I don't know why they don't get better writing for health sites. Surely in the midst of all the pain and insecurity that comes along with searching the internet looking for information about a new condition, some wit or humor would not be amiss.
But I wouldn't pick on them. I'm sure most of the contributors are just trying to pass on some things they've learned while living with their disorders, in this case, multiple sclerosis.

The reason why this particular column gets the Hideous Media treatment is because the myth of the specially-endowed tenacity of the disabled person is such a stereotype, aside from encouraging well-meaning idiots to think brightly greeting me with "If I had to do what you do, I'd kill myself," is a tremendous compliment. I've often wished I were a more feminine sort of woman so that I might flash a toothy Sue Ann Nivens kind of smile and say "Well, don't let me stop you," but I'm not.

Sometimes it takes a lot to live life as a disabled person. The lack of mobility isn't easy, to put it mildly, and it's not like we get many opportunities to throw money at the endless supply of annoyances human life is plagued by. How do I do it?

I'd love to tell you I got a secret decoder ring with the wisdom of the ages in it when I faced that long first step at the hospital. Or that I'm so sweet-natured and spiritual that I never miss my freedom anyway. But I'm just a woman. Sometimes I do a great job making lemonade from all these gimpy lemons. Sometimes I REALLY don't, to the point that there are old memories that still could make my cheeks burn if I consider them too much.

The weirdest part about those awful days is that, at my bitchiest and most morose, those days when I was most sure that my whole psyche was pasted together with glue...that's when someone watched me wobble down the street and said "You're so brave!"

So I'll say now what I was too shocked and angst-ridden to say then: You're kidding, right?

I suppose it is affirming to choose to live, to decide to keep the days of wallowing to some sort of minimum, but "bravery" implies some sort of real chioce. Like I could have had George Clooney rubbing lotion on me in St. Bart's but I chose to learn about my higher purpose by sticking to my seat cushion as a crip in Phoenix in July.

That would be brave. Also, probably stupid and masochistic, but I digress.

I'm not facing a choice to face my day that's very different from the choice facing my fellow(and sister) human beings face.

We're all so brave.

Erika