The Dying Bird

Take a moment and imagine that you were small. So small that you’re miniscule in the face of an average and ‘normal’ person. A crowd of giants, blurry figures tipping their heads in pity towards someone like you. It’s the necessity. They stare, and stare at the anomaly that you are. You are different. People will praise individuality but avoid abnormality like the plague. But maybe you don’t understand, because you aren’t abnormal like me. You get to walk away as I fall further into the depths of leather and metal encapsulating my frail body like a dying bird. It squishes my skin to force me into the consciously congruent state of my cast-ironed life.

Lucky, they all would say. Lucky that I survived such a tragic accident. How am I lucky if half of me is gone, and the other half is slowly collapsing on itself? I feel numb, yet I wish I could recoil into a makeshift ball until tears have stained my face and crust has formed at the edges of my eyes. I wish I could scream; use all the energy and breath I can muster into my forsaken lungs and burst through the lump that is constantly tight inside of my throat.

My grip tightens on the wheels at my side, pushing them into movement. Creamy white walls surround me, a shiny marble island situated in the kitchen, levelled to my refined nose. “It’s...cosy.”

I scoff, raising my eyebrow at my mother who’s holding a box displaying the words ‘Calynn’s miscellaneous things from depression cave’ messily. “You need to work on your acting mum, frankly it’s not convincing.” She let out an audible gasp, dramatically clasping a hand over her mouth. Smirking, she ws briskly to a room hidden by the painted room divider.

I lock my wheelchair in place, the familiar clicking sound reverberating in my mind. I swing my torso left to right, dreaming of being able to feel the cold wooden floorboard with my bare feet, or wriggling my toes in the fluffy cloud-like rugs furnished in the living space. It has been hard to remember what it felt like before the car accident. The breeze on my legs, grass itching at my ankles, and rocks irritating my heels from manoeuvring their way into my shoes. I want to remember.

The moment is shattered by the subtle but apparent slam of a door, footsteps urging their way towards me. “The workers should be here soon to start helping you with unpacking,” my mum’s smile dims slightly. “Are you sure you don’t need any more help? An extra pair of hands couldn’t hurt right?”

I grasp her hands and intertwine them with mine, “Mum, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. There’s already a ton of people that are going to help so you should just go home and rest.”

She faintly nods, her brows furrowed in hesitance. “If you need me for anything, anything at all, please call me,” she pleaded.

I smiled brightly, dimples curving my cheeks. “Of course.”

Her arms wrapped around me tightly, a tear sliding down her saddened expression. “I love you Calynn, I’ll always be here for you, never forget that.”

I start to feel wetness pooling in my crestfallen eye sockets, returning the hug just as passionately, “I know mum. I love you too.”

The door slowly shuts, leaving me alone to fend in the empty and unknown.

***

“Okay so I’ll just have to get you to sign these National Disability Insurance Scheme Agreement forms. I know you have looked at the Terms and Conditions prior, but we just need to finalise signatures that highlight you give consent to receive ongoing support from our services, as well as that you have been briefed and understand your rights and responsibilities in combination with our rights and responsibilities in our duty of care towards you and the necessary support you require.”

Holy crap that’s a lot of papers.

“Our current plan to help you with your struggles in daily life due to paraplegia is to start the process of house modification so that you can live comfortably and can easily access resources in your own household. We also want to help you engage with support systems such as therapy and trauma surviving support groups so you can get connected to the community in this area. Since you plan to continue studying at university through online classes, we don’t have to worry too much for now about transport. However, you will receive vouchers for disability-friendly transportation if you need to travel outside of your home. There will be a team assigned to your case plan, so if you have any more inquiries or concerns, they are your first line of contact with our services and will support you in your time of need.”

I scribble down my initials hastily, the number of blank spaces multiplying at every turn. My stomach churns as my head mulls over how much all of this could possibly cost. I’m not worth it.

“How much would all of this support cost? Do people under NDIS normally get this much help?” the questions start tumbling out of my mouth, my anxious state bubbling to the brim like a kettle that was overfilled with water. My hand taps nervously at my thigh, my other hand moulding the flesh of my arm, cradling my chest.

“Each participant in our system usually is given a budget around $60,000, however, not all participants will use up the entirety of their budget. For right now, your plan is sitting at around $20,000 or more,” the case worker ensures, motioning that it isn’t something to worry about.

My eyes bulge as my mouth runs dry. My blunt nails dig further into my skin. How is that not something to worry about? I don’t deserve this. There are plenty of other people in more dire situations that need this money and support more. My thoughts erupt like a volcano, spitting out remarks and hurtful comments to burn me to the core.

Soon after, the case worker politely waves as she meanders off to her job. I sit in silence until the light sing through the curtains has disappeared.

The day, being drained of its ever-glowing sunlight, leaves the moonlight to cascade down my windowsill as the breeze of a cool night wafts into the dark room. I roll towards the side of my bed, flicking the light on. As the light sheds a small glow in the room, I reach beside my drawer for my sliding board. Shifting my weight onto my hip opposite to the bed, I place a part of the board under my thigh. I heave myself onto the board, dragging myself to the other side at a snail’s pace.

With my body fully rested onto the soft sheets, my mind instantly recalls the flash of the road before the collision. The smoke that swirled towards the horizon as I felt pools of liquid gush out of my head and body. The smell of gas filtered out the clean air, my vision blotchy with black voids in every corner. I remember an immense weight that pinned my body in place, unable to move, unable to escape. My legs were completely numb, and I felt stuck like an animal tangled in a flimsy barb-wired fence. The last thing I can recollect is the sound of blaring sirens, before finally succumbing to the glowing abyss.

I shudder at the memory, goose bumps spotting my arms. I felt so scared back then. So alone.

My mum barged through the bathroom door, shrieking as she began to scream for help. Her sobs echoed the room, sending my fuzzy brain for a whirl. “Calynn, can you hear me? Can you squeeze my hand?” No response. “Oh my god, Calynn, please, please, please stay with me. David! Call the ambulance!”

The bathroom floor was so...cold. And I saw the blood flowing from my legs into the cracks of the tiles, but I... I didn’t stop. I just wanted so desperately to feel something. I couldn’t handle living in that broken state of being. Not anymore.

From that day, I realised just how bad I needed help. It was terrifying, but nothing would ever amount to the screams and wails from that day as my mum cried, tears endlessly pouring out from her eyes.

I stare down at the scars on my thighs, resembling the pain permeating my heart. I brush the red and glaring lines with a featherlight touch. I cannot let this happen again. I cannot do this to her again.

I grab the little black book, given to me by the case worker earlier. She said I could use it like a journal, to talk about my thoughts and feelings. This way I can get out of my head so to say and have how I felt in a physical form right in front of me. Apparently, it can also help with detaching the intense emotions from the thoughts so that I can look at how I’m feeling more logically. I flip open to the first page and begin to open the cap kept so tightly on the bottle of my feelings.

Maybe one day, I can learn that I deserve help.

Maybe one day, I will learn to love myself and my seemingly broken body.

And just maybe, even a dying bird can learn to fly again.

…Or some shit like that.