call me a fighter

What were you doing when you were 11 years old?
In Australia that's year 6, the second last year of Primary school.
When I was 11 years old an orthopedic surgeon told me that I would be in a wheelchair by the time I was 20. As if puberty wasn't bad enough. I'm being told that I face the rest of my life as a cripple. Well, its been 20 years or more since that shocking news. The good news is that I am up on two feet. I walk without help. Sure, they're not the prettiest pair of legs by any stretch of the imagination, however they get me where I need to go. That's why I call myself a fighter.

I have a condition known as Spondylolisthesis. Basically my entire spinal column had slipped off of my pelvis by up to 75%. I also had a very severe case of Knock-knees. I underwent four operations in the space of three years; spent a total of five weeks in hospital and missed many hours of school since we lived nearly five hours from the nearest surgeon. The bottome three vertebra of my spine have been bolted into my pelvis with titanium rods and screws and I have a pretty impressive collection of scars.

My parents handled the diagnosis in very different ways. My mother was very pragmatic, level headed and supported me unreservedly.

My father reacted badly. For months leading up to the doctors' visit he had refused to believe that I had a real, legitimate problem. Instead he yelled at me for being lazy and performed these horrible parodies where he'd stagger around, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth and making gurgling noises. After the initial diagnosis it seemed like he could not get out of the room fast enough. He only visited me once in hospital, never came to another medical appointment and would bolt every time I tried to start a conversation with him.

While my Mum busied herself with ferrying me back and forward to numerous tests, xrays and medical appointments- all while juggling three younger children (including a toddler and a baby). My father threw up a wall, put his fingers in his ears and tried to forget that I even existed. Like I was this massive embarrassment to him. The brilliant veterinary surgeon and geneticist couldn't even breed his kids right!

But, I survived all the surgery. I have some pretty impressive scars and I've been told that I walk with a hitch in my step. You know what? That doesn't matter to me now. What's important is that I beat the doctor's prognosis. I am walking. I don't need that wheelchair. I live with pain but I've learnt to push that to one side and keep on moving. Scars can be hidden under clothing and I can choose to tell people about my 'disability' or not. With all this titanium I'm carrying I reckon I'd be worth a great deal- going on current world metal prices -hope no one gets crazy ideas!

They might not be the best, most attractive set of feet but at least I can walk!