Steve and I had dinner (and a hot game of canasta) last night with my parents. On the drive home, somehow we started talking about the whole hearing- and vision-loss thing. He asked me whether I ever think about what it would be like to go in for surgery and come out able to see everything -- clearly, peripherally, even at night. I do think about this, but mostly in abstract terms. I have days and moments when I wonder what it might be like to move through the world smoothly and effortlessly, instead of being constantly on guard lest I add further to the roadmap of scars on my shins and knees. I occasionally feel sorry for myself and dream about what it would be like to see the whole rock when I'm climbing, or to be able to ski really fast again. But most of the time, I don't think too much about what I've lost, and worry more about dealing with (and making the most of) what's left to me.
I also told Steve that I feel like I've been dwelling on these issues lately, and that I don't want to feel like I'm using my disabilities as a crutch or an excuse. Last Sunday, for example, I skied like total garbage. It would be easy for me to whine (as I did that day) that it was snowing really hard and I couldn't see anything. But the truth of the matter is that no one could see a damn thing, and I just wasn't skiing well. I doubt I'd have done any better if my eyes were normal -- I have a long way to go before I'm linking tele turns consistently, especially on bumps and funky snow.
Along the same lines, I feel like an impostor whenever someone says that they're impressed or inspired by my athletic pursuits. There's nothing impressive about my athleticism, other than perhaps my consistency in dragging my butt to the gym at a godawful hour most mornings. I'm a middle-of-the-pack triathlete at best, and don't excel at any of the three disciplines. I'm a decent climber, but I'll probably never do much trad leading. I'm a solid skier, but no one's going to watch me from the chairlift and wish they could ski like me. Plus, I can't throw a frisbee to save my life, and I completely suck at any sport involving a small, moving projectile (which is likely to hit me in the face before I can see it, let alone catch/kick/hit it).
I suppose that my dedication to active pursuits comes in part from the sense of control it gives me. It's satisfying to feel some mastery over my physical being, when my vision loss, in particular, seems so utterly beyond my control. But I strongly doubt that I would be any better at sports if my eyes and ears worked perfectly. I mean, no one in my family has any great athletic talent, other than my brother, who has natural athletic ability that he's mostly let go to waste.
There are people out there who have achieved true athletic greatness inspite of (or, better yet, regardless of) a physical disability. People like Erik Weihenmeyer, Marla Runyan, Jim Abbott, and Wilma Rudolph, to name a notable few. They are inspiring. I'm just out there breathing hard and sweating.
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