Take a Seat

— Published in The Paris Review, The New Yorker

My husband is not a tragedy.
He is not a wheelchair or
a walker either. My husband
is the man I married that
one weekend in Heaven
and by Heaven, I mean
a drive by window that
one woman at Comic Con
recommended while she was
drunk. My husband is not
a tragedy and I don’t
understand, for the life of
me, why one botched hip
operation suddenly turned
him into one. We were 
getting along just fine
without your ableism,
thank you very much, but
that one person in the
convenience store had
the balls to cry to me
about how could I see him
that way and let me tell you,
let me tell you miss,
nobody appreciated what
that way implied. I don’t
even have to spell it out
again, do I? The frequent
hospitalizations, the nuse,
the too demanding physical
therapy regimen. You
wouldn’t know kindness if it
up and bit you in the ass
and I bet you slept just
a little too well when
that token cripple in 
Me Before you admitted he
would rather be dead
than in a wheelchair. 
Would it shock you if I said
that one day, I’ll probably
be in a wheelchair because
I tore my ACL and didn’t
even bother to tell a doctor?
I didn’t tell a soul
and that’s what will happen
to me. It doesn’t break me
to know that either. What
breaks me is when pretty little
ableist snowflakes like you
call my husband a tragedy.
He’s not and I’m not either.
Now take a seat.

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