THE MEANING OF (MY) LIFE: OR, THAT CHICK’S GOT CRIP CRED OUT THE YIN-YANG.

I’m ecstatic, ebullient. Over the moon.   My mind is blown and my heart is a-flutter.

You see, I’ve had an epiphany of Biblical proportions. I have discovered the meaning of life, or rather the meaning of my life.  And I didn’t have to go to an ashram in India to do it. It simply came to me out of the blue.

I now understand why I was put on this Earth, and it’s not about my own personal journey of self-discovery or growth. In fact, it’s not about me at all.

I exist solely to make non-crips feel good about themselves.

That’s right: the purpose of my existence is to reassure those who don’t (yet) use canes, crutches or wheelchairs to get around.

Why, you might ask, do those folks – the ones who don’t move through the world in gimpy fashion – need reassurance?

I’ll tell you: when you can get out of bed in the morning without pain and go about your day without restrictions in movement, it’s pretty dang scary.

I mean, who wouldn’t be rattled by having no worries about whether your caregiver will show up on time because you don’t need a caregiver at all? Putting on your own clothes and making your own breakfast is stressful. Not having to rely on para-transit to get you to work on time is nerve-wracking.

OK, I’m just going to say it: non-gimps have a pretty crappy life.

But, see, that’s where I come in. I am absolutely, positively, undeniably disabled. For one thing, I use a power wheelchair for mobility. And on the rare occasions that I stand up and take a few steps on my own two feet, ain’t nobody gonna mistake me for an Olympic athlete.

In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to someday overhear someone whisper: “Say what you want to about Heidi, but that chick’s got crip cred out the yin-yang.”

Clearly, my life’s purpose is not to be a valued, autonomous human being with my own meaningful existence. No sir. I was conceived, raised and put out into the world to serve as an example of what NOT to be. Of what to be thankful that you’re not. A sort of goofus gimpy human being to serve as a foil for the non-gimpy gallant ones.

I’m a living embodiment of the tried-and-true bromide: “I was sad that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.” (In this case, I’m the one who has no feet. Except in reality, I do have feet, though they’re mangled and pretty messed up.)

Imagine, a half-century I’ve spent contemplating the purpose of my existence. All the wisdom I’ve sought from the teachings of philosophers and sages. Countless hours of ruminating.

All along the answer was to be found in the pity-filled gazes of non-gimps not-so-secretly grateful that they’re not me.

Thank you ever so much, all you graceful-gaited, altruistic non-gimps.

Without you, I would be nothing.

EVIL WHEELCHAIR: DESTROYER OF LIVES

Ah, the wheelchair – that sad symbol of failure and loss. A 25-pound contraption of vinyl, metal and rubber that seems to have an almost mystical power to break the human spirit.

You’ve heard the comments.

“That poor man, he’s stuck in a wheelchair.”

“She’s got a handicap that’s left her wheelchair-bound.”

“What a shame – confined to a wheelchair.”

I know of what I speak on a personal level. I’ve been confined to my prison on wheels for 30-plus years. And let me tell you, it’s no picnic.

Using a power wheelchair is certainly a burden. When I got my first one at 18, I realized the consequences right away. It forced me to get around on my own, and I had no choice but to go away to college. Sadly, being able to get out of my house meant I had to meet people, some of whom became dear friends and one of whom became my beloved husband. I even had to get an education.

As if that weren’t bad enough, the chair’s powers sentenced me to getting my own apartment and going away to law school. Three years I spent in that university! Three years of education that allowed me to pass the bar exam on the first try! All due to the mobility caused by that damn chair.

Getting around independently has even more drawbacks. It’s forced me to have a successful career I’m proud of, and allowed my husband and me to take vacations. Wandering the white hilltop villages of southern Spain, exploring the Tuscan countryside, taking in plays on Broadway and London’s West End – all enabled by that blasted chair! Why can’t it just leave me alone?

But at least my days are brightened by kind strangers with pity in their eyes who hand me dollar bills. Why, those extra two or three sawbucks a month sure do help pay the mortgage. And I never grow tired of hearing folks shout out: “Slow down, little lady. You’re gonna get a speeding ticket!” Why, just last week I heard the 5,741^st person say that very-same phrase to me and I burst out laughing. Noel Coward and Dorothy Parker had nothing on that clever wag!

I have to hold onto these meager bright moments in my life. Otherwise, the misery of my incarceration in my wheelchair would truly be too much to bear. If only I had no chair to take me around and could simply remain in my house each and every day. I imagine a life spent in front of the TV clad in T-shirts and sweatpants, watching Jerry Springer and eating Cheez Doodles. Ah, but it’s only a dream…

But I vow to accept my fate. I shall remain strong. What choice do I have in this miserable prison on wheels?