I look at my hands, two of them, gripping my dogs and playing with them. I look at my feet, two of them, walking on the promenade for hours with no pain. I listen to my voice, clear and crisp, talking to others. I am fine, I am healthy, I am whole.
I look at your hands, one closed one open. You cant hold your own child with open hands. I look at your feet, one walking one dragging. A daily walk for me is a gargantuan struggle for you. I hear you speak and listen to the muffled slurred speech.
Locked-in syndrome. Does it mean locked in your body only, or does it mean locked in
a body that isn't yours. I think I finally understand what it is to wake up in the morning and leave half your body in bed. The struggle of getting people to understand you, to accept you, to respect you. To be you inside you, but not you that you should be.
With this broken, shattered body, you still mange to inspire people, to love people, to cherish people, to respect people, to prove people wrong, to make people Believe. I am those people.
I want to inspire like you do
I want to love like you do
I want to cherish like you do
I want to respect like you do
I want to believe like you do
Yolanda, you are my one constant star of Bethlehem, and I love you till the end of time.
