20

It was a Wednesday.

On August 3, 1988, 20 years ago, I was admitted into Children's Hospital for Guillain-Barré syndrome.

I never knew what hit me. For those new to this blog, Guillain-Barré syndrome (a.k.a. French Polio) is a very rare form of Polio, not covered by the Polio vaccine, that left me paralyzed from the head down, including my eyes. Through physical therapy and having a drill sergeant of a mom, I became fully mobile again. Though, I'll never have the strength of an average guy.

It's funny. You'd think I'd remember the anniversary of the day that changed the course of my life. But the truth of the matter is, I didn't. I was at the gym, this afternoon, and my dad told me.

I was kind of like, huh...that's kinda funny.

I don't know if I should be worried (HOWWWWARRRRRRRD!!!!) by this cavalier attitude or grateful that I've gotten to that point where I can shrug off such a horrible time in my life.

I'd like to think the latter.

I used to hate walking around in public wearing shorts. It'd always be the same thing. Some little kid or, let's face it, rude, nosy adult would look up and down the length of my legs, not-so-subtly eyeing the translucent white plastic of my braces that ran up my calves. I'd catch them and then they'd look away and pretend like nothing happened. Luckily, several years ago, I had my leg braces shortened to ankle-length.

The truth is, I just don't think about it anymore, really.

It's a part of me. I wouldn't necessarily say it's who I am, but it's definitely shaped the way I see things, people. There are times where I wonder what kind of person would I have been had I not had the disease. Would I be a star (read: douchebag) football player or wrestler? Would I have be as tolerant as I am now? As socially awkward?

These are questions that will always go unanswered and, truth be known, it's probably better that way.

Because when push comes to shove, I've become so used to being this person, this version of me, I don't think I'd want or know how to be anyone else. I know I have issues--a lot of 'em. I have doubts, worries, insecurities. But at the end of the day, at least I know who I am, I know where I've been and while I don't know exactly where I'm going, I have the past--successes, failures, mistakes and all--to help me get there.

And I've come a long fucking way to get to this point.

But as long winded as this entry already has gotten, the point of this blog is not to write about me. Well, okay...it's a little bit of the point. Not gonna play pretend here.

But no, there's a story I want to tell that always makes me smile and cry at the same time.

I remember how my mom was, understandably, freaking out about everything when I was in the hospital. For a while, she was almost inconsolable. My dad was trying so hard to be the rock, as he always does.

What must have been going through their heads on a day to day basis, the emotions--worry, sadness, anger, frustration--I'll never be able to fathom.

One afternoon, my mom was visiting me and just, ya know, being there for me. I could tell this was taking a toll on her.

Apparently, so could my dad, who had to go out of town on business, that day.

When my mom left my room and walked the great distance to get to her car in the lot, she discovered a note in the windshield. Handwritten, it said the following:

"I love you. Everything is going to be okay."

It was just a simple note. Nothing fancy. But I think it was really what my mom needed to push forward. She cried for a few moments and then stuck the note in her purse. She never got rid of that note.

It's been 20 years. And ya know? My dad was right.

Everything turned out okay.