The kids in my class had a variety of conditions: a boy with down-syndorome, another with cerebral palsy and a little girl with Spina-bifida. The girl had a walker that she used to get around school.
"Why don't you use a wheelchair?" I asked her one day. "It would be a lot faster to move with."
"Yeah, I'll probably have to get a wheelchair someday," she confessed, "but I want to walk for as long as I can. My doctor says if you don't use your leg muscles, they will shrink and you won't be able to walk anymore."
"Is that true?" I asked our teacher.
"In a way," he responded.
"I want to do my leg exercises today," I said to him.
"Alright," he replied.
I spent the rest of the day thinking about how much time I spent in my wheelchair. I began to worry that the school was trying to take away my ability to walk by making me stay in it all day. Later at home I voiced this fear to my parents.
"Well, I was against getting you a wheelchair, but they wouldn't let you attend school without it, because the teachers are afraid we'd take them to court if you got hurt," my dad explained.
"What if I got a walker?" I asked my dad. "There is a girl in my class who has a walker that she uses and she has a crooked back." (This was before I developed scoliosis)
"You have one," my dad reminded me.
I'd forgotten about the little aluminum walker that came with my first wheelchair. My parents must have left it in the storage shed since I never used it. They brought it out that evening and showed me how to use it.
"The only problem is your backpack," my dad said as he adjusted the straps. I slipped my arms through them and my parents laughed.
"It's as big as you are kiddo," he chuckled.
Not only was it too big, but filled with my school supplies, the bag was too heavy. I felt frustrated as I tried to figure out a way to carry my backpack. I sat in front of my walker when I noticed the front handle bars. They reminded me of the push handle bars on my wheelchair so I took my backpack off of my shoulders and slid the straps onto my walker.
It was a perfect fit.
"Can I take this to school tomorrow instead of my wheelchair?" I asked my parents.
"Yes," they agreed.
The next morning I pushed my walker out to the bus.
"Where is your wheelchair?" The driver asked.
"I'm going to take this from now on!" I proclaimed.
"Okay, but let me carry that walker up for you," she said, and I let her.
It was a steep climb up the bus steps. I'd seen other kids climb up easily, but I didn't understand how. I had to hold on to the rail with one hand and use the other to pull myself up each step. I took a seat in the middle and the bus driver wedged the walker between the seats. It was a monumental moment for me, sitting in the wide seats. Without the restrictive belts that normally held my wheelchair down, I felt like I'd achieved freedom. I hummed happily to myself as we made the drive to school.
With the backpack secured to the front, I pushed my walker into the elementary building, being mindful of each step I took. My parents cautioned me before I left not to behave recklessly. I entered my second grade class feeling proud. I was now on level with my peers, because I could walk. A few of my friends came up to me.
"What happened to your chair?" she asked.
"I don't need it anymore," I proclaimed. "I can walk now." I said looking up.
For the first time it dawned on me how much shorter I was than kids my age. I barely came up to their elbows.
"What's that?" another asked.
"It's a walker," I answered dismissively.
"Can you walk without it?" he asked.
"No, she can't, don't be rude," the other friend snapped at him.
"I can so!" I protested.
"Then why do you have it?" she queried.
"Because of my backpack," I said, omitting that the school wouldn't let me walk without it.
This seemed to satisfy my friend's curiosities. The rest of the morning went okay - I walked to and from my cubby hole, leaving my walker at my desk. It remained forgotten during science lab, story time and art. I was extremely tired from walking around the classroom all morning, but my dream of being treated like every other student had finally come true, However, when recess came that dream was crushed.
"You have to sit at the picnic tables," my teacher told me.
"Why?" I asked. "I'm not in a wheelchair anymore."
"You still have brittle bones," my teacher reminded me.
It was then that I realized my wheelchair wasn't to blame for my banishment from the playground. Now I understood what my parents told me. The teacher was afraid of me breaking my bones.
"I know you are scared of me breaking my bones, but I'm not scared. I do stuff all the time at home - I climb trees, build forts and play outside with my brother and sister, but I am not scared," I said boldly.
"Exactly," my teacher replied, turning to watch my classmates.
I was dumbstruck by her words.
When I got home from school, exhausted from pushing my walker with the heavy backpack, I told my mom what the teacher said.
"Why is it bad to not be scared?" I asked.
"It's not," my mom assured me. "She doesn't think you know anything about having brittle bones, which is stupid because you know better than anyone. Heck, you learned to spell it when you were four--"
"O-S-T-E-O-G-E-N-E-S-I-S I-M-P-E-R-F-E-C-T-A!" I spelled triumphantly."
"Smart aleck!" she hugged me and we laughed.
"So are you gonna take your walker again tomorrow?" my mom asked.
"I think it's better to take my wheelchair, because I can't keep up with my friends, using the walker, and the other kids are really tall," I admitted. "I don't like it."
"That's never gonna change," my mom said.
"I know, but at least in my wheelchair I can run over them if they're mean!"
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