Handicap Parking

My Rheumatologist filled out paperwork allowing me to obtain a handicap placard upon the approval of the state.  I've had that placard for three years now.  I keep it in my purse to use in any vehicle that I may be riding in.

Is it nice to be able to park close to stores or events?  Of course.  It helps to keep the pain manageable. Would I rather be healthy and able to walk any distance?  Definitely.

I didn't want that placard.  It's yet another symbol of  being debilitated by a disease.  Anyone that needs it will tell you that they wish they did not. 

But what bothers me the most, what makes me feel a surge of anger and hurt, are the reactions of some people.  I have had two different men, at different times, watch me park in a handicap parking spot, look down at the license plates on the car to see if it had the handicap insignia stamped upon it and when it didn't, they slowed their steps and glared at me. 

I will admit that both times, before hanging the placard, I slapped it against my window and glared back until they had the grace to look away.  I may be handicapped but both of my middle fingers still work fine.

I've had people watch me get out of the car and walk into the store.  All the while, shaking their head in judgement, with a disapproving look that clearly said - She's obviously not handicapped.  She can walk!

Is that the measure, the definition of handicap then?  Whether or not you're in a wheelchair?   Maybe if you have cancer and you're bald from chemotherapy, you're allowed to park in those spots without condemnation.  But what if you're so embarrassed by your lack of hair that you wear a wig?  Will people then judge you to be 'perfectly fine' and give you a dirty look as you walk into that store?

What if you're the soldier who lost a leg?  If you were in a wheelchair and wearing your uniform, people would walk up and tell you, 'thank you for your service', often times with tears in their eyes.  But what if you're that soldier wearing a prosthetic leg and jeans, not wanting to walk too far because you're still getting used to it.  Would those same people mutter under their breath about the 21 year old punk-kid parking in handicap and faking a limp as he walked into the store?

Maybe you're the woman who has an incurable but not terminal disease.  A disease that is invisible to everyone but those that know her best.  Those that can see the pinched look around her mouth, the pain shimmering in her eyes, shoulders that hunch against the agony radiating through her body.  You're the woman that forces herself out of bed every day to keep being present in not only your life but the lives of those that love you.

You're the woman who takes a cocktail of prescribed drugs when nobody is looking because to show how sick you are hurts your pride, your need to be strong.  The woman that wants to work, wants to feel independent again but cannot.  You're the woman who knows what suffering means, who grieves for the life you used to have while doing your best to find a new life with a disease that because it is invisible, too many people disbelieve and disregard.

And you're the woman who, because of fibro-fog, forgot how to get to Walmart.  You pull over to cry in frustration until you remember the way again.  And once you get there, relieved, and park in the handicapped spot, you walk into the store even as the pain makes your feet feel broken.  Every step sends sharp, stabbing, aching and throbbing pain up into your legs.  Your ankles, knees and hips hurt.  Your spine and ribs are aching.  Your purse feels like a 50 pound weight on your shoulder.

Through all of that and more, you choose to walk instead of using a wheelchair because your worst fear is losing mobility and the last pieces of your independence.

But you look just fine, perfectly healthy and so, there will be people staring, judging you for parking in a space they don't think you deserve.  And I say to those people - live with Fibromyalgia for one week.  Live with it the same way that I do.  Push yourself as hard as I do.  Demand as much from yourself on every level as I do, despite an agony that is 24 hours a day and without mercy.

Live like that cancer patient trying to hide their illness under an ill-fitting wig.  Live like the young soldier who is missing a leg under the camouflage of  a pair of jeans.  Live like anyone who is handicapped but does everything they can to salvage their independence and pride.  Do that and when the week is over, count your blessings that you can park anywhere you want and walk without trouble or pain.  It's a gift you take for granted.