I took another walk on Saturday. I wasn’t ready for it, but my chosen trail had some rolling hills. Tilden park was all golden light and dusty eucalyptus. I’m glad I’m returning to trails that go through woods. I’ve been missing moving through these landscapes.

What was new and started with my Stanford walk, but to a much less extent, is people constantly asking what happened. I got my first “What happened?” and it took me a full minute to figure out what he was asking. Somehow, when I’m in a wheelchair it means different, it means chronic, and it means don’t ask. But shuffling around in a walker I am suddenly just taking a break from normal function. I also get “What happened to your leg?” This is a hard question to field. I have to admit, a part of me is thrilled to hear it. I take it to mean I don’t look much worse than a girl in a cast. Granted, it doesn’t take much to fool the casual passer-by. They see my braced right leg and that’s it. But still, that bitter-sweet question… How to answer it? So far I’ve just been unloading all of it: rock climbing, spinal cord, wheelchair, etc etc. A part of me hates it. Why do so many of my interactions have to revolve around what is tragic? We have the same sad conversation over and over. I tell them about breaking my spine. They tell me their sad tale. Everyone has something to share. We make sympathy noises at each other.

On Saturday one man took off his dark glasses and cap after I was done my telling. He was missing a left eye (had a smiley sticker covering the smooth flesh-filled socket). He told me he was shot in the head. Had suffered traumatic brain damage. He had thought it was too much, too hard, that he wouldn’t get through it. But here he was… I don’t know how to take it. Am I fortunate that people want to show me their scars? Am I learning more about being human? Or I am just trapped in a role as a prompt? I don’t have a choice about all this sharing. Perhaps that’s what’s bothering me the most.