there is solidarity in suffering

 There can be beauty and love in being disabled, there is solidarity and warmth in it. 

It doesn’t come in little a sterile pill box handed over by a pharmacy, it’s in the crumpled blister pack kept in the bag of a friend who knows you. It’s sharing painkillers carried specifically for your friends who may need it. It’s in the way we wordlessly pass tablets between us, a penniless trade, a pill for the knowledge you’re at ease.

I’ve never felt as much love and honest care as I do from the disabled people in my life. The people who may not be struggling with the same thing, but understand to a level that cannot be explained by anything other than our shared experiences. The knowledge of pain, whether that be mental or physical, connects us in ways that can’t be compared to any connection with an able bodied person.

Sick4sick friendships are some of the most beautiful I have. I know at least one of us will always have medication to share, I keep painkillers and nausea tablets in my bag not just for myself, but incase one of them needs it too. My partner will always, without fail, offer up his cane if I’m unable to bring mine out. It’s an act that always makes me want to cry, it’s such a personal item, and the thought that he cares so much to be willing to share that is something so deeply special. 

Sick4sick friendships in the way we lean on each other, reaching out instinctively on stairs to steady ourselves down them. Clinging together through dizzy spells. A guiding hand on my back when I can’t see or walk too good. It’s wordless, it’s pure, it’s such a tender love.

I see it with my father, our shared joint supports, hand me down knee straps passed on like heirlooms, such simple items given with such love, even if it is unspoken. It’s driving half way down the street to pick me up when he heard me crying to my mother on the phone when I was flaring up, despite the fact he hates driving the car such short distances. He greeted me on the side of the road, opening the door and nodding, “mines been bad too lately” was all that he needed to say, he understood. For those brief moments as we drove home I felt we bonded more than we had in years. I hadn’t even asked him to come collect me, I didn’t expect him to, but he had, without any hesitation. He simply heard me cry over something and he understood.

I think about that a lot.

I think a lot about moments with strangers. Somehow falling into conversations with customers at work, sharing advice with people I will never meet again. Smiles and understanding nods and somehow genuine care. 

The joy of seeing someone with a matching cane is unparalleled, the grin across the street when we notice. There is something so lovely and so special about having that brief moment, a few seconds where we are connected in a way not many people would understand. 

There is solidarity in the pain and it can be so beautiful.