and illness were in this book. Salz is sick. Really sick. Sick enough that everyone’s surprised he’s still alive and Salz himself hesitates to make plans for his future. His illness is met with derogatory reactions not unexpected in this time period. His family thinks he’s useless, his grandmother is the only one who shows any affection toward him, and when it comes down to a choice between Salz’s life or his older brother’s, his family chooses to throw him under the metaphorical bus without a second thought.

But in the end the Cystic Fibrosis protects him from the disease that ravages the rest of the town. It saves his life even as it threatens to kill him. And of course, being “healthy” puts him at risk again when the townspeople accuse him of being the source of the disease through witchcraft.

There was such an interesting give and take between being healthy and being sick. Salz’s weakness is what keeps him from leaving with the children when the piper demands his due, but it is what leaves him healthy enough to go after them. So the invalid becomes the hero. The line between disabled and enabled blurs.

I read this with the disability and illness themes in mind, but already, I know that it deserves a re-read. I want to go back and look at how Napoli handled faith and hypocrisy as well. I caught a glimpse of them out of the corner of my eye as I barreled through and I can't wait to revisit them.

I don't play sports and I'm not usually a fan of soccer, but I might become one now after watching this guy. Nico Calabria was born with one leg but that hasn't kept him from doing some amazing things. Things like climbing Mount Kilimanjaro when he was 13, talking about the experience on the Ellen DeGeneres Show, and having his incredible soccer goal go viral on youtube.com. Calabria plays on Concord-Carlisle High School's varsity team and it's a testament to his strength, determination, and skill that he holds his own side by side with able-bodied teammates. In an interview with CBS, Calabria talked about how he doesn't see himself as having a disability, only a challenge. And who doesn't face challenges in their life?

I think this attitude serves him well. Calabria sees himself clearly and isn't afraid to show it to the world. In grade school he left behind his prosthetic and went for the crutches instead. Not only was the prosthetic holding him back athletically, it also felt too much like trying to be normal, when Calabria knew he was anything but. That's a sentiment I can admire as an adult, but I know I didn't have that kind of strength and maturity at that age, so I'll just say "wow". I hope to see more of this kid in the future.

Another article on Calabria, if you're interested.

Embattled Hearts by J.M. Madden After returning from Iraq in a wheelchair, John is having trouble accepting his new limitations, especially since he has his eye on Shannon, the new receptionist at the agency. He suffers in silence, knowing he’s lost too much to be attractive to her. But John doesn’t know that Shannon has eyes of her own and is determined to prove he’s exactly the man she wants.

I came across The Embattled Road, prequel to Embattled Hearts, a couple weeks ago and fell in love with the premise. Unfortunately, I was disappointed by its execution. The novella felt like it had been slapped together and could have used a lot more editing before hitting shelves, but – and it’s a big but – it included the first chapter of Embattled Hearts. That one chapter convinced me I needed to give Madden one more chance.

In the end, I was glad I did.

I had a couple big problems with this book and by all rights they should have been big enough to ruin it for me. For example, I was really dissatisfied with John’s growth. I’m not a fan of characters who remain static through a book until three pages from the back cover they have some kind of huge turn around and suddenly they’ve solved their particular problem. I want to see change, I want to see them learning from their mistakes and maturing through the story. John just went in circles. One very, very, small circle.

Also, John’s emotional struggle with his disability seemed obvious and a little shallow. He worried about not being man enough for the woman he loved, not being able to come to her rescue. Completely understandable. These are feelings every disabled man would struggle with, I imagine. I’m not upset that Madden’s character felt something so cliché, I’m disappointed she didn’t explore anything deeper or more specific to John as a disabled veteran and the hero of the novel.

And yet…I loved this book. I really can’t explain it. I don’t know if it was the characters or the plot or even the writing. Maybe I fell in love with John despite his merry-go-round character arc. Maybe it was Shannon’s snark and the way she looked past John’s wheelchair to the man. I felt like the sex was more graphic than it needed to be, but I really liked that John’s sexuality was addressed and explored.

I guess I can’t figure out whether to recommend this one or not. I enjoyed it, but I recognize it had some issues. So, I don’t know. Don’t ask me!

It's been a while since I've posted a response to a writing prompt, and since I've got a new one in my portfolio, I figured I'd share it with y'all. I met with my local writer's group this week and we all wrote on the same subject: a picture of a man's feet in seriously beat up sneakers. Honestly, I had a hard time with it. Didn't find it as inspiring as I felt like I should have. But I pressed on and came out with something I actually kind of like. Not really sure where I was going with it, but the character seems really interesting.

I'm going to kill the next person who offers me a free meal. Just cause I like to breathe through my toes don't give you the right to think I live in a cardboard box behind the dumpster on Sixth Street. If I could afford those fancy loafers imprisoning your tootsies, I'd rip the toes off those too. I've got to have room to wiggle, got to feel the breeze airing out the spaces between my piggies. Got to evict the fungus before I start charging it rent.

Like I've said before, I can be resentful of the challenges prompts present, but I usually get something out of them. I learn something. I like to think that stretching my brain around problems like this on a regular basis will serve me well the next time I'm staring at my screen suffering from writer's block. If I can find words to write about old beat up shoes, a story that's been haunting me for years shouldn't be a problem, right?

Wow guys. I realized this week that this blog has been up for an entire year now. So I thought I should do something special to commemorate the occasion. Welcome to the first annual Best of the Year Awards where I share with you my favorite posts from the past twelve months. First up...

Best Writing Post:

• Runner up: What Now?  I still like to go back and read this one to remind myself why I write. It seems especially timely right now since there's a couple rejections sitting in my inbox.
• Favorite: Bow Chicka   I had so much fun writing this one. It may have been a bit of a rant but it's not my fault when people say stupid things.

Best Review Post:

• Runner up: Frohock's Mercy  Miserere was such an interesting book to review. Maybe because I felt like I learned more about the book while writing the post than I did the entire time I was reading it.
• Favorite: Dodging Monsters with the Leandros Brothers  Nightlife is still one of my favorite books and I had a lot of fun writing the review. It was also my very first, so it holds a special place in my heart.

Best Character Post:

• Runner up: Manic Mayhem with Miles  I always love reading about Miles and I'm not the only one. I thought it was fascinating to pick him apart as a character to figure out why he is so beloved.
• Favorite: Never the Same  Gen has meant a lot to me in my journey as a writer as well as someone with a disability, and I really enjoyed sharing his story with y'all.

Best Disability Post:

• Runner up: Who Let the Dogs Out? Come on. It's about Jonas. Need I say more?
• Favorite: Living Not Waiting  I realize that not everyone shares my coping techniques but this one is important to me. Finding others who felt the same was a blessing.

I started this blog not really knowing what to expect, but I've really enjoyed the process. I love writing about books and disability and I've really appreciated the challenge of posting weekly. Maybe one of these days I'll step out of my comfort zone and post more than that.

These are just some of my favorite posts. What have you guys enjoyed?

Breaking News: The Cyborgs Snatched Another One Seriously, maybe I should make a series out of this. At about the same time I posted Resistance is Futile, my husband sent me this article about a guy with what looks suspiciously like a Borg ocular implant. Built around the same concept as a hearing aid, it adds heat and distance perception to an eye that lacks most of its normal function. Kind of like the heads up display for pilots. And if that’s not cool enough, he designed and built it himself, teaching himself the electrical magic he needed to create something perfectly attuned to his needs.

The guy put some serious brain power into this project. If you click over to the original article you can see all his work and his thoughts on further uses for it. I love that he didn’t just stop with what worked for him. He extended it through its natural progression. He gave some thought to further applications for both the abled and the disabled.

No disrespect to the lady with the robot arm. That kind of therapy, dedication and determination are not easy. Believe me, I know. But there’s something powerful about being the patient, the bioengineer, and the manufacturer all rolled into one.

Finn Finnegan by Darby Karchut Finn has been waiting his whole life to become one of the Tuatha De Danaan, magical warriors from Ireland charged with battling monsters called the Amandán, but when he begins his apprenticeship with Gideon Lir, things don't go exactly as he he'd dreamed they would. His master has a temper to match his own, and his not-so-pure bloodline gets in the way while they search for a legendary weapon that has the power to destroy the Amandán.

The problem with being lucky enough to read a book early is that when you finish it you realize there’s still three months before it actually hits shelves. And more importantly, an entire year before you can read the sequel. Impatience and irritation abound. Well, I did y’all a favor and waited to tell you how awesome Finn Finnegan is until you didn’t have to wait so long to read it. It comes out this March so go ahead and preorder a copy.

While I loved the characters and the premise, what made this book was the ending. I was so sure I had it all figured out about a quarter of the way in; smug and a little disappointed Darby couldn’t trick me… I should know better by now. Darby is particularly good at indulging your expectations until the last possible moment when she says “That’s cool, but what about this?” and you’re left with your jaw on the floor.

Another thing I always look forward to is the unique problems her characters face in the normal world. They have unearthly powers to draw on, but more often than not, those very powers earn them more problems than they solve. Finn and Gideon were no exception, and I can’t wait to see how they get out of their new set of complications in the next book. Oh, if only they could tell people why Finn keeps ending up so black and blue. But where would the challenge be in that?

I was a little worried that Finn Finnegan would be too similar to Griffin Rising given the importance of the master/apprentice relationship in both books. But Finn and Gideon had a completely different dynamic than Griffin and Basil. They still had a strong, loving bond but it was fascinating to see Finn and Gideon’s particularities.

All I can say is, write faster, Darby. Write faster.

In the spirit of the holiday I have a special post for y'all. This is a short story I wrote back in September as a response to a prompt that said "write something that takes place in a public restroom". I'm not sure how a romance fell out but it did. I think it could use a couple more drafts but the foundation is there. I hope y'all enjoy, and happy valentine's day.  

The door of the restroom swung open. A young woman limped in, her flats shuffling across the tiles and her crutch clicking with each uneven step. She stopped and leaned against the cool wall, looked down at the bridesmaid's dress she wore, and burst into tears.

She should never have introduced them. Kara sniffled and reached into her purse to grab some more tissues. The wads in her fist which she'd been using all night were too soggy with tears and snot to do her any good now. Her fingers found some loose change, a tube of chapstick, and four pens, but no Kleenex.

Dammit. Her nose was leaking like that stupid kitchen faucet she still hadn't fixed. She ducked down to make sure the stalls were empty and limped across to the counter. She winced when she saw her blotchy face reflected in the mirror. That shade of red definitely clashed with the coral of her dress. She turned from the horrifying visage and propped her crutch against the counter so she could snatch up a few paper towels.

Really, this was her fault. She shouldn't have introduced them, she thought again. Or at least she should have refused the dubious honor of standing next to them as they tied the knot. Then she wouldn't have had to come at all and wouldn't have had to watch her best friend marry the only guy who had ever looked past Kara's crutch to see her.

Kara froze as the door to the reception hall swung open, letting in a burst of sound from the party. Oh God, if it was Emily, she'd just go ahead and die on the spot, public restroom or not.

But it wasn't Emily. Her gaze met startled gray eyes in a distinctly masculine face.

Kara squeaked and darted into the back stall, but her drooping foot caught the edge of a tile and she stumbled. Ready to start crying again, this time with frustration, she slammed the door shut and collapsed onto the toilet.

“Oh crap, I'm sorry.” His voice came over the stall door.

“What are you doing in the women's restroom?” she said. Her voice sounded too high, and she concentrated on bringing it back into a register discernible to humans.

“I didn't notice the sign,” he said.

“It's a chick in a dress. How could you not see it?”

“I just didn't.” He paused. “Are you okay?”

She blew out her breath. “I'm fine. Go away.”

“Your face is all red.”

“Gee thanks.”

He didn't apologize but there was an awkward silence where it kind of felt like he wanted to. “I have a confession,” he finally said. “I didn't come in here by accident.”

“You didn't,” Kara said, her voice flat.

“No.”

There was another pause. This one went on a bit longer. “Are you still there?” he said.

“I'm trying to decide if you're some creepy pervert.”

He laughed. She liked the sound of it ringing off the walls of the restroom. “Not a creepy pervert,” he said. “I swear.” She imagined him holding up his hand as if swearing on a Bible. “I'm Paul. Emily's brother.”

That's right. She'd met him last night at the dress rehearsal, but she'd been so worried about not being bitter and not ruining Emily's wedding that all she remembered of him was a brief impression of light eyes and dark hair. But wait, if he was her brother...

Kara groaned. “Emily sent you in here, didn't she?”

“Yeah.” He sounded kind of resentful and weary at the same time. Guess he didn't like being sent to comfort the third wheel any more than she liked being recognized as the third wheel.

“Well, you can tell her I'm fine. I'm not angry, or upset, or-or anything, all right?”

She heard him shift and it sounded like he was leaning against the counter. “I don't think she expected you to be in here crying,” he said.

“Why else would she send you?”

“Maybe because she thought you could help me.” His voice was quiet.

Kara closed her eyes and pounded her forehead with her fist. Not everything's about you, stupid. Well, maybe if she helped him with whatever problem he had, he would go away and leave her alone. “Why do you need my help?” she said.

“I don't.” His response was too quick and too loud. “I'm fine. Emily's just overprotective, and she thought since we both have disabilities... you know, instant connection.”

Kara sighed. “Why does everyone think that crippled people are automatically attracted to other crippled people?”

“I don't know. It's insulting really.”

“It is.” Kara narrowed her eyes and thought back. She didn't have a great memory of him from the night before, but she knew she would have noticed if he'd been in a wheelchair or had crutches like hers. “Wait,” she said. “I don't remember you having a disability.”

“You're assuming you can see it.”

“So, you mean like vertigo?”

“I mean like PTSD.”

“Oh. Were you in the military?”

“Nothing so heroic,” he said. “I was a hostage in that bank robbery last year.”

“The one on 6^th street? Geez, I remember that.”

“Yeah, nothing like being in combat or anything, but it kind of messed me up.”

She was getting better at reading his voice. He sounded embarrassed with something deeper underneath. Shame? “Paul, they kept those hostages locked up in that safe for three nights. And a couple people were shot, weren't they.”

She heard him swallow. “Yeah.”

“I'm not trying to remind you or anything, I'm just saying, that would mess anyone up.”

“Yeah, well, I'm better now I've got Warden. He keeps me sane. I'm usually too worried about him sticking his nose up women's skirts to be worried about myself.”

“Who is Warden and why hasn't he been arrested?” she asked.

“He's my service dog. And most of the girls forgive him once he looks up at them with those big brown eyes.”

“You have a service dog? Why didn't you bring him?”

He paused. “I did.”

She leaned over and looked under the stalls and saw Paul's feet in his dress shoes. Right next to him were four paws and the tip of a wagging tail.

“Sorry, I didn't see him.”

“He's big and slobbery and wears a bright red vest. How could you miss him?”

She heard the smile in his voice and couldn't help smiling in return. “I just did. Besides you startled me.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. So why are you in here instead of out there eating cake?”

Her smile disappeared at the reminder. “I'm being pathetic,” she said, going for a light-hearted tone. “I didn't want to ruin Emily's wedding by bursting into tears during their first dance.”

“You don't approve of the groom?”

“Oh no. I know he's a really great guy. That's the problem.”

“So you're in love with him,” Paul said.

“No.” The stall door made the perfect barrier to hide behind, so she found it easier to say, “I just thought he might be the kind of person who could love me. And those are hard to find.”

“Well, now it just sounds like you're fishing for compliments.”

Kara knew he was trying to lighten her mood, but she'd had a rough couple days and just wanted a moment of self-indulgence. “Oh, that's what it sounds like to you? Well, that's the reality I live with. Every guy I meet I have to wonder if he's going to be one of the ones who only sees my disability. Half of them have a hero complex and the other half get that glazed look right before they run away because I'd be too much work.”

“At least you can leave your house without having some kind of breakdown. Every day I wonder if I'll actually be able to step out the door. At every store I have an argument with myself about whether there are enough exits or too many people inside.”

“But no one knows what's going on in your head,” Kara said. “You can smile and nod at people and they won't be able to tell you have problems. I get judged before I even open my mouth. Everyone can see my weakness as I step out of a car or stand up from a chair.”

“And that's a bad thing? Do you know how long it took me to realize that I actually had a serious condition? This is something treatable, but only if you recognize that it's there. Once I finally acknowledged that I needed help, I had to convince the rest of the world there really was something wrong with me and it wasn't all in my head. You don't have to convince anyone.”

Suddenly, Kara was laughing, the tension and the anger spilling out until she felt loose and free. “Are we arguing about who's disability is more disabling?” she said.

His chuckle was warm. “I guess so. Is it weird that I kind of feel better?”

“Not really. I feel better, too. Maybe Emily knew what she was doing.”

He was quiet while she fished in the toilet paper dispenser for something to wipe her nose. The plastic rattled.

“Drat,” she said.

“What?”

“It's empty, and I'm out of tissues.”

A package sailed over the stall door, and she reached up to grab it just to keep it from hitting her in the face.  It was one of those pocket size packets of Kleenex.

“Really?” she said, her breath huffing out on a laugh.

“Brother of the bride, you know. I have another confession,” he said. “Emily might have asked me to talk to you, but that's not why I came in here. I've been trying to get up the nerve to ask you to dance all night.”

“So you followed me into the bathroom?”

“I didn't want to lose my chance. I guess I got a little carried away when I realized you were alone and no one would overhear my awkward attempt to ask you out to dinner tomorrow.”

“First it was just a dance, now you want a date too?”

“I wanted a dance cause you're pretty. I want a date because you're interesting and I'm really enjoying our conversation.”

“Hmm. Are you sure you're not one of those guys that only sees the disability.”

“I don't know. It's hard to tell since I haven't actually seen you in a while. Why don't you come out and you can judge?”

“My face might still be splotchy.”

“Warden doesn't mind, do you? He says he doesn't.”

Kara suppressed a giggle and levered herself to her feet. She took a moment to smooth her dress and make sure her mascara hadn't run before she opened the stall door and stepped outside. Paul leaned against the counter, his lips curving up in a smile, a German shepherd grinning at his feet.

“Well?” she said. She turned like a model on a runway, hanging onto the stalls for support. Where had she left her crutch?

He shook his head. “No disabilities. I just see a beautiful woman.” He cocked his head. “Is there hope for me?”

Kara pretended to consider. “What do you think, Warden?”

The dog's tail thumped against the tiles.

“I agree.” She spotted her crutch propped on the counter opposite Paul, and she limped to grab it. Something cold and wet touched the back of her knee, and she felt the back of her skirt lift. She jumped, slipped, and caught herself against the counter with her hand in the sink.

“Warden! Sorry, sorry.” Paul was yanking the shepherd's harness.

Kara laughed. “I suppose you did warn me.”

“What did you agree with?” he asked the dog and then looked up at Kara. “Do I get a dance and a date?”

Kara opened her mouth just as the door opened and an older woman wearing a burnt orange sweater and a lime green skirt swarmed into the restroom.

Paul started guiltily when her eyes widened and she stopped short.

“Paul Jay Sherman. What do you think you're doing in the ladies room?”

“Aunt Phyllis. I was just-”

“You were just leaving, is what. Stop bothering this young woman and get marching.” She pointed to the door, and Kara had to cover her smile.

Warden stepped in front of Paul and leaned against his legs. Paul seemed to soak in the dog's strength and stood up straighter. “Not until I've heard her answer.” He turned to her and held out his hand. “So, what will it be Kara?”

His eyes stayed locked on hers. They didn't stray toward her crutch or her legs.

She placed her hand in his. “A dance then,” she said.

“And dinner?”

She smiled. “And dinner.”

They walked out of the women's restroom, letting Aunt Phyllis seek out a stall in peace.

The restroom door swung open. A young woman limped in, the clicking of her crutch muffled by the fabric of her wedding dress. She stopped by the mirror and took a moment to check her makeup. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a plastic package of Kleenex propped up by the sink. She smiled as she reached for it.

“Kara?” A girl poked her head around the door. “Paul says hurry. Emily's about to start her toast, and he says he can't live through it without moral support.”

Kara curled her fingers around the tissues. “I'm coming,” she said.

“Okay. Oh geez! Warden, no.”

Kara laughed and left the restroom.

Last week I talked about The Secret Garden and how Colin’s entire disability was a product of misconception and rumor. However, my mind didn’t stop there. I was struck by how many of Colin’s problems could have been and/or were fixed by just giving him something to think about besides everything that could go wrong in his life. One of the most common reactions to disability in life, as well as other media, is the thought “my life is over”, or “they’ll never do anything for themselves again”. Even if the reaction isn’t as strong as that, it’s an insidious little thought that can find its way into the most rugged of souls. “Why do I push myself so hard?” “Is it really worth all this pain?” Sometimes we do need to step back and re-evaluate where we’re putting all our energy. But I also think it’s really important not to let pain, fatigue, fear, and complacency take away our passion or drive us into damaging introspection.

Self-awareness is usually a pretty good thing, but I know for me personally, I have a tendency to think too much, to worry and second guess, to live in my own head. That’s where the depression starts; it’s where I lose my passion and the will to push through – in my head. Sometimes the answer is just finding something that distracts me from worry and second guessing. The less I think about it, the smaller it gets until suddenly the problem is bite-sized; not this looming, all-powerful thought chasing me around the inside of my skull.

If we let the fear and complacency win, we all become Colin, lying in bed waiting for the end so we can finally escape the misery and boredom. That’s where we need a challenge, something to inspire us and work towards. Without it our own thoughts get the better of us. Without it we become more disabled.

And our challenges don’t have to be earth shattering. Colin lacked even the motivation to get out of bed in the morning because everyone told him he couldn’t. Standing up can be a challenge. Taking a step. Just sitting up and thinking about something other than pain and fatigue instead of rolling over, back into that familiar, wasting mindset.

Find a hobby. Find a friend. Find a goal that takes you out of yourself and away from your fears and your doubts. Strength is elusive if you’re not searching for it.

Mary Lennox is a lonely girl who only becomes more lonely when her parents die of cholera and she’s sent to live in her uncle’s huge, foreboding manor. But it is there that she meets her cousin, Colin, a boy just as lonely and neglected as she. He has lived his whole life in bed, believing he is going to die. Together the two embark on a mission to find a secret garden, and in the process, find the love and care they’ve been missing their whole lives. My mom read this to me when I was a kid. At that point, I loved secrets and the idea that two ten year olds could coax a garden to life with no adult supervision was a thrilling one. I also really liked Mandy by Julie Andrews Edwards, a book about an orphan who finds an abandoned cottage and makes it her own. I guess I had a fascination for independence… and domestic chores. Not sure what that says about me. But now I’m grown up and certain things have happened to me, and when I picked this book up to read it again, I was drawn to the memory of Colin. I wanted to see what Frances Hodgson Burnett had to say about living with a disability (especially in 1911). Funny thing though, about three quarters of the way through I finally realized it’s not about living with a disability at all. It’s about the perception of disability and the perils of living too much in your own head with nothing but fear for company. It’s about the transformative powers of challenge and determination. It’s about redemption.

Colin’s illness is a direct result of the fears and misconceptions surrounding disability and infirmity in the world as a whole and Mistlethwaite Manor in particular. There’s nothing physically wrong with him. But his father is a hunchback (really just some severe scoliosis), and from his birth everyone around Colin assumed that he would be the same. The assumptions grew and multiplied until it was whispered that his back was weak, his legs were crooked, he was half-witted, and it was only a matter of time until he died. Even if all that were true, his ears worked just fine, so is it any wonder he believed all the horrible whispers, especially since no one ever bothered to say anything nice or positive to counteract them?

That is, until Mary shows up. I love the symmetry of Mary and Colin. It takes a sour, miserable little girl to shake a sour, miserable little boy out of the prison of his thoughts. It’s through Mary that we can see under the tantrums and the imperious demands to find and comfort the terrified boy underneath. Colin doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to wake up one day and find that his back has started to twist. But no one has ever bothered to give him something else to think about and hope for. Mary cuts though his despair with her own kind of harsh wisdom, giving him such simple childhood gifts like laughter and a belief in magic.

Normally, I’m not a fan of stories where a disabled character is healed (whether miraculously, magically, or through their own hard work), but since Colin’s disability was a product of fear and his unwillingness to test his own strength, his recovery was about something more than just slapping a pair of legs on a crippled boy as a reward. Colin’s healing was his redemption. He grew from a miserable, nasty child into a strong healthy boy determined to leave his “queerness” behind. He triumphed over his own mind, his fears, and his beliefs.

Colin’s recovery fit. But what bothered me at the end of the book was that his father’s return and their joyous reunion seemed to reinforce Colin’s belief that if only he were strong, if only he were well, then his father would love him. Archibald Craven’s feelings regarding his son aren’t very well defined. He wonders what he should feel when he visits the sleeping boy. And he only returns because of a vague feeling of happiness and the nagging of a local mother. In the Broadway version, it’s much clearer that Archie loves his son and only stays away because he’s been led to believe his presence would disturb Colin and make him more ill. Their reunion in the garden is bittersweet as they forgive past neglect and move into the future with hope and promise. However, I was very dissatisfied with the ending of the book. I wanted Archibald to be redeemed and Burnett obviously wanted us to believe he was but it just didn’t ring true to me. Too little, too late, Archie.

And not only does Archibald Craven’s love and care for his son seem to hinge on Colin’s new strength and ability, but also, Mary disappears. In remembering his son, Archibald is still forgetting the other young life dependent on him. Though given Mary’s independence and the lessons she’s learned, I think she’ll probably do just fine, even if her uncle can’t get his act together.

I've mentioned PHAMALY before, but this came up in my inbox and I had to share. I find these men and women so encouraging. I watch them perform and think, "what amazing things could I do?" But I hadn't considered it from the actors' perspective before. Some of them were pursuing careers in acting before they became disabled. Now they encounter prejudice and discrimination based not on their acting ability, but just on how they would look in a part. I was not particularly athletic before my injury. As a student, a writer, and a gamer I didn't feel like I'd really lost the ability to do something I loved. But three years after my injury I started Physical Therapy school. Here was a career I was passionate about, and one I'd be really good at. Two semesters in I was asked to withdraw because the school would not modify the program to accommodate my disability. I don't believe it was the right choice but I understand that they felt like it was. This isn't meant to bash my school or the professors and colleagues I respect. I'm just saying that I know what it's like to be barred from something so important.

I love that PHAMALY provides a place for these actors to feel safe and strong. They don't have to hide their struggles, and when they're performing you look past their disabilities to see what's really important: their passion and their talent. And PHAMALY is doing more than just providing a home for disabled actors. It is changing the way we view, understand, and treat those who are different. As an organization, PHAMALY is as much an inspiration as the men and women who are up on the stage.

I recently finished the book Where Is God When It Hurts? by Philip Yancey. I tried to read this back in college just after my injury, but pesky things like school and life got in the way and I had to put it down before finding the answers I was looking for. Funny that I decided to pick it up again now after I’ve found those answers for myself. I didn’t need Yancey’s words to guide me through my pain, but I did notice that a lot of my struggles and growth were reflected in the pages. Yancey talked to two people with quadriplegia. Brian Sternberg and Joni Eareckson Tada. About Brian he said: “Although he recognizes that God has providentially used his pain to bring good, he rejects the notion that God might allow such a condition to continue for the rest of his life. He has gambled his faith, and almost his theology, on the hope for healing.”

I have to admit, I found Brian’s story rather bleak, whereas, Joni’s words might as well have been my own. Yancey says, “She had to accept herself as a quadriplegic and search for new ways of coping. The process was painful. When her boyfriend would put his arm around her and squeeze, she felt nothing. At these times and others she kept fighting a temptation to close her eyes and fantasize, imagining what it would be like if she were well again. A fiancé, a sports car, long hikes in the woods, a place on a college lacrosse team – the possibilities were endless. But they were also worthless, and Joni realized that dwelling on them did not relieve her suffering and only delayed the process of self-acceptance.”

I believe in miracles. Whether that’s experimental therapy or something more along the lines of Jesus heals the paralytic. But I know that if I put all my hope and faith, time and energy into waiting for my miracle, I’ll miss something more important. My life.

I know God will heal me in His own time. He’s got it covered, which means I can put that particular worry in a box and pack it away in the crawl space next to the knick knacks I no longer want but can’t quite bring myself to throw away.

Joni felt the same. “I now realize that I will be healed,” she said. “I haven’t been cheated out of being a complete person – I’m just going through a forty- or fifty-year delay, and God stays with me even through that. I now know the meaning of being “glorified.” It’s the time, after my death here, when I’ll be on my feet dancing.”

I’m content. I’m happy. Which means that when my personal miracle shows up I’ll be pleasantly surprised, instead of looking at my watch and saying, “You’re seventy years late”.

World War Z by Max Brooks Normally, I write a blurb or short synopsis of the book I’m reviewing; something like the back cover copy that hopefully tells you enough to know if you want to read it or not. However, World War Z was not a typical novel and as a result I’m having a hard time writing a typical blurb. It is written as “an oral history of the Zombie War” – a gathering of anecdotes from all kinds of people, in all kinds of places, with all kinds of stories. There is an overarching plot if you’re looking for it, but the magic of this book happens in the individual people and the snapshots of their experiences.

Tales of zombies are not new, with ancestors like HP Lovecraft and Mary Shelley, but Brooks tells this old tale with such a unique perspective you can’t help but read it as if for the first time. We look back on the entire incident from the finish line, focusing on details hardly ever seen in other zombie apocalypse stories. We see the first individual cases and a variety of responses. We see the gradual fall of society from all kinds of perspectives, and then we see society rebuilt. No angle was left unstudied. Politics, socioeconomics, psychology. Brooks took a really good look at these areas in today’s world, added zombies to the mix, and extrapolated what would happen next.

I loved this book if only for the perspectives and the amazing breadth and depth of the details, but scattered among the fifty plus anecdotes were a couple stories that really struck home for me. I am a nerd in a nerdy household. Josh and I have discussed zombie plans, usually with some humor and a sense of the ridiculous, but also with intelligence and forethought. And any time the apocalypse is brought up, whether it’s zombies or some other society-destroying event, I have this niggling little fear that all the disaster plans in the world wouldn’t be enough because I lack the single most important survival skill: the ability to run.

Brooks rides roughshod over that fear, creating several disabled characters who not only survive the zombie apocalypse but are realistic in their struggles and strengths. He highlights the tale of a blind Japanese man who retreats to the wilderness to keep from burdening his friends and relatives, to die dishonored and alone. Who instead, dispatches hundreds of zombies with a shovel and finds new meaning in his disability as the founder of a “Shield Society”.

Brooks also introduces us to Joe, a man who patrols his neighborhood from a wheelchair and scoffed when he encountered hesitance about his joining the Neighborhood Security Teams. “Hell-o! And what did she think we were facing anyway? It’s not like we had to chase them over fences and across backyards. They came to us. And if and when they did so, let’s just say, for the sake of argument, there was more than we could handle? Shit, if I couldn’t roll myself faster than a walking zombie, how could I have lasted this long?” I loved Joe’s voice, with his confidence in himself and his role, even through the breakdown and restructuring of society.

I’m waiting to see if the upcoming movie retains any of the unique and thought-provoking style of the book. So far, the trailers make it look like just another zombie movie. And that makes me sad, because World War Z was so much more than just another zombie story.