I do not want to be one of Those People. Those People have problems.
I see Those People in the Health section of the paper. People with cancer and Alzheimer’s and Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. I think, “That’s really sad. Those poor people.” But what I’m also thinking is that only Those People have those problems. And I am not one of Those People. I am different. Separate. Other. So I don’t have aaanything to worry about. Nope. I am safe in my little world of Otherness.
Lately I am finding more and more of Those People. A woman I met in meditation has a recurrence of ovarian cancer and is undergoing brutal chemo treatments. Another friend suffers side effects of breast cancer treatment including a decreased sense of balance—she’s had several severe falls. Another family’s daughter has been kept home from Junior High since before Christmas with a mysterious ailment that defies diagnosis and leaves her with vertigo, debilitating headaches and stomach pain. And the list goes on from others. Diabetes. Stress fractures. Arthritis.
I have a lot of sympathy for them. Really. But I’m not one of them. Those things are tragic and unfortunate, but they only happen to Those People. And Those People are different from me, right?
Yet a nagging neck injury compounded by disc problems in my back has had me in and out of physical therapy for a year and grasping for help for what I originally thought was a minor annoyance. There are cracks in my Otherness cocoon.
I rail and curse and struggle and thrash to distance myself from Those People. Anything to fend off an identity as one of them. Because I’m not. I can’t be.
I try to think of one thing that they all have in common, that will distinguish them as a group Separate from myself, but the only common thread I can come up with is this: they all have bodies.
I have a body. Damn. Maybe I am one of Those People after all.