I'm Done Grieving The Life I Thought I'd Have

Ten years, 120 months, 522 weeks and 3,652 days. That is how long it has taken me to stop grieving the life I thought I would have.

I thought of the five stages of grief - Denial, Anger, Depression, Bargaining, Acceptance - and then I realized that I was at an impasse. I was stuck. I could not move beyond the depression stage of grief. There were days when I could not get out of bed. Days turned into nights as I refused to allow my mother to open my blinds. We argued constantly about things that I simply did not care about.

One day, I finally saw the fear in her eyes when I responded, “Mommy, I don’t know if I want to be here anymore. I know you’re my mother and will always take care of me, but I feel like a burden. And it doesn’t matter that you don’t feel that way. It’s how I feel. I should be taking care of you. I hate my life!”

That was the first time in thirty years that I booked double psychotherapy sessions for the same day. I was flailing. I felt as if life was slowly draining from my body and I welcomed the visit. The fact that it had rained for five days straight did not help my disposition. I drifted off to sleep thinking about my three grandchildren. I can’t leave them. But what good am I to them while being dependent upon everyone? It breaks my heart that my dreams of chasing them and racing for ice cream may never happen. But I’ve got to keep trying. I can’t leave them. Fight Monika, fight!

I woke up early that morning. I had my mother lay my clothes out the night before so that I could begin getting ready to venture out in my new motorized wheelchair. Like a kid, I felt proud of myself when I saw the surprise in my mother’s eyes.

“What are you doing up so early?”

“It looks sunny out, mom. I’ve got to get out of this house. I’m about to go crazy.”

My mother anxiously helped me get dressed. In my mind, I was running with my rollator as I twisted my body into my wheelchair. I pressed the start button and my smile faded when nothing happened. My eyebrows furrowed.

My mother’s anxiety didn’t help. “What’s wrong? Is it working? We charged it all night. What kind of shit is this? You need to call them!”

I pressed the button harder. I became frantic as I pushed harder and harder before breaking down.

“I gotta get out of this house!” I pressed one final time before giving up. I turned to my brother.

“Please help me back to bed. It’s not working!”

He looked helpless. “Let me take a look at it.”

I had already transferred back to my rollator. “I don’t even care anymore.”

My mother stood by as my brother followed me into my room. I could barely hold back the barrage of tears as I fell onto the bed and pulled the covers over my head. My sobs bellowed through my room.

“What is wrong?” My mother tried to pull the covers back.

I sensed my brother’s uncertainty. “Mom, she needs to get out of the house. Do you want me to help you to the balcony? You can get some sun there.”

I sobbed harder. Just the thought of sitting on the balcony brought on comical suicidal ideations. Damn it! I can’t even kill myself without needing someone’s help. How would I get my body over the railing? I pulled the covers over my head tighter, grateful that they both silently exited my room and closed the door.

I knew I needed help. I felt defeated as I mentally prepared for my first session with a new Veteran’s Administration (VA) psychotherapist. She listened carefully as I brought her up to speed. I felt like I was being interviewed before the biggest test of my life, my second therapy session.

After forty-six years, her voice still soothes my soul. Deborah Lee was the first person I came out to. She was my eighth grade teacher. One day while I was helping her clean after class, she asked me why I didn’t hang out with the other girls. I exhaled before lowering my head.

“Because I don’t like boys and they do.”

When she calmly stated that I could like whomever I wanted to like, I knew we were connected for life. We stayed in contact through the years. At any given time, I still walk a tight rope between listening to my friend versus my therapist. This woman has known me since I was a baby and we have never missed a beat.

She listened patiently as I shared my struggles. I was shocked when she finally responded. “Not to take anything away from your VA therapist…but what triggered you?”

I was confused. “Huh?”

She chuckled. “What happened… right before you had your meltdown? What happened?”

“Nothing really. I’ve been stuck in this damned house, in the bed, for five days! I feel like I can’t breathe. I was determined to use my new motorized wheelchair this morning and it wouldn’t start.”

She paused. “Are you ready…for what I’m about to say?”

I braced myself. “I’m scared…but what?”

“It was the wheelchair.”

“The wheelchair? What do you mean?”

She laughed out loud. “It was the mother-effing wheelchair!”

I laughed because she doesn’t curse. I got it, but I let her finish to make sure we were on the same page.

“After all this time, after all the dark rainy days, all the health scares, the near-death experiences, the thought of your grand babies gave you the strength not to give up. You had hope again. The wheelchair gave you hope. It was your legs…your legs to get you out of the house. And when it didn’t work, you lost hope again.”

I was speechless. When I did speak, it was a whisper, like we were sharing a scandalous secret. “It was the motherfuckin’ wheelchair?”

And just like that, forty-six years of friendship covered me as we burst into laughter.

“It was the mother-fuckin’ wheelchair!”

We couldn’t stop hollering. We laughed so loud that my mother came in with her coffee. “I thought you were in therapy.”

I said, “I am, mom. This is my private therapist, not the VA.”

I turned back to my call. “Wow…you’re so damned good! You’re still teaching me after all these years. But the wheelchair…you’re right. I realized that I’ve been grieving the life I thought I would have. I think I’ve been at an impasse.”

“I’ve earned two Master’s degrees when the odds were against me. I’m a war-time veteran. I’m a lesbian who was legally married to a woman when it wasn’t accepted. I’m a stroke survivor, a three times published author and a grandmother. This is not supposed to be my life. I know it’s God’s will but no matter how much I surrender to His will, who I am on the inside is not aligned with the outside.”

I listened as she reminded me that I have always known who I was. The world had to catch up. At that moment, I remembered. Through life’s highs and lows, I had simply forgotten. How dare I! God has blessed me with “everything” I prayed for. Now, I need to leave an impact on this world with the new life He has given me.

I was ashamed as I thought about how I used to hide my wheelchair. I was embarrassed that I had to use it. But as I surrender to God’s will, I bask in the joy of even surviving a stroke. I laugh to myself when I think of all the designer heels and boots I sold and donated when I could no longer walk on my own.

Those days are over!

I am the newest member of the “Wheelchair Baddie” club. My wheelchair no longer defines me nor my life.