The phrase “I can’t believe that this is my life” has an extremely wide spectrum, and believe me, I have experienced both ends of it. It had daunting undertones when I cried it upon the realization that I was paralyzed from the chest down. And now I’m currently experiencing the other end of the phrase, where I say it to myself while admiring my wife, who is burping one of my sons while I feed the other, one dog curled up beside her on the couch while the other lays against my wheelchair.
I truly cannot believe that this is my life—but it took the dark end of the spectrum to get here. Both of my realities live together. I cannot have one without the other, and that duality brings some intense and conflicting feelings.
When I pause to think about all of the things that I’ve done that could have paralyzed me, and reflect on what actually put me in this chair, I cannot believe that it is my reality. The truth is, a spinal cord injury is a thief. From the second you experience one (and I truly hope you never do), all it does is take. And it is a damn good thief.
In many ways, that .45 caliber bullet was a catalyst for changing the entire trajectory of my life. The moment that chunk of lead met my spine, my timeline fractured. In some alternate reality, I’m convinced that there is a Josh working a modest life as a mechanic. He gets off work and heads home to his wife, where they live in a small home and ride on a motorcycle each weekend to go camping. In some ways, this was the ideal life for me. Simple, and full of adventure. In reality, I type this reflection on my computer one letter at a time, wearing a stylus on my paralyzed hand. My body is sore and tired from secondary conditions and chronic pain. I wonder what food I should eat to avoid debilitating stomach pain. I wonder if this migraine means that I have to pee, or that I’m sitting on a wrinkle.
Overall, I have adjusted to a much more sedentary lifestyle, opting for creativity in the absence of physical autonomy (namely, the ability to crank a wrench). And although vastly different and much more regulated, my life is incredible. But existence used to be so fluid and carefree. “Alternate-reality Josh” has the luxury of flexibility, simply taking things as they come. Now, my routine requires rigidity and structure. Life for me isn’t even “one day at a time” anymore. I live moment to moment, especially now with newborn twins. When I start my day, I often speak the familiar “I can’t believe this is my life.” That each wakeup involves an extra hand just to get me out of bed and added support just to perform my activities of daily living (ADLs). What would the old me think if he saw this? Would he recoil at the sight of me swinging in a Hoyer lift, being placed into a power wheelchair?
And just when I think I have a grip on things here in my reality, I’ll get a whiff of motor oil or hear the rumble of a motorcycle exhaust, and “alternate-reality Josh” starts to converge back to my timeline.
Before my injury, I prided myself on my ability to create and fix things, especially for others. In the army, working as the Radio Telephone Operator (RTO) involved troubleshooting radios and outdated communication equipment. Being an infantryman meant working through weapon malfunctions and maintaining the firearms. In my personal time, I was constantly repairing my motorcycle and truck, and had a short stint interning under a master mechanic on sporadic free weekends. Something I never saw myself doing, however, was having to troubleshoot my own broken body. Again, what would the old me think if he saw this?
But that’s just the thing: “alternate-reality Josh” isn’t my truth. Hell, for all I know, that version of myself wrapped his motorcycle around a tree or got hurt even worse doing one of the thousands of dumb things I did prior to my injury. In this reality, I am refined. I have a beautiful family and boys to continue my legacy. I have a loving wife who takes care of me. I have two loyal dogs. In some poetic way, my injury has helped me toward true self-actualization. Sure, I may be in a wheelchair, but I have a capacity to live in the moment and truly appreciate flashes in life that “alternate-reality Josh” wouldn’t even blink at.
So regardless of where I’m at on the spectrum, there is beauty in the phrase “I can’t believe that this is my life.”