when i got back to corvallis after 2 months in arizona hospitals, i was in a wheelchair for many months, mainly because of my balance issues. my parents took me to watch our local college basketball team, the beavers. when the announcer asked us to stand for the pledge, i laughed. "i wish", i thought. at that point, i could only stand for a few seconds with a death grip around something solid. after i laughed, i wanted to cry. i looked around at the crowd, thinking about what an easy request that was for just about all of them - how they did it without even a thought, like i used to do. then i wanted to cry - an in-your-face reminder of what had been taken from me, and how much hard work i had ahead of me. i remained seated during the pledge, and was so glad when it was over and the crowd sat down. it was one of the first times that i really felt disabled.

i am disabled, though - temporarily, they say - and i've gradually come to terms with that fact and have learned to "own" it. i guess that the most lasting thing i've taken away from the pledge incident - i would be able to stand for it now, with some real thought - is a sensitivity to how frequently things like that come up in daily conversation. as i posted my digital story, "the case against" on this website, i was describing the disagreement between my friend and i about mascots, which started in childhood, and went to use the word "longstanding" and i though, "there it is again."

"get up, stand up. stand up for your rights." bob marley, i'd love to. and after almost exactly a year, i actually can.

my beloved elvis costello, sings, "i can't stand up for falling down." is there a point when you've listened to a song too many times and it comes true? if so, nancy sinatra, here i come. "these boots are made for walkin'."

i have a great neurosurgeon in portland, oregon. in the waiting room of his practice, which i assume sees a lot of folks like me, there's a sign on the counter (i could only see it once i could start using a walker to get around in the real world) asking patients to please stand back to allow for patient privacy. by the time i saw it, i was at a point in my recovery where i could laugh about it without crying. i almost said something about it to the receptionist, but i didn't.

my favorite, though, happened at my local clinic. i was there to have some blood drawn. peering over the counter from my wheelchair, i checked in with the receptionist. she said that they'd be with me in a few minutes and that until then, i could "have a seat anywhere." i rolled away and over to my mom, who had chosen a chair on the end of a row, so that i could maneuver in next to her. i told her the story, and we both laughed. at that time my whole life, at least the waking part, involved having a seat everywhere. i was sitting down all the time. and in the real world, i always had my trusty wheel chair.

amazing the things you notice when your perspective changes drastically.