After 5 years of a very obvious disability that does not show great signs of improvement, I still find myself surprised, panicked, and maladjusted to some of the scenarios I find myself in. On November 27, 2018, it was the DMV.
Even though I had made an appointment and spent months gathering the paperwork necessary, I was still completely on edge waiting in line, taking a seat and being called to my appointed window. The place was busy (duh). People slumped about waiting for who knows what, for who knows what kind of vehicle. However, I am banking on the fact that I was the only one in that building who was representing an almost 5-year-old little girl…who needed a handicap placard.
In retrospect, it sounds absolutely absurd that I couldn’t see why I was feeling on edge in that building. My window was attended by a woman who had just helped me renew my license months before. I remembered that we had talked about her seasonal allergies, because it was in April. She didn’t remember me. I sipped my water and tried to focus on the Rihanna song playing in the background. I tried to move to the music to keep my panic at bay, all the while nodding my head at the lady explaining to me the handicap renewal process, giving her extra reaffirming verbal cues.
“Oh really, by June? Straight to my house? Oh, interesting!” As if to say, “I don’t even care that I’m here for my 5-year-old’s handicap tag. It’s like, totally, no big deal!”
I grabbed my envelope with the contents I came for, gathered it with my other belongings and rushed out to my van. I hopped in and grabbed it from my purse, somewhat surprised that they issued what I needed on the spot. No wait needed. However, I had been anticipating this moment, no, dreading it, for 5 years. And then so quickly, my friend with the tattoos, fabulous nails and seasonal allergies handed it to me. It was issued to “Jane Harris”. I thought it was so strange that a government issued envelope was addressed to my 5-year-old who is absolutely tickled by fart noises and The Letter Sounds Song on YouTube. It was probably the one-thousandth rear-view mirror hanger my DMV friend had ever distributed to someone. It felt like 25lbs in my hand.
I opened it and pulled out the very familiar blue tag. The one I had seen for 30 years that generally hangs on really big vans or sturdy Sudan’s. This one was not for another “unfortunate” family, or an elderly couple or injured persons. This one was for me. No, not for me. This one was for Jane. And it read, “Disabled Persons”. And I broke into a million crying pieces.
Immediately I realized the source of my panic, my anxiety, my unease in being in that building (despite all the obvious reasons that every other American feels in the DMV). I wasn’t there to renew my license, I was there to receive a handicap tag for my little girl. The state had decided that it was appropriate to mark Jane Harris as someone who needed it.
For the first time in a while I felt a Jesus-Christ-level desire to take it from her; to have the envelope read “Hilary Harris”, to be the disabled person. But it was not that way. I began to think, “If only that woman in the window would’ve known. She could’ve acknowledged my hurt. She could’ve hugged me. She could’ve helped ease my panic!” But she couldn’t know, and she didn’t.
What can you do when you are bottled up full of years worth of anticipation, grief and what feels like isolation? You just let yourself feel it. You let vulnerability out of its cage and you break.
Sometimes, like me in the van with the envelope, it breaks like a champagne cork, quick and sudden. Other times I think it requires a little more attention and maybe even some outside force. Like the story of the woman who broke her own jar of fragrant oil that cost her a fortune, but likely left a lingering scent for weeks, and anointed a Savior. It’s usually costly to break, but it’s always freeing and often very beautiful.
I got home to Rich and our other 2 girls and listened to about 1 minute of middle child potty training updates from him before I sobbed into his arms. Our middle, Haven, is sensitive and doesn’t like to see mom cry, so I had to pull it together pretty quick.
Not long after that moment, Rich pointed out that our baby (my very last beautiful baby ever ever ever) had started scooting on her belly for the first time.
That evening, Haven went in the potty for the very first time.
All our girls hit milestones that day. All of them looked very different. But all held one thing in common for me: I had to feel.
I had to feel that my baby was on the move and waving goodbye to a chapter I’ll never experience as a mom again. I had to feel that my toddler is capable of learning, growing, and independence we’ve never experienced in this family before. And I had to feel that my big girl will always take me to very vulnerable places and I can’t run from it, but I can let it bubble from the inside out and let it heal me. And if that means crying in the DMV, or to the lady at the counter with the nails, then so be it.
If I want to feel the good I have to feel the painful.
It’s no secret we are all feeling something. And if you have the margin, you can also tune in to recognize or catch the pieces of someone else’s silent struggle. You never know who needs to break.
A few ways I practice “breaking”:
- Journaling and meditation – Getting out the words and listening to the heart of God.
- Counseling – Talking to people with objective perspectives and wisdom.
- Passion projects (“Me Time”) – Things that remind me that I am not solely defined by our pain. There are dreams to accomplish.
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