Tag Archives: Running

A Moment Of Being A “Normal” Kid.

28 May

It doesn’t happen often, but every once in a while I think back to the years before my surgeries and intense physical therapy, the years that I got to be a normal kid like everyone else my age (excluding the fact that even then, I was going to physical therapy twice a week).

I played t-ball and coach’s pitch before all my surgeries, and when I think back on those years, I remember just how happy I was. Even though I still walked different during that time (as I have my entire life), I was able to do everything that every other kid on the baseball team could do. I cheered in the dugout, went up to bat, stood in the outfield waiting for a ball, and walked with the rest of my team to high-five the other time while saying “good game,” even if we lost. As well as feeling like a normal kid, I was also able to be part of a team, and looking back, that meant so much to me. I don’t remember being made fun of during those moments, and though I probably was, I can’t remember it, and that’s when you know you’ve got special memories.

Specifically, I remember one of the games when I played coach’s pitch. I was up to bat, and Mr. Richard, my coach, stood on the mound smiling at me. He pitched the ball, and even though I hit it, it didn’t go far. It landed close to Mr. Richard’s feet. Even though there was a player from the other team standing behind Mr. Richard, Mr. Richard grabbed the ball and kept it away from him. At the time, when I was running to first base, I didn’t know what was going on. I just knew that the first baseman hadn’t caught the ball yet, so I kept running. As I was almost near third base, the biggest grin spread across my face as I realized what Mr. Richard had done: he was giving me my very first home run. I remember running as fast as I could from third base to home plate, and as soon as my feet touched home plate, everyone in the crowd jumped to their feet and cheered for me. In that moment, I felt like I was on top of the world, and more than that, despite my limitations, I had made a home run, just like every other kid on the team had at one time or another. It was a magical moment. There’s no other way to describe it.

I think about Mr. Richard every once in a while, and even though I haven’t seen him since I was a kid, I sit and wonder if I ever thanked him. I’m sure I must have, in one way or another. Whether I thanked him through the huge grin that remained on my face through that entire game or through one of the countless hugs that he became so accustomed to receiving from me, I’m sure he could tell how grateful I was for that moment that he gave me. However, sometimes I wish that I could explain that for me, that moment is one of the most special moments I’ve ever had. I got to be like a normal kid, and I got to feel the rush of happiness and excitement that comes with completing a home run. If only for one night, I wasn’t someone with Cerebral Palsy. I was a baseball player, a team member, and probably one of the happiest people in my small town, even if only for a moment.

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To Grace (Part 2): Walking Through The Fire.

25 Apr

Since I got such awesome feedback from the first post I wrote To Grace, I decided to write a part two. Who knows…this could just be the beginning of posts I write out to kids who have CP just like me. But this “letter” in a sense is simply reflecting on what I have gone through while having CP. By addressing it to Grace, I am connecting with someone I know personally who also has CP. However, this can apply to anyone who has CP, so I’ve decided to not include a “To:” line, and instead, I’ll just jump right in.

First things first, don’t be afraid to cry. I know that you have been faced with so many struggles and you feel like you need to act like you’re not afraid so that other kids who don’t understand will refrain from taunting you. However, you can be afraid. I know that you don’t want to, but you shouldn’t feel bad about being afraid. If anyone else was in your situation, they’d be terrified. Anyway, as I said before, don’t be afraid to cry. I know that you want to be strong for your family and your friends, but crying doesn’t mean you’re weak. Sometimes, it means you’re that much stronger because instead of holding back how you feel, you’re letting it out, tears and all.

Find your own sense of security, something that makes you feel safe. For me, that was my stuffed animals. For every one of my surgeries, I took a stuffed animal into the operating room with me. My stuffed animal of choice even got a hospital band of its own so that it was like we were experiencing the pain together. When you split fear or pain between 2 people, even if one of them isn’t a real person, it’s as if there’s someone holding your hand as you walk through the fire. I mean, it doesn’t make a huge difference….but it could be the difference in feeling like you have a friend beside you and feeling totally and utterly alone.

Find a release. Whether it’s watching tv, reading a book, or writing in your diary…find something that can get your mind off of things for a few moments. Trust me, I know it’s easier said than done. When you’re in the hospital or you’re going to PT, all you can think about is the fact that in a little over an hour you’ll be crying. And you wish that just for one day, you could not end up hurting so much after that hour of PT. I know how hard it is. I’ve been there. In your mind, you wish you could be anywhere else, and in your mind, enduring that pain, even for only an hour, is the worse kind of pain. That’s why it’s good to find some sort of release. Some way to let out some of the anxiety. I’ve suffered with a lot of anxiety throughout my life, but it was especially bad when I was going through all my surgeries and PT. My way of letting out my anxiety was through writing. I’d write about what I was feeling. I’d write about the fact that I wish I could be anywhere but on my way to PT. I’d write about how much it hurt, and how I wished that there was someone who could understand. I’d write any and everything, and even though all the pain and fear was still there when I was done, I was happy that for a few precious moments I was able to vent to not a person, but to something that seemed more trusting at the time: a blank sheet of paper.

Lastly, probably one of the most important things I could say, is smile. I know it seems like such a simple task, but some days, even though they could be few and far between, are good. Some days aren’t quite so tough, or rather, parts of some days aren’t as tough. Smile during those times. Though it may not seem like it, you are so awesome. You’re facing a level of pain that few people can even imagine, and best of all, you’re getting through it. You’re not letting it tear you down. Yes, lots of days are hard, but you’re fighting. That counts. Rather than sitting on the floor feeling sad that you can’t do things as well as other kids, you’re standing there trying to figure out how you can do it in your own way. It may not be perfect, but guess what? It doesn’t have to be. All that matters is that you’re walking through the fire that’s your life, but instead of standing around and letting the flames consume you, you’re running straight into the flames and that, my friend, is so freaking awesome!