My Reality Check Bounced! - Jason Ryan Dorsey [53]
At some point in your quest to triumph in the real world, you will hit a roadblock (or twelve). Roommates will steal from you. Job interviews will go poorly. Your girlfriend will dump you. Your boyfriend will get needy. A close friend will die. And you’ll come to the sobering conclusion that maybe you’re not good enough, old enough, smart enough, attractive enough, or strong enough to live the life you dream about. The real question is: How will you handle these setbacks and the insecurities they create? Will you quit on your dreams? Will you smother your opportunities with excuses? Will you point fingers and blame other people for your situation?
Or will you show the world what you’re really made of, like Sean? Sean is a twenty-three-year-old who suffers from osteogenesis imperfecta (OI), a rare brittle-bone disease. When he was born, the doctors told his parents he would not live through the night. They were wrong. Sean is alive and determined to be heard. Or, as he often jokes, he’s alive, and all those doctors are dead. It helps to have a sense of irony knowing that every time you laugh you risk breaking a rib or collar bone.
Four years ago I met Sean for the first time. Like the doctors surrounding him at his birth, I could see he was different. It was hard to miss; he was full grown at three feet tall.
He explained to me that every morning when he wakes up, he faces a decision few of us can imagine: Find out what abilities his body offers that day or stay in bed. It would be hard to criticize him if he chose to play it safe by staying in bed. His disorder is a legitimate medical condition. Who could blame him for not taking risks when his bones are so fragile they could break when he shakes hands?
Sean sees his situation differently:
The turning point in my life was fourth grade. It was Halloween. The one day a year when I don’t stick out in a crowd. On Halloween, everyone looks different.
I was out of my wheelchair, playing on my living room floor, scooting around on my stomach. I had on my Halloween costume and was so excited to show it off to my friends at school. In my excitement, I accidentally caught my left leg on the corner of the doorway, and I heard the bone snap.
My mom heard me yelling and raced down the stairs to reach me. My heart was pumping so fast my breath could not catch up. I knew weeks of staying immobilized in one position lay ahead.
I kept thinking, “Why me? What did I ever do to deserve this pain?”
Running her fingers through my damp hair, Mom calmly looked into my eyes. She tried to take my mind off the throbbing pain, but it wasn’t working. So she softly asked, “Sweetheart, is this [the disease] going to be a blessing or a burden?” At that moment, I felt a peace and clarity that fifteen years later still gives me chills. Until that question, all I could think about was the pain and suffering of my condition.
Up to that point, I thought about being carried between classes at my elementary school, because it was not wheelchair accessible. I thought about people staring at me everywhere I went. I thought about all the things I couldn’t do, not all the things I could.
Lying in my mom’s safe arms, I decided my imperfect bones might be a blessing after all. If I could live through this pain, I could probably help other people do the same.
I went through elementary school, middle school, and high school with a new attitude. At the end of my junior year in high school, I decided to run for student council president. It was one of the few activities my bones allowed. The people with regular bones could play football, basketball, or run track. I had student council.
I put all my energy into winning that campaign. I worked ten times harder than my competition. I was sure I was going to win! I waited with my friends for the big news of my victory. Then my heart sank. I learned that I had lost to a popular cheerleader. I felt angry and jealous.
Her bones worked fine, she didn’t even campaign. Why did she have to steal the one thing I could do? I was ready to quit school altogether,