“You have a strong mind,” the therapist said from her power wheelchair that she maneuvered deftly with a push of her thumb and index finger, her small hand steering her worn, crumpled body -- a trophy left over from the 1950’s polio war.
What did I know? A recently broken survivor of a different kind of psychic car crash -- the cancer war.
She told me right then and there: “Your life will never be the same.”
I hated her for that.
But I also loved her - this clairvoyant on wheels, how she already knew long before I ever would that it would never come easy.
Never.
There was comfort in her knowing.
I loved her for her honesty about the full truth catastrophe and sparing me none. I loved her for grabbing me by the throat with her tiny hand and throwing me up against the wall, telling me I’d have to fight back hard -- fight for every scrap of ground under my feet!
I loved her for how she roughed me up, seeing a worthwhile cause: my battle for dignity and survival.
I loved her for seeing someone who still had value and worth sitting in his brokenness in front of her and taking him to task:
“No time to waste! Get to work!” Adding, “Use what you’ve got! Use your strengths to build more strength! Use the gift of your mind! Use it well!”
precipitous edge
the one that slices cleanest:
Buddha’s shiny blade
