Uncompromising Kindness or Lack Thereof: How I Ruined One of My Surgeries and What We Can Learn (2)

The next day, a Wednesday, I slept in only an hour more than usual, still earlier than most people who went to school. I knew I needed extra time to prepare myself for a return to school.

Then, there I was, sitting to the side of the classroom at a separate table as people wrote their essays, and where I started to write mine. My teacher was astonished to see me walk into class. Whether it was my decrepit appearance or by the mere fact I had been waking up from major surgery just 24 hours, my teacher ushered me to the seat along the wall, asking if I was able to write the essay that period. I say yes. There was probably no hesitation in my voice. I had committed to coming to school that day to continue on with life. This surgery would not hold me down or back from my opportunities. My teacher continued to stare at me all through class, and not at amazement that I returned so quickly from surgery, but most likely in horror at what I was doing to myself.

At this point, you might be wondering, why didn’t my teacher just send me home? This particular teacher had known me for more than two years already and became familiar with my workaholic tendencies. Hence, when I said I would write the essay, she knew I was not backing down.

Other than my less than superb physical appearance, there weren’t many identifying features that would point out to someone “hey, that person had surgery yesterday”. By this time, I left my protective ear shield at home. There was little equivalency to be made of my situation. There could be conjectures on what could have been if I could have visualized my surgery through something like a cast or crutches. Perhaps, my teacher could have persuaded me to recognize that I needed rest because I could physically see my body healing. However, all I had was myself to rely on.

The rest of the day went by swiftly. I ignored my pain and body repeatedly. I constantly assured everyone around me that I was “fine”. I had convinced myself of that much already.

After school, I somehow convinced myself, whether it was because I didn’t have a ride home or just felt I needed to do so, I attended the musical rehearsal. Of course, listening to the doctor’s orders, I did not participate in the rehearsal. I only took notes and talked with others in order to not fall behind.

Looking back, I knew my body was wasting away on me. My energy had been depleted from school, and now a rehearsal on top of them became too much. Nevertheless, I powered through. As a side note, I very much dislike the phrase “I powered through”. Such a phrase emphasizes our over-commitment to an ableist society in working ourselves to death for what little reward we see in ourselves. Back to the story, though.

Throughout the day, I had multiple comments from others that were genuinely concerned for my health being at school. However, I felt somehow accomplished for demonstrating that I could have major surgery and show up the next day without missing a beat. I felt empowered by ruining my own body. God, that sounds awful. The awful part is that I was completely unaware of what my body and others were telling me the entire time. I advocated for myself in all the wrong ways to live up to standards I would never achieve.

Thursday would prove to be beyond my limits. The first hour of the day was my third year German Language course, with one of my favorite teachers of all time, yet that class period proved impossible. Our unit over the past couple of weeks was covering energy in Germany, and if there’s one thing that comes to mind — it’s cars. Particularly, this class period, we watched a race of fuel-efficient German cars on a winding racetrack. If you were at all curious, yes — it was loud. There were engines revving. The speed of the cars around each bend was enough noise to break the sound barrier.

I remember that I physically slumped in my chair, knowing full well this was not in my doctor’s orders. Even so, I remained in position. I did not want to cause a scene or have to explain why I would run out of the room crying. I clenched my jaw, hoping that would distract me from the tears that slammed against my eyes like rough water thrashing against the shore on a stormy day.

When the bell rang for class to be over, I left swiftly, taking time in the bathroom to collect myself. What was I collecting though? My thoughts were whirling. I couldn’t comprehend that my actions had consequences. I choose to go to school. I chose to sit in that classroom as the car engines rumbled. These were all choices, and I evidently made mine. My emotions were left unlabeled as my working vocabulary of emotions failed to describe what I was feeling.

If there were any tears that managed to escape my strong facial muscular grip, I didn’t let them settle on my skin for long. Luckily, my next class was close enough for me not to worry as the minute bell echoed around me.

As with the previous day, I went on with my classwork as if nothing changed. My emotions numbed with the pain that rested on my ear. Whether I could hear my teacher better in class or function with my peers more efficiently in a noisy classroom, I wasn’t able to tell. Or, if I was able, I ignored it. I had become passive with my inability that such improvements would be glossed over by my ambition to succeed in school.

I denied that what I was living with wasn’t an easy fix or even had a solution.

I was living with a disability, and I didn’t even know it.