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" “Good morning, sunshine!” I quipped in the most saccharine tone I could muster as I wheeled myself into the lecture hall. I have to admit, it’s a little bit of an inside joke between me and the universe. You see, ever since the unthinkable happened to me, I made it a point to greet each day with a concentrated dose of enthusiasm – a display of sheer defiance to the invisible puppeteer who, four months ago, plucked and toyed with the strings of my otherwise perfectly sculpted life.

Has it just been four months? I still find it ludicrous, how such a short amount of time could change everything so drastically. Just four months ago, Britt Lindqvist was a fit and athletic 20-year-old university student with dreams of becoming an architect. I enjoyed going on long runs with my friends and had an affinity for gymnastics. And now, here I am - imprisoned in this reclining padded custom wheelchair, dependent on those around me, and not to mention (though I will), confined to adult diapers due to my body’s newfound penchant for sudden leaks and uncooperative muscle-joint coordination.

Despite the innumerable challenges, I still believe I’ve maintained a good sense of humor about the entire ordeal. Well, at least most days. Today was a good day. Today, my cheeks ached with the effort of smiling through the pain, beaming at the friends and classmates who undoubtedly found me ‘inspirational.’ Truth be told, I’d punch inspiration right between its condescending eyes if I could.

“Hey Britt! You’re looking great today!” Chelsea, my incredibly sweet and equally insipid best friend, jumped onto the seat beside me (a seat she’s exclusively claimed for the sake of our friendship).

“Thanks, Chels,” I said, adjusting my legs onto the footrest of my chair, suppressing my grimace. “You’re looking radiant as ever!” And wasn’t she? Not a single strand of her blonde hair out of place, not a single lousy joint stopping her from whirlwinding about.

“You know, for someone who’s—” Chelsea paused, lowering her voice to a whispered croak, “in your situation, you sure have a way of making everyone else feel good.”

Geez, her attempts at delicacy always amused me. “My situation,” I snickered. “That’s one way to put it.” Believe me, if I could trade four months of my life for the ability to walk unassisted again, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But, for now, I’m stuck facing this ‘situation,’ and the least I can do is live my life so packed with wit and humor that people forget my predicament long enough to laugh and breathe.

If only it were that easy to forget my own walls. I often find myself gazing at the tall modernist skyscrapers downtown, longing for the immovable certainty I once had in changing the world with each stroke of my pen. Little did I think that right before my life changed its course forever, I’d paint myself into a corner. Each stroke symbolic of a stolen limb, a stolen leap, a stolen dance.

In the midst of my ruminations, Chelsea whispered mindlessly about the date she had planned the night before when I felt a sudden damp prickle against my skin. I knew exactly what it was - a reminder of the cruel joke that keeps on giving. Solemnly, I fumbled for my bag, and in my most nonchalant tone, excused myself.

“Hey Chels? Yeah, no, I just need to go take care of something real quick. Class is about to start anyway.”

Familiar disappointment flashed across her eyes, chided and replaced with a strained smile in less than a heartbeat. “Of course, Britt. See you inside.”

As I wheeled myself into the restroom, I thought, not for the first time, how life continues to surprise me, no matter how much I come to terms with my situation. It just never gets old or fails to make me cringe every time I have to change a diaper or breathe through a moment of despair.

One thing I can say, though, every secret tear, every moment of hopelessness, and each forcibly drawn smile only stiffens a once-battered muscle. I can’t control the parts of me that have turned against me, but I’d be damned if I ever let them control the parts that are left. So, here it is, my story about finding laughter in unthinkable situations and drawing strength in life’s twisted ironies - told through the eyes, and well, otherwise non-functioning body, of Britt Lindqvist. Strap in, it’s going to be one hell of a ride.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from countless lectures and good ol’ fashioned people watching, it’s that people can be more than a little predictable. Put your average city dweller on a busy street, and I guarantee you; I can guess their next move. Sure, some might call me cynical, but I prefer to call it ‘dialed in.’

My favorite reaction? It’s definitely what I like to call ‘The Avoidance.’ The one where they see me coming from a mile away, and their faces twitch in that peculiar little dance of instinctive fascination and social restraint. Oh, they try not to stare, but you can’t miss that elongated blink across strained faces. It’s like an involuntary reaction to my presence, like I’ve magically sprouted Medusa hair, and they assume they’ll be turned to stone if their eyes meet mine.

It’s actually kind of amusing to catch someone mid-dance, watch as they squirm, avoiding eye contact at all costs. So there I was, catching glimpses of people trying not to stare as they walked by, when suddenly, “There she is!”

I turned to see the source of the unexpected surprise - two old friends with whom I’d had the most bizarre adventures. Otto Loosli and Marcel Messier, dressed in cheap business suits, stood beside a dilapidated beige Mercedes-Benz S124 as if they’d just stepped off the set of a low-budget crime drama. Marcel was the wild and eccentric one, always balancing on the edge of sanity while spouting sarcasm like it’s going out of fashion. Otto, on the other hand, was stoic and calm, sailing through life while armed with an eerie sense of humor.

“Britt! Long time no see!” Marcel spread his arms wide, launching into an overdramatic hug, while Otto just nodded in his signature style.

“Hey, guys,” I greeted them, half-amused at their sudden appearance, “What brings you to this part of town?”

“We were just, uh, discussing some business matters,” Otto’s eyes darted around as if looking for spies lurking in the shadows. Marcel merely chuckled, rubbing his hands together in that unnerving, maniacal fashion that instantly resurrected memories of our failed neo-freakbeat band - talk about questionable life choices.

As we chatted about what we’d been up to lately (myself, included - the good, the bad, and the diaper-induced), they seemed to be simultaneously trying to avoid revealing too much while also trying to make their lives sound intriguingly cryptic.

“Anyways,” Marcel said after I caught them in a particularly vague stint about their ‘business ventures,’ “We should come by and visit you sometime!” Then, with a knowing wink, he added, “Really catch up on the old days.”

“Sure,” I agreed, taken aback by their enthusiasm. It’s not every day you get a visit from deadbeat friends who are trying to lure you back into their world of barelyheld-together shenanigans.

Before I could inquire further, they bade me farewell, promising to drop by soon. As I watched them walk away, I couldn’t help but wonder if their whole strange act was an attempt to make their lives seem intriguing in the face of my, well, ‘inspirational’ story.

Regardless, I silently thanked them for not dwelling on my condition and treating me like the old days - eccentricities and snarky banter, all intact. Perhaps their visit wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all? In a world where every street corner encounter feels like a non-stop fishbowl, Marcel and Otto’s shamelessly weird demeanor was a welcome breath of fresh air.

For now, I would continue my game of making passersby uncomfortable - for I didn’t want sympathy or pity; I craved the strange and extraordinary, something to shake things up and remind me that the world, at least outside my reclining prison, had not lost its taste for adventure. And who knows, maybe those two misfits might just be the key to finding the fun and excitement that had vanished from my life.

“Alright, Ms. Lindqvist, we’ll get this checkup started in no time,” chirped Nurse Jennings, who had the air of an aspiring Sunday school teacher. You know the type. Always strangely bird-like, borderline cherubic. All she needed was a harp.

With the help of two other nurses, they began undressing me, their fingers dancing across straps, zippers, and ultimately, my not-so-favorite accessory, my diaper. My cheeks flushed, and not from the excitement of a handsome doctor; this was downright mortifying.

Firmly nestled on the examination table, I stared at the sterile, off-white walls and pondered the good, the bad, and the diaper-clad. One simply must find solace even in the bleakest of situations. Barefoot, back on the table, I thought, ‘At least my pedicure game was on point.’

“Your file here is quite extensive, Ms. Lindqvist…” muttered the doctor as he skimmed through the ocean of medical jargon describing my progressively deteriorating state.

“Oh! Call me Britt, please. There’s no need to be so formal; we’re practically a family now, given the amount of time I’ve spent in this office.” My well-practiced dazzling smile plastered across my face, I inwardly marveled at my ability to keep such a stiff upper lip.

With a gentle, amused nod, Dr. Krieger began the examination. It was a strange dance, part checkup, part trial of patience. As he progressed, Dr. Krieger delivered the results like a fast-food-ordering college student trapped in the body of an esteemed physician.

The good news was, the deterioration of my hand and arm muscles seemed to have halted, leaving me (at least for now) with the ability to wield my pen or grab a can of my favorite energy drink. My respiratory issues, once worrisome and suffocating, had abated, leaving me room to breathe more easily. And while the notion of bashing inspiration between the eyes still appealed to me, it was relieving to know that my condition wasn’t a death sentence - at least not yet.

Yet, as the saying goes, when life hands you lemons, it’s bound to squirt them into your eyes. Fittingly, Dr. Krieger’s stoic expression quickly changed as a plot twist develops - this time to deliver the bad.

The devastating news of the day: my incontinence was getting worse, now comparable to a leaky faucet no plumber could hope to fix. The pain in my legs and feet had skyrocketed, mercilessly gifting me with agonizing cramps and spasms I wished upon no one. And as the proverbial icing on the cake, maintaining an upright posture was proving increasingly difficult, threatening to turn me into a human slinky.

And so, the esteemed doctor’s recommendation? Braces. For my neck, back, arms, hands, and legs. It seemed that soon enough, I’d need a user manual just to get dressed in the morning. Joy.

Forming my thoughts into an unbreakable barricade, I refused to let my frustrations spill out into the open. Donning my customary brave face, the face that had become my own personal suit of armor, I silently dared Dr. Krieger to find even the slightest hint of despair in my countenance.

Struggling to keep my voice not only light but also somewhat humorous, I jested, “I hope the braces come in funky colors. Oh, and bedazzling! That’s still a thing, right?”

While Dr. Krieger didn’t seem to share my enthusiasm for sparkles and colors, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of success - I had accomplished my goal. There would be no mention of that dreaded word ‘depression’ in my report. Oh, and as an added bonus, it certainly wouldn’t say ‘defeated’ either.

I continued, “Doctor, count me in for the braces. Heck, I could start my own mobile modern art installation – The Bejeweled Wonder of Ill-Fitting Appendages.”

With a mildly bewildered half-smile, he replied, “Well, we can definitely see about getting you custom colors, Ms. – err, Britt.”

Accepting his earlier concession gratefully, I held back laughter as the nurses continued their sacred duty of ogling my bare, brace-bound self. Today, I had added another verse to the ballad of Britt Lindqvist, the girl who refused to bow to life’s ironies, the girl who faced adversity with bejeweled, bedazzled defiance."
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