Part 1Pushing Me Forward

After I became paralyzed from the waist down, I thought about ending it all. Many times.

Until my friends showed up.

"Harper, come out and shoot some hoops."

I stared at them blankly, looking down at my wheelchair.

I pointed out that playing basketball was going to be a bit difficult for me right now.

They had a stroke of genius: "Then you can fetch the ball for us."

When we went shopping, they bought new clothes and boba tea.

Whenever their hands got full, they just dumped everything onto my lap.

I rolled behind them, my numb legs buried under a mountain of girls' accessories and shopping bags.

Every now and then, they would turn around and spoon-feed me a bite of ice cream.

They would run laps around my wheelchair, laughing and shoving each other.

In that moment.

I found a reason to stay alive.

* * *

The summer I turned sixteen.

I became paralyzed.

But, they would say:

"Harper, you've got this."

"Harper, let's go out."

"Harper, you'd look so good in a dress. Hold on, we're putting one on you."

"Harper, let me sit in your wheelchair for a sec, my feet are killing me."

"Harper, want to run a marathon with us? We'll give you a three-minute head start."

"Harper, we're best friends for life."

......

Early morning. I had been sitting out on the balcony all night again.

My mom pushed the door open.

First, she sighed.

Then she started making my bed.

As she straightened the sheets, she couldn't help but sob softly.

Irritated, I snapped at her: "If you're going to cry, go cry outside."

The second the words left my mouth, I regretted them.

But before I could apologize, a half-eaten apple was thrown into the living room from the hallway.

Followed by a furious roar.

"That is your mother."

"Watch how you speak to her!"

"We didn't cause your condition, so what gives you the right to take it out on us?"

As my dad's words echoed, the apple rolled across the floor and hit my foot.

I couldn't bend down to pick it up. I just watched it roll underneath my wheelchair.

A million thoughts raced through my head. I hated myself for not even being able to do something so simple.

My mom looked at me with wet eyes, then walked over.

She practiced the motion: squatting, then dropping to her knees.

She reached her arm under my wheelchair, feeling around blindly.

Her face flushed red from the exertion.

Finally, she retrieved the apple.

She looked up at me with a goofy, exhausting smile. Her thin lips were pale and chapped. She looked unkempt.

"Harper, Mom made some chicken noodle soup. Do you want to try a little?"

I stayed stubbornly silent, looking away in disgust at her messy appearance.

Before I got sick, she never looked like this.

She used to wear beautiful dresses and pearl jewelry.

She dressed more stylishly than I did; people used to mistake us for sisters.

How did my illness end up ruining her life, too?

I thought about the bony spine protruding from her back when she bent over to grab the apple.

Her little tummy and double chin were completely gone.

In just two years, she had withered into an emaciated, unkempt woman with half a head of gray hair.

It wasn't fair. I didn't want to be the villain of this family.

But I had no choice.

I was the villain.

Because of my recklessness, this family had been reduced to this.

And yet, I refused to act my age.

I always used violent, icy emotions to mask my deep-seated shame.

I threw tantrums, blaming my mom, blaming my dad, blaming the car crash.

But deep down, the person I hated most was myself.

Perhaps sensing my quiet despair, my mom gently patted my head.

I just kept my head down, and in a very, very small voice.

I said, "I'm sorry."