When Pride Fails, Practicality Takes Over

I am a proud person. I take pride in myself, in my work, in my life and in my strength … which many people would peg as coming as much from sheer stubborness as anything. I won’t refute those people, because they’re right. My strength is born from stubbornness: a stubborn refusal to give in and let anything or anyone take away my independence. Including my own body. Especially my own body.

When I was beaten and injured on the school soccer field, stubborn pride didn’t let me show them they’d succeeded in hurting me. It was that same stubborn pride that kept me going through the pain after the doctor assumed I was faking it because I didn’t bruise. That same stubborn pride that refused to let the pain win and kept me pursuing my interests and passions.

Thanks to that stubborn pride, I live a relatively “normal” life. I have a job, albeit part time but this is what I can manage, physically. I have a social life. I can still participate in physical activities I love, such as dancing and hiking, so long as I’m aware of my limits and listen to what my body tells me. Yes, I’ve had to give up some things, like horseback riding and biking, because the twist in my skeleton simply will not allow for my body to comfortably assume the required positioning.

I’ve known for years that, eventually, as the twist becomes steadily worse because all I can do is treat the symptoms, I’d have to resort to physical aids. I always hoped that the necessity would come later rather than sooner.

In the past year, I’ve had to fight my pride and face facts. There are days, like today, that if I want to continue leading this relatively normal life of mine, I need a walking stick. I haven’t wanted to admit it, because even though I know better, it feels like a defeat. But I also know that if I keep being stubborn and insisting on trying to walk normally without aid, my crooked pelvis is only going to rebel and I’ll be in more pain and even less able to do the things I’ve fought tooth and nail to be able to do.

Even if it’s just walking to the train station so I can get to work, where I should be right now, instead of stretched out in bed because my right leg is refusing to work properly.

Will I need to use a walking stick every day? No. Not yet. But having one to hand will mean that in those instances when my body does throw a tantrum, I will have the aid needed to continue in a relatively normal manner. Whether I’m walking home from work or walking down a nature trail with friends.

I refuse to allow this to be a negative impact upon my life. I will do what is necessary to allow myself to continue leading an active, social, “normal” life, and I will not be shamed by it.