I was wheeling through the park, just in awe of the trees, when I realized their new green leaves were actually black and yellow, and were actually bees.
Life is hard when you have no legs, but not as hard as wheeling away from angry bees.
They covered me. I was head-to-knee bees. I flopped out of my wheelchair. It felt like they were eating my skin.
After a few minutes, the bees flew off. But then one fat one came back and stung me in my right eye. A cat ate my left eye when I was a baby.
At the hospital, when I told the nurse with the teddy bear voice how it almost felt like the bees had eaten my skin, she threw her head back and laughed and said, “Oh, but they did eat your skin, silly! You have no skin now.”
Parents who feel guilty about having normal children with eyes and legs and skin send me presents. Every day, Gloria (the nurse with the teddy bear voice) dumps a fresh load of packages into my containment unit.
I appreciate these gifts. I do. At the same time, I’m hunched at the bottom of my containment unit, with all this stuff on top of me, trying not to get crushed to death.
Guilt is real. It’s a real thing. It weighs about 800 pounds, I’d say. And counting.
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