Columnist Samantha Renke reflects on the impact a recent episode of ill health has had on her self-perception as a Disabled person
Bones I can do. Brains? Not so much. That’s the blunt summary of an ordeal that’s made me re-evaluate life.
As someone with brittle bones, I’ve become an expert in the art of breaking them. A fall, a wrong move, or even an overly enthusiastic sneeze… snap! Arm, rib, collarbone – take your pick.
There’s the split second of realisation, followed by blood-curdling pain. Three seconds to manoeuvre myself into a vaguely tolerable position before I’m completely immobile. Usually, I can even identify the exact bone, the severity, and whether it warrants a trip to A&E.
I know the week ahead will be miserable, and my home will need adapting to accommodate my new normal. I’m not scared. I know it’s temporary.
When you live with a pre-existing condition, it’s easy to become complacent about other health issues. Surely the universe can’t be that cruel, and give you another thing to contend with?
Disabled people are still people. We’re not exempt from illness or diagnosis: something I learned the hard way when what was initially dismissed as sinusitis turned out to be a severe brain bleed.
After multiple hospital visits and being fobbed off, I received a CT scan. Doctors kept commenting on how alert and well I seemed, so I never imagined what came next. The doctor came to my bedside, drew the curtain, and asked: “Is your mum here?” Oh. I knew whatever followed wasn’t going to be good.
OUT OF MY DEPTH
Lying there, I tried to process what I’d just been told. I was being transferred to neurology to determine whether I needed emergency surgery. Underneath my odd sense of calm (or was it shock?), there was fear, anger, and – for the first time in a hospital setting – a deep sense of being completely out of my depth. I even felt a strange sense of injustice. Haven’t I been through enough?
My father sadly passed away at 38 from a brain haemorrhage. Lying in that same hospital years later, I found myself frantically messaging loved ones, sending words of love and appreciation, just in case.
The past few weeks have been about healing. Thankfully, my little-but-mighty body is doing what it does best and tackling the bleed on its own. I’m in awe of it – its quiet determination to keep going.
I’m writing this not just to share my experience, but to ask for compassion. Sometimes, life throws a curveball that no amount of ‘training’ prepares you for.
And in those moments, strength looks different. It looks like: I’m scared. I need support.
Because this experience has taught me something I’m still coming to terms with: I’m not invincible. And that’s a very human thing to feel.