Way back when, long, long ago in March of 2020, when the Pandemic was still new and seemed temporary, Tom and I were talking as we walked down the tree-lined meridian that divides traffic on Eastern Parkway in our new neighborhood of Crown Heights, Brooklyn, and I began to think—and speak—of water.

We were talking about what was at our core, what centered us. I said, “I’m not sure I have a center…I guess the best way to describe what I have would be to say there’s water at my core.”

Now it’s January 2021. The Pandemic remains, though it’s significantly—dangerously—less of the state of emergency here in New York City that it was in March. I sit in my all-too-familiar living room as I have for many days, teaching asynchronously (a fancy word I’ll admit I’d not known until March), trying to work on my novel, trying to unpack the last few boxes from our move that miraculously occurred two weeks before the shutdown of the city began.

And even now, I’m thinking of water.

I assume my non-existent core is water was because I’ve always had to be fluid. I’ve always had to adapt to life. If you’re reading this, more than likely you know about my childhood of surgeries that led to an adulthood of surgeries. If you aren’t aware, you can go here to read about it.

At one point in high school I had to use crutches because my leg was being literally stretched to match the other leg. To say this was painful is an understatement. I had one class—one—that was on the second floor of a building that did not have elevator access. The idea of having to navigate up and down stairs among a herd of teenagers whose brains were filled with hormones and narcissism was too much. I asked for the class to be moved to a classroom on the main floor.

The principal didn’t want to do it. He asked me to meet him at the staircase one day before school and tried to get me to “practice.” Me, being the fluid one, attempted to do as he asked. I put too much weight on my leg. I cried.

The class was moved, but I always felt guilty about it. I, the water, had demanded accommodation. It made me feel so awkward I eventually relented and “overcame” (often a hated word in the disabled community) my fear and pain, so the class could return to its normal location.

I shared this story with Tom only recently, who noted that this might be part of the reason I disliked stairs so much. There’s the obvious fear of climbing or descending, but also that emotion of being forced to do something my entire body was screaming, “NOT YET! NOT YET!”

I had surgery two years ago, which called for crutches yet again. When the PT came the first time, he brought a walker instead. I said I thought I’d be using crutches.

“Oh, this will be much easier. More stable,” he said.

The water again complied, but it wasn’t meant to be. One arm is shorter than the other, you see, so a walker is not the easier option. I finally convinced the PT to find crutches. He was shocked when I made my way down the hall and back again in minutes, compared to the awkward creeping and shuffling with the walker. The PT had placed extra stones in my path without thought, without a note of my medical history and the fact that I told him I’d spent years on crutches. He was the expert. I was the broken one.

Having a handicap means, literally, that you have to adapt to the world, because the world sure as fuck isn’t going to adapt to you. It’s difficult for me to even ask for assistance or to not go along with various activities because I can’t imagine that people—people I love and who love me—would be willing to adapt to me. Some of this is probably because of me more than them, but there are certain loved ones who would possibly think or even say: “Just try. Try harder.”

Anyway, the water image remains. Water can be powerful, I know this. But water is controlled by rocks, concrete, metal, human beings.