Whenever I’m with someone who has a physical disability, odd behavior, or is considered “strange” in their appearance, I’ve noticed they do something amazing in public, they disappear. The way “different” people are perceived and treated has always bothered me. It’s not that people are nasty or mean, they just stop seeing the person in front of them, and only see the difference. My friend in high school who used a wheelchair, used to tell me that when she was stared at by children, she would ask them if they had any questions about her wheelchair or why she had to use one? She would use it as a teaching moment, which I thought was brilliant. I was always glad knowing there was now a child who had been enlightened, and hopefully no longer frightened by a wheelchair.
One of my friends in college at UW-Milwaukee, had Muscular Dystrophy and used a wheelchair. I was Grace’s caregiver, helping her bathe and dress three times a week in the dorms, and we soon became friends. Her disorder made it so she couldn’t walk, her spine was severely curved, and with her type of MD, her facial muscles were affected, so she had no facial expressions. No matter her emotional state, it couldn’t show on her face. If she was mad as hell at you, you’d only know if she told you. She couldn’t smile or laugh or roll her eyes. Even her voice was monotone because she couldn’t move her lips when she spoke. She wasn’t able to hold her mouth closed and her bottom eyelids were droopy. Not all the time, but most the time, people would look away from us as overtly as they had first stared at us. It was very off-putting to me, made me uncomfortable, made me realize that smiles are usually returned, not given; made me realize how quickly a person’s appearance represents who they are to other people. It’s hard to convince someone they are beautiful and blessed no matter what their situation may be, when they don’t see other people’s acknowledgement.
I get it. It’s uncomfortable. It does something to us where I think we feel a mix of confusion, helplessness and fear. What do you say to someone whose face was badly burned? What do you say when someone doesn’t have a leg, or is constantly blurting out curse words? The answer is nothing. Eye contact and a smile, just like you’d give anyone else you walk past on the street, speak volumes. Judgement is passed so quickly on how a person looks that many encounters that could or should happen, don’t. Imagine all the missed connections.
Sitting outside the hotel in Seattle, in a wonderful little patio between the building and the pool area, I met a woman. I had noticed her the night before when she had nodded at me when our paths crossed. She had a movement disorder, some sort of dyskinesia. I also noticed what looked like possible Tardive Dyskinesia (a side effect from some psychotropic medications) going on in her facial muscles. She was also talking out loud to herself. I notice everyone and everything, so of course I noticed her. She had a long jersey skirt on, tennis shoes, a slouchy sweater, all topped off with a pink baseball hat that was too small for her head, so it ended up just perched on her straw blonde hair. She drew attention to herself without meaning to. The kind of attention people give to people who are out of the ordinary or strange. The kind of attention that isn’t engaging or genuine, the kind where connections aren’t made.
It was the morning we were leaving and I still had 3 joints in my purse. Blackberry Kush and Tangine, good stuff. I couldn’t just throw them away. When I looked around, I noticed the same little funky lady was out having a cigarette on the patio. I approached her and asked if she smoked weed? “Yes! I sure do” she said. I said cool because I have something for you and slid the joints across the table to her. She took them and thanked me. We started to talk. Her speech was difficult to understand at times, she made poor eye contact, looking away quickly; but it felt like maybe she was shy or self conscious of her facial tics more than psychologically impaired. We talked about architecture, travel, the Southwest. She was nomadic, almost always on the move. She fired a joint up right away and began to smoke it like it was a cigarette. The whole time I was talking to her, I thought wow, she reminds me of my Mom. Not her personality, but her looks; same color hair, and her nose was exactly like my Mom’s, which was very unique. She even had new-grass green eyes. Then while telling me a story, she said, “I said to myself, Cindy, you shouldn’t have done that.”. I said, “Did you just say your name was Cindy? That was my Mom’s name.” I believe we all meet others for a reason. She brought my Mom back into view for a while, and I like to think my gift of weed helped her out somehow.
I’d been smoking my own joint and enjoying the warm sunshine, in and out of conversation with Cindy. Before I knew it, she had taken about 3 or 4 long pulls off her joint. Then it occurred to me that if I was really high (which I was), that meant she was really high too. She had coughed a bit, and had the red-faced, watery eyed, glazed look that usually follows a coughing jag, and I noticed she had started to drool a little. Then she said something that made me break into a sweat, “I haven’t smoked in a really long time!”. Oh shit. How stupid was I? I had given some pretty powerful weed to a woman I’d just met, but who I could tell had some medical problems. What was a I thinking? I knew I couldn’t just walk away and leave her sitting there high as a satellite, to manage on her own. I’d feel awful if something happened to her. I told her I was a rehab therapist and worked with a lot of people with different challenges, and had noticed she had a hard time getting around. I asked if I could help her back to her room. She thanked me and started packing up her things, which included a bottle of chardonnay. When she asked if I’d like some, I kindly declined. It was, after all, 10 o’clock in the morning. I walked behind her back to her room. She was actually pretty stable on her feet, I didn’t have to help her at all. I asked if her granddaughter would be pissed off that she got high, and she shook her head. Later, a friend said that it was probably the nicest thing someone had done for her in a long time. And maybe it was.
When I got back to my room, I realized I had almost a half bag left of Rainier cherries and decided to bring them to Cindy a few doors down. When I told her it was me knocking, she said, “I hoped it was you”. As I was giving her the cherries, her granddaughter and friend showed up. She abruptly but kindly shooed me away. I didn’t see Cindy again before we left. I like to think that she ate up the cherries when her munchies kicked in. I like to think that my mom put her in my path to remind me that “different” people aren’t always as “different” as they appear. Sometimes we’re all just after a good joint, some sunshine, and real conversation. Sometimes we’re just meant to meet someone who reminds us of someone we’ve loved and lost.