A few years ago I watched a Seinfeld episode with my parents. At the mall, the gang couldn’t find a parking spot. Someone suggested the handicapped spot. Another said that you couldn’t park there. Kramer said, “Those people don’t drive.” I thought my father was going to fall on the floor he was laughing so hard. He’s on the inside. He’s allowed to laugh. He and my family experienced my injury, which is often harder on others than the individual.  They experience the trauma, but only the individual can improve the situation.  He deserved to laugh, but then again so did the rest of us.

I grew up on MASH. If you don’t laugh you’ll cry, but if you don’t say anything, it’ll just eat you from inside. Laughter is good. Humor is great. Make it funny. To make it funny, there has to be a bit of honesty, which is often in far too short supply in our lives.

Honesty carried the day last year when I visited Aspen. I shared a cup of coffee with the mother of one of my friends. Her boyfriend joined us midway through. He’s a big guy, formerly from Southie, wears a full-length coat and Ugs. Not thirty seconds into it he says to me, “So how’d you get f’ed up?” Talk about an honest question—no time for beating around the bush. From some people this would have turned me off completely, but this guy’s question said, “There’s a pink elephant in the room and I’m going to name it.”

Generally, I don’t like to be known for how I had my injury. I think it’s an easy way to make me separate. Many people ask because they want me to tell them that what happened to me can’t happen to them, but there’s also a genuine curiosity. Sometimes it’s all that people can see. This guy acknowledged that he couldn’t see anything else. He wanted to know so he could stop thinking about it.

I’ve always wanted people to see beyond my wheelchair. I think, why can’t they see me for who I am, but that just exposes the hypocrite in me.  One time, I worked out on the gym on a Sunday. It was the middle of winter. Most people skied, snow-shoed or otherwise enjoyed the outdoors, but a small group of us pushed some weight around. One woman had two prosthetic legs. It is easy to think of an Ahab, peg-leg character when imagining a prosthetic, but this woman’s legs were carbon fiber—sleek, shiny, and even sexy. She was a double AK or above the knee amputee. She had no knees, yet walked effortlessly.

When I saw this woman, I’d been reading a book about Hugh Herr, a climber who lost both of his legs to frostbite. A storm had trapped him and a climbing buddy on Mt. Washington. By the time they were rescued, frostbite had damaged Hugh’s legs to the point where they had to be amputated. Eventually, he returned to climbing, where he received the highest praise that any disabled athlete can receive. People claimed that he had an unfair advantage on the prosthetics that he developed. They were much lighter than regular legs, making climbing easier, at least in the eyes of some.

Hugh’s story was mesmerizing. When I saw the woman in the gym, I wondered if she was a climber. I wondered if, like Hugh, she’d lost her legs to frostbite. I couldn’t think of anything else. Maybe I could say, “nice legs.” I get that all the time. “Cool gear.” “Look at that rig.” It’s a safe middle ground as people comment on my monoski, off-road chair, or racing chair. It’s well intentioned and far better than the, “Are you guys racing?” as two wheelchairs go down the street—obviously not racing—but I expected so much more from myself. I expected so much more, but all I knew was what not to say. “Nice legs,” was probably not appropriate. “Did you lose your legs climbing?” “Do you know Hugh Herr,” (as if everyone with a disability knows everyone else). I couldn’t see anything, but her legs and by extension disability. I couldn’t say anything.

I finished a set of flys. The woman walked past me and said, “That’s a lot of weight.” I mumbled, “Thank you,” but I really wanted to ask if she lost her legs climbing. I wanted to share my newfound knowledge of Hugh. It’s the equivalent of approaching someone with a broken arm and saying, my uncle broke his leg when he fell off the roof. Uh huh. Not really a conversation starter.

I never did talk to that woman, and I’m on the inside. I couldn’t get past her story or what I imagined her story was, because I knew too many ways that I could offend her, but that guy in Aspen hadn’t offended me at all when he asked, “How’d you get f’ed up?” Maybe there was something there. Maybe we’re just too darned uptight. Maybe we need to ask a question and want to know the answer and to give the other person the benefit of understanding what we’re trying to say even if we don’t really know.

“Those people don’t drive.” That would make life so much easier. Then everyone would be like us and we’d always know what to say.