I am disabled but I don’t identify as disabled

I wonder how many people out there are like me.  I am a disabled person, but I don’t identify as disabled.

My car license plate tells me I’m disabled.

My back, knees and numerous joints tell me I’m disabled.

But my mind tells me I have the body, strength and energy of a 20-year old.  I identify as a gardener.

Not the kind of gardener who sets out a flat of annuals once a year. But the kind of gardener who dreams of life in a castle with a staff of horticulturists on call. I cut my gardening teeth on the BBC and Agatha Christie mysteries.

Unfortunately, the only crew available to me are myself and my two boxers, Boris and Natasha.  So, when orthopedic doctors tell me I can’t do the work anymore, that is completely unacceptable.

You’ve been hard on your body

I asked my physical therapist, Tracy, “Why do I have arthritis in every joint in my body?  My 86-year old mother doesn’t have this much arthritis!”

“You’ve been hard on your body” was her response.  That’s nonsense of course.  This body is bulletproof!  All that hard work has made me stronger not turned me into a pile of medieval ruins!

When I was about 13 my dad and older brother were leaving the farm to run an errand in town.  It was one of those Arkansas spring days that is bestowed upon you just when you think that winter will never leave.  Everyone and everything soaked up the warming rays of the sun.  The daffodils trumpeted the song of spring.  Insects flitted from flower to flower, hungry from the long winter.  Daddy called out the truck window,

“Start loading those bags of fertilizer onto that trailer for me.”

I looked at the 50-pound bags stacked neatly in the shed, four rows, ten to a row.

“How many do you want?”, I asked.

They both grinned, amused that the youngest member of the family thought naively she could load too many before they got back.

“All of them!” Daddy called back and I could hear their laughter as he drove off down the long rock drive.

Their entertainment at my expense had me hell-bent on loading every bag of fertilizer on that trailer before they got back.  I immediately got my scrawny body into gear.  The first bags were hard to lift but once I figured out a way to put my back into it, I got into a pretty good stride.  Despite the cool spring air, I was sweating like a horse.  When he got back, daddy didn’t say a word as he unloaded half of those bags that were weighing the trailer bed down so much it couldn’t move.  One ton of fertilizer moved in 45 minutes might be a time when I was a little hard on my body.

And then when I was 19 and in basic training – did I mention I was in the Army? They almost disqualified me because of scoliosis.  They said I couldn’t do the training.   No one was going to tell me I couldn’t do something.  The Army took me scoliosis and all and I worked hard to be Platoon Leader and to prove that I could make it through whatever Fort Jackson, South Carolina could throw at me.

South Carolina in April is a kaleidoscope of blooming cherry trees, dogwoods and azaleas, but what I remember the most was the smell of the pines.  The dry aromatic needles perfumed the air as we marched laden with packs on our backs.  I called cadence to a platoon of two dozen young women, all dressed in dark green men’s army fatigues and men’s black combat boots.

We trained with M-16s and simulated being under “enemy fire”.  Slinking through the heavily wooded area, tensely clutching my weapon I awaited the sound of shots ringing through the air. At the first shot, my too wide for my foot men’s boot slipped on the dry pine needles and down I went, tumbling across the rocks clutching my weapon the whole time.  I hit hard on the ground and my right knee buckled.  In my quest to be all I could be, this is another time I may have been a little hard on my body.

Once medically discharged from the Army, I decided I should get a desk job.  I got an accounting degree and worked in one of the largest most prestigious accounting firms.   Donning my navy-blue suit, white starched blouse with red bow tied at the neck and navy 1 inch pumps, I proceeded to prove my equality in a man’s world.  My previous injuries and aggravated scoliosis were not improved by hours spent hunched over numbers.  The desk job might have been the hardest on my body.

Maybe Tracy is right.  Maybe I have been hard on my body. The evidence is there that I am disabled.  The x-rays and mris tell the story of a life lived hard in pursuit of women’s equality.  The bulging discs waiting to rupture with one bad gardening decision.  Knees that once happily carried 50-pound packs, now refuse to bend or carry weight.  Feet once eager to don ill-fitting men’s boots, protest with pain in orthopedic shoes. Hands that used to cut wire hog panels with bolt cutters now protest the weight of a glass of water.

My name is Dina and I am the Disabled Gardener

So, what now?  If you are still reading this, I suspect its because you too have lived a meaningful, adventurous life that has resulted in activity altering pain. You think that admitting to pain is accepting defeat.  You can argue with the consequences of the damage you’ve done all you want, but the truth will always win.  The good news is that pain does not have to defeat you.  How do we make peace with pain?  First, we must bring it out of the closet.  Once we stop hiding it away, we take it from shameful to manageable.

Does confessing our disability mean we are weak?  Does “disabled” resign us to a life of knocking down grocery aisle displays with the motorized cart?  Does it mean we give up on our grand gardening plans?

No.  It means we fight back, but with our heads not our backs.  Just because we are disabled does not mean we are unable.  We find the tools that work harder for backs that don’t carry, knees that don’t bend and hands that don’t grasp.  We find relief to soothe muscles that spasm and calms damaged nerves.  We share ideas to get our work done without debilitating pain.

This is my quest.  I want to create a community of people whose gardening lives have been significantly altered by injury and pain and find solutions together.  I want us to stay in our existing gardens and remain independent of outside help.  We can learn better ways to accomplish our tasks without exacerbating our conditions.

But it all starts with admitting to the disability.

Hello.  My name is Dina and I am the Disabled Gardener.