Jordan: My Friend, My Inspiration

Yesterday was one of those days.

I was getting ready to leave for the football game (benefits of being in Gainesville- I can go to ALL of the home games) and I was trying to get a bag to take with me. It hung on a hangar next to my dresser, and even after I raised my wheelchair to its full height, I still couldn’t reach it. As I continued trying-and failing- to get it, my frustration and anger rose. I was trying to pick up a bag. Something so simple shouldn’t be so difficult. I shouldn’t have to fight just to pick up a bag.

I could have easily texted a friend and asked for help, but I didn’t, because of the principle of the situation. Eventually, after a few more minutes and more frustration, I got the bag- but not after accidentally breaking the hangar.

It’s moments like that, when CP makes a simple task virtually impossible, that I wish I could snap my fingers and make my disability go away. Those are the moments when I hate it, when I wonder why, of all the babies born the day I was, that I was the one whose umbilical cord got wrapped around her neck. Those are the moments when I question God’s plan.

But then, I thought about Jordan.

Jordan, the girl who immediately offered to help me learn to walk with crutches when I told her it was my goal to use them instead of my walker.

Jordan, the girl who understands what I go through in a way no one else ever has.

My friend, Jordan.

A couple weeks ago, my family and I sat tailgating outside my dorm when I saw a girl walk by, expertly wielding crutches. Even from a distance, I could see the strength and confidence she possessed. I want to be like her, I thought.

My dad noticed, too. “You could do that,” he said, nodding in her direction. “You really could walk with crutches. You should start practicing again.”

Apparently, God agreed. The next day, I saw her come in the back door. I’d been about to go into my room, but at the sight of her, I passed my door and instead made my way towards her.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Robyn. I’m trying to learn how to walk with crutches. Could you help me?”

“Absolutely,” she said.

She spent the next half hour with me, giving me advice as I stumbled around on my crutches and tried not to bite the dust. I told her that I was having trouble finding the right rhythm- I would get ahead of myself, go too fast, and nearly trip over my own feet. “I had that problem, too,” she said. She held her crutches out to me.  “Here. Try mine.”

I did, and they were a game changer. Lighter than the ones I had been using, they were easier to pick up and put back down in time. Jordan said they’d made a drastic difference for her, too.

Hopefully one day I can stand in the sand with crutches, too.

Come to find out, that wasn’t the only thing we had in common. She also has cerebral palsy, we’re both in the College of Journalism here at UF, and we’ve even had one of the same surgeries. God, I thought as we talked, is amazing.

Jordan is a living example of what it means to be strong. She’s had ten surgeries, and over the years, transitioned from a wheelchair to a walker to a cane to crutches. Through it all, her faith has remained strong. In fact, she even credits the surgery that went wrong as what brought her closer to the Lord.

Jordan working hard in therapy.

Like me, she grew up bleeding orange and blue. Though she’d applied to nine schools, “as a die hard gator, once I got in (to Florida)  I couldn’t go anywhere else,” she says. The other added benefit of UF was its accessibility, a feature none of the other schools she applied to had. It made her transition to college easier, and now as a junior, she’s thriving. She’s a leader in an on-campus Christian ministry, and maintains her own blog, From3West, named after the hospital floor she was on when she started it. I’m a firm believer that everything happens for a reason, and I think God sent her to me as a gentle push to start working out and practicing with my crutches again. Jordan even said she would go to the gym with me- having gone through this herself, she knows what exercises to do and how to overcome challenges which may crop up.

Jordan rapping the orange and blue after surgery.

With her in my corner, this journey to becoming fully independent doesn’t seem as daunting or impossible. Now, I have someone to turn to when the days are rough or when a task is difficult. I have someone to get advice from, to learn from, to get stronger with. But most of all, I have a friend I know I can always trust count on. And that is what makes cerebral palsy a blessing: it connects me with the most incredible, wonderful, inspirational people.

I took Jordan to her first volleyball game Friday night.

The Gift of Friendship

Mama at Mama’s Empty Nest nominated me for the 3 Day 3 Quotes challenge (thank you!!!) where I share quotes I’m inspired by three days in a row. The rules are:

1. Thank the person who nominated you.

2. Post a quote for three consecutive days (one quote for each day).

3. Nominate three bloggers each day.

I nominate Following Him Beside Still Waters and anyone else who wants to participate!

My quote for today is:

“Friendship is a gift, and every time I talk to you I feel as if I’m getting richer and richer.”

-Unknown

On the first day of my second semester of high school, I walked into a class where I didn’t know anyone. I was one of two freshmen in the room, and when I scanned the room, I caught sight of a senior I’d seen around campus. He’d always seemed like a nice guy, and I knew two things about him: he played baseball and he was an Alabama fan. So, naturally, I asked him about Alabama football. He answered my question, and then asked if I was an Alabama fan, too.

My response? “Heck, no. I’m a Florida fan all the way.”

His face was priceless. I’m not sure what answer he’d been expecting, but what I said wasn’t it. I’d surprised him, and then he returned the favor the next day, when I walked in to class and found him sitting in the desk next to mine.

His reason for moving seats probably had nothing to do with me, but I’ll always be glad he did. Over the course of that semester he became a friend I can always count on, and someone I know will always be there for me. He never minded helping me, and we got through the class together, an AP course that was difficult for almost everyone. I still remember what he said when I made a comment about my walker one day.

“I don’t care about that,” he said. “I don’t care about that at all.”

And he didn’t. I could tell just by the way he spoke to me. He didn’t mind turning assignments in for me, and once, when we had to evacuate the building, he got up and grabbed my walker before I had a chance to say anything. He helped me outside, staying with me until a teacher told him to keep going. Even then, I saw him turn back around to make sure I was alright.

Even though he’s in college now, we still keep in touch and get together whenever we can. When I was on the homecoming court last year, he made the nearly-hour long drive home to be there, and when I was in the hospital, he texted me every day-sometimes multiple times per day- to see how I was doing. I hadn’t seen him in a few months until yesterday, when I was walking down the hall at school and looked up to see him walking towards me.

“I had to come drop something off and I wanted to come surprise you!” he said as he wrapped me in a hug. He made my day, and the way he hugged me as if my walker wasn’t there reminded me of one of the many reasons I cherish our friendship: to him, I’m just Robyn.

The Reality of Cerebral Palsy

I wrote this yesterday, and I've debated on whether or not to share this ever since. It's not quite as positive or uplifting as some of my other posts, but it's real. This is honesty and vulnerability in its purest form, and while my goal is to be positive and encouraging, I want to be honest and truly show what having a disability is like. I penned this after I had to do something in a different way than everyone else, and I was embarrassed because of it. The stares that came my way made me feel vulnerable in a painful way, and the gratitude I felt when a friend of mine unknowingly made that pain disappear. Please let me know what you think in the comments!

Something changes in the moments when I feel defined by my disability.

Knots form in my stomach, and self consciousness tightens my muscles, making an already difficult task even harder. I become acutely aware of every single sound, every single movement, every single voice in the room as I struggle to breathe through the pain that has overtaken me: Please don't stare at me. Please don't think any differently of me. Please understand. Please. Please.

I'm cloaked in uncomfort and drowning in embarrassment. I'm sorry I can't do this on my own. I'm sorry this is so difficult. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

I'm crying out, but the pain is so intense I can't say a thing. I can't even make my lips form a prayer to call on the one person who could possibly ease my nerves. Look into my eyes. Don't you see how this affects me? Can't you tell that I don't want to do this?

I long to be normal. I long to be able to complete every day tasks with ease, to be able to live without being bound by ropes that were tied without my permission. In this moment, trapped by an ocean of pain, I can't even remember that I was dealt this deck of cards for a reason. I can't do anything, other than try to soothe the monster that won't be tamed.

But just as it becomes too much, just as the ocean overtakes me, you reach in and pull me out. Your smile is my raft; I float upon your kindness. Please keep talking. Please make this go away.

Your voice untangles my ropes, and I'm able to rub the redness from my wrists. As our words flow, the monster disappears and I become Robyn again. Your stories are the dam that stops the rushing adrenaline, your laughter is the salve that relaxes my clenched muscles. You comfort me, you calm me, you revive me. Without knowing it, you've put me back together, and all at once, I can breathe again.