Finding Strength on a Week Day

As I try to do another pushup, the pain surges through my body, and I feel my back sag to the ground.  "Keep it straight," I think to myself, "just five more!"  The imitation carpet on the concrete floor digs into my palms as I struggle to push myself back up.  "Keep going!" I think to myself, while my lungs heave air.  Two words: it hurts.
 

As I climb onto my bicycle, I groan, because I ran ten miles yesterday.  "I could've had at least ten protein shakes instead of just one," I think to myself.  I know that ten is an unrealistic number, but I still feel like I could do it.  After all, my calfs and quads still hurt.  As I switch to high gear on the nicely wooded bicycle trail, I grimace.  I'm not ready to change gears yet, I decide.  I switch back to mid-gear, but I'm still uncomfortable.  It hurts.
 

I replay yesterday in my mind, and wonder where I went wrong. Step one, bicycle into town.  Step two, drop the bike off at the local gym.  Step three, drink from their water fountain.  Step four, walk to the light.  Step five, find the right song on my iPod Shuffle.  Step six, keep running until I'm done, or have to stop.  Step seven, bicycle home.  Step eight, eat something.  Step nine was "get to bed on time," and I skipped it.  I had a good reason then, but now, it just hurts. 
 

As I walk into the special-ed classroom that I'm required to volunteer in once a week, the students greet me.  "Miah!" Chip yells, turning to look at me.  "Mr. Cook!" Andrew says, getting up to give me a hug.  I wave at Chip, and then hug Andrew.  Glancing over at Alyssa and Jordiana, I see them sitting quietly in their wheelchairs.   Knowing that they can hear me, I go over and talk to them.  "Hi, Jordiana!" I say, with a big smile.  She turns her head to look at me, and I smile and walk over to Alyssa.  She's sitting in a corner, and from what I can tell, she doesn't know I'm here yet.

 I get on my knees, pick up a ball, and toss it into the air.  Alyssa starts to smile, so I do it again.  She giggles this time, so I grab the ball with my hand and hold it about a foot away from the left side of her face.  "Where is it, Alyssa?" I ask.  She turns her head to look at it, and I exclaim, "Good job!" I hold it on the right side, and she looks at it again.  I repeat this game, and she looks as it as I toss it into the air.   She laughs again, and again, and again as I continue tossing and catching the ball.  Most kids would find this boring, but Alyssa doesn't.  If she could, she couldn't tell me verbally, or use her hands to sign to me.  I take the time to play with her, because I know that not being able to communicate verbally or through sign language must really hurt.  After all, everyone has to guess what you want!
 

After a bit, the students go to their academic stations, and Alyssa is strapped into a  dynamic stander, which gives her the opportunity to walk around.   As she does so, I notice that her shoes light up with each step.  She drags them along, moving her hands and sticking out her tongue involuntarily.  Watching her, I wonder what it's like to have the freedom to move only when someone else wants you to.  I've seen her crawl on the floor before, dragging her palms as her fingers point inward at her wrist.  I've gotten used to it by now, but the first time I saw it, I figured that it sure must hurt.

As I think back to my workout yesterday, and my bicycle ride today, I realize that every pushup I do is a choice, and every step and turn of the pedals of my bicycle is a choice as well.  I don't have to work out.  I see this in Alyssa as well.  She's not someone with a disability, and she definitely isn't a disability.  She chooses to walk around, chooses to laugh, and chooses to look at the ball when I toss it into the air.  Best of all, she chooses to smile.

As the bell rings, I watch the special-ed assistants push her out to the bus. I know it's about to rain, and that I could ask for someone to bring me home so I can avoid the weather and the pain.   The students wave to me, and I make up my mind and head for my bicycle.  I know I'll get soaked, but this time, biking won't hurt.