A post about my hand.

"But it's hard to miss them, right?" Usually people ask, but you didn't. Still, I figured you were probably wondering. You'd be surprised how many people just walk right up and ask, point-blank, like they're asking what time it is."
"That's rude," I said.
"Mmm-hmm," Monica agreed, stubbing her cigarette out in the windowsill.
Kristy shrugged. "Really, I kind of prefer it. I mean, it's better than just staring and acting like you're not. Kids are the best. They just look right at me and say, "What's wrong with your face?" I like that. Get it out in the open. I mean, shit, it's not like it isn't anyway. That's on reason to why I dress up sp much, you know, because people are already staring. Might as well give them a show. You know?"

This quote is from a novel by Sarah Dessen, an author who recently made it into my top authors list. It is about a girl names Kristy, and her scars from a car-crash she was in as a kid, and how she isn't ashamed of it.
For those who know me, you might understand just how I relate to this. For those who don't know me, here's a clarification.

I was born with a condition, you might call it. A problem, indeed. I am lacking finger on my left hand, as if the production just slowed down and then stopped when the mighty little midgets in my mom's stomach was creating my hand. I have my wrist left, and I don't think I can tell you just how grateful I am for this. During the 18 years of which I have been roaming this planet, I have learnt to do pretty much everything you can do, even if it might be a little different. And as upset, angry and sad, I become, there is always that little voice deep inside wich assures me it could have been worse.

When I was younger mom used to drag me to these dysmelia get-togethers. We'd eat hot-dogs, play brännboll - a game somewhat related to softball and baseball - while our parents sat on blankets discussing things we knew nothing about. Some of these children, all capable happy children, were so much worse off than I was. They'd be missing arms from their elbows, or even from their shoulders. some missed legs, some were in wheelchairs and some were missing both legs and arms.
But we laughed. And I always felt guilt when I cried, because when one considers it, I am lucky.

It wasn't until later years, long after I had given up on these meetings, that we hadn't just been going for my benefit. As a kid, I had no idea how difficult this was for my mom. She has always loved me, always taken care of me, letting me go my own paths. Some parents faced with the problem that having a child with dysmelia might have done things differently than my mom did. They might have hidden me, might have tried to ignore it, or worse, making a show of it. But now my mom. Instead he encouraged me. And I guess I was quite a little dare-devil as a child.

Every decently sized playground used to have these climbing walls. Now when I am older I always look at them, wondering how I could have thought them so tall back then, but as a kid, they're huge. And to me, they were taller than ever. But, my friend climbed, and so did the other children. Who says I can't climb a stupid wall? And I did. I climbed the wall. I climbed pretty much everything that was climbable. Just because I could.

But back to my mom. I am so grateful that she treated me like she did. I have never been ashamed of my hand. Sure, sometimes I look at people's perfect hands and I curse them all. But I am not ashamed. I have never hidden my hand from view because I don't want people to react, and that is all thank to my mom. She made sure I was comfortable with it. And I should be. I mean, this is me. I can't change this. Of course I hate it, I'd give anything to have two proper hands, but I don't spend every single wake moment thinking about it. Just some dark lonely nights.

Now and again we get a letter about a new event, and I always refuse them. But sometimes I think I would like to go, just because I want to talk to the parents of small children, I want to tell them how it is going to be. Because, frankly, it's going to suck. Their child will have days where they can think of nothing else, when they curse the world for being unfair, and when nothing seems bright. There will be times when they think this will ruin their future, when they think no one will hire them, when they think no will love them.
But if they help their child accept this, if they help them achieve things, if they let their children show off their arms or legs, it will not last long. When the nights over, they'll go back to laughing with their friends and climbing those walls. They will.

I chose to write this because the quote just got to me. Especially the kids part. I work in the movie-store at the moment, so there is much interaction with children and they often do just that. "What happened with you hand?".
The first few times it was awkward. Most people don't notice, and I had to talk about it with customers lining up. But after a while, the words just flow out.
There was this one girl once whom I noticed staring. After a while she asked the question, and when I had explained, she turned her big eyes up to meet mine and asked me if it hurt. I assured her that it didn't, and after a few apologetic words from her mom, they were on their way, leaving me to deal with other customers.

But I remembered her, and it does hurt. Not physically, but it hurts. At some times I feel like crying, locking my door, and just pretend that is isn't real. I can't even begin to count the times I have dreamt that my hands was real, only to wake up to reality. And it hurts. God dammit, it hurts so badly, I feel like dying.
But then it doesn't. I don't even think of it at times. My friends forget it. Actually, they forget it so often, I am now convinced that it doesn't define me. I am what I am, hand or no hand.

And I always will be.

So, this was my long, pity post for this time. I don't really know what I was planning to accomplish with it, but maybe I just needed to write it down. Maybe I just needed to let it out.
And too all people out there with disability of some sort: Do Not Despair. You can do amazing things. You can climb your walls. I know I can.

And with only one hand, I was still one of the first people in my class, to learn how to tie my shoes. Beat that.