Today I saw a boy who was missing most of his right arm. He was helping his mom load groceries into
the trunk outside of the store. When he
was all finished he returned his cart to the store like a good citizen, walked
back, got in the car and they drove away.
From my window at work, I could observe his struggles without gawking or
making him feel uneasy. I noticed his compensations
–the way what was left of his arm was in a permanent bend and sometimes got in
his way; the way he had to reach over himself to close the car door with his
left arm; the off kilter lean he had to employ to use his short arm to straighten
the cart on a downhill. I noticed, too, after
they drove away, that there were tears in my eyes.
That was unexpected. Why had I reacted so emotionally?
Could it be that I was in awe of how in stride he seemed to
take life? No, I couldn’t be presumptuous
enough to know anything of how well or badly he handled life, except to say
that I’ve always held people who return their grocery carts in high
esteem. No, that wasn’t it though.
Could it be that I’ve had too many pep talks with Dia lately
trying to cheer her and help her understand her disease isn’t as bad a
diagnosis as it could have been? Perhaps
because I’ve been thinking in terms of kids with challenges, having this kid
with an obvious challenge just tweaked my already empathetic state? No, that didn’t resonate either. I see kids with challenges every day.
I was about to chalk the tears up to hormones
when it came to me. Arms. It was the arms.
I’d just gone on a walk not an hour before
this and as I passed reflective windows I caught a glimpse of my mirrored self in full profile...
much to my disappointment. “Those arms…”
I had thought, “I hate those arms.”
I’ve been at war with my arms since I can remember. I think it started when my modeling friend
pointed out how we were the same size everywhere except that my arms were the
size of her legs. My legs were the size
of her arms too, which kind of made it worse: skinny legs, big arms… She had a good laugh about it, but I wasn’t
amused. I’m pretty sure that since that
moment, no matter how much I work out or lose weight or tan, my arms are the part
of me I hate most.
Yet here’s this kid with just one. Me? I
have two of them. They are functional and
they are strong. I can pick Dia up with
just one, but I have the other handy in case I need to carry her for
awhile. My fingers can fly on this keyboard using
both hands. I can swim and dance and run
without compromise. Most importantly I can
put both of them all the way around my kids and hold them tight.
That little boy didn’t look like he was hating his
life. His mom wasn’t doting on him. So I would guess he’s probably pretty well
adjusted and would most likely be irritated at me for feeling badly for him
(and maybe creeped out a little if he knew I watched from the window like that…
sheesh). Still, he’s never going to know
what it feels like to put both his arms around someone he loves.
Flabby or not, I do. And for that gift, I really love them.
