"Just Run Away"

Why Didn't I Think of That?

Photo by marianne bos on Unsplash

There is so much emotional vulnerability involved when you are dealing with chronic illness. Recently, though, I had occasion to think about another kind of vulnerability that doesn’t get discussed as much, and that’s the physical vulnerability.

I have a tendency towards catastrophic thinking. I’m really good at coming up with creative worst-case scenarios. But oddly enough, I don’t usually have much fear of strangers hurting me. Someone can come up to me raving and flailing on the street downtown and I will typically just smile and say hi instead of avoiding them, which is not very smart.

This week, though, I was in a position where a man approached me and was harassing me in public. I was alone, and being polite didn’t work, so I got assertive. That worked, and the situation ended safely. Afterward, though, when the adrenaline had worn off, something hit me that I had never fully realized before.

I couldn’t run if I needed to.

I’ve been in a boot for an Achilles injury since April, so running is pretty much impossible. The next realization was that even without the boot, I probably couldn’t have run away.

Living with Ehlers-Danlos syndrome means that “just run away” isn’t really an option for me. I walk slowly, sometimes I have to use a cane, and sprinting has not been an option for quite some time.

So, there I sat, reflecting on what just happened, my taser still tucked away in my purse, (because of course I didn’t remember to take it out) thinking: If something really happened... what would I do?

Photo by Natalia Trofimova on Unsplash

We spend so much time talking about accessibility in terms of convenience. We think about parking spaces, elevators, space between tables and chairs, and wide restroom stalls. Those things matter, for sure. But accessibility is also about safety.

Many people with disabilities or chronic illnesses can’t quickly escape a dangerous situation. We can’t always climb over obstacles, defend ourselves physically, or move as fast as other people expect us to.

I used to train a workplace safety course that included a segment on active shooters called “Run, Hide, Fight”. A lot of us are starting at the second best option. That’s a layer of vulnerability that healthy people often never have to consider.

Think about all the advice people casually give: “Just leave.” “Walk away.” “Run.” The problem is that for some of us, those aren’t choices, and our bodies have already made those decisions for us.

The answer isn’t living in fear. I don’t want to spend my life afraid of every stranger I pass. Most people are good people, and most interactions are completely uneventful. But I do think many of us with chronic illnesses quietly consider things other people never notice.

How far away is the exit? Is there somewhere to sit if I suddenly get dizzy? Can I make it across this parking lot? What happens if I fall here? Could I get back up? We’re always calculating.

Chronic illness requires that you become more aware of your body’s limits. Most of the time it’s just another routine part of life. Hopefully it stays that way, but this man made me realize that’s not always the case.

So, what was the takeaway? What was the karmic lesson that makes for a good blog ending? Was it the fact that NO ONE stopped to help an older woman with a boot on dealing with an aggressive male? No. That part is probably disappointing but unsurprising to most of us.

I think for me, what I’ve sat with for the last 5 days or so is just coming to a point of acceptance that this is part of my life now, and nothing is going to change it. As a matter of fact, as I age and my conditions worsen or old age issues get stacked on top of disability, it will probably get worse.

So that leaves one answer, my friends. I’m going to be one of the first ones to go when the zombie apocalypse happens. I’m selling tickets to be my best friend, so that you can get away while they eat me. $50 each. Hit me up for my Venmo.

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