In 2018, I nearly lost my life. I nearly lost it multiple times, in many different ways. For a time, I could barely move a single muscle. I have always been a very active person, and I had to contemplate a future, not only without me in it but one in which I was highly dependent on others to care for me.

So, I got to work. I worked harder than I ever have in my life. I worked to reclaim my mind by writing a book that wove this experience into the larger context of my life and all of this helped me to reconnect with my changing body. 

I still work with my physiotherapists, to help me train my body to move in accordance with my impulses. It is all about getting across that room. It is all about progress. The current crisis has forced everybody to stop and to slow down and focus on what is important. I am well-practised at this, having already spent countless months in hospitals, cut off from both the world and the life I once knew.

But I am still trying to get across that room. What must my first steps have felt like? What will they feel like? 

Wanting to remain as active as possible, I use a manual wheelchair to get around and to keep moving. I want to do things. I do not want to stop moving. When you are out there, walking around, you do not appreciate the incredible advantages afforded to you by your free hands. I think about that. I think about it, a lot. 

I make movies and I take pictures. I like to go grocery shopping and, when it is safe again, I want to go farther than my own backyard. I want to go travelling. I want to be independent and I want to visit my friends. When you go outside, you wear your shoes, maybe take your coat. When I go out and want to go a little farther, with the freedom to do it myself, what I need is an upgrade that is not covered by government programs. (see video, below). I have connected with the MS Society of Canada and March of Dimes, for support, and I must make up the balance by June 30, in order for them to release the funds. I have so much that I want to do and I want to do as much as I can on my own.

On top of all of this, I am working on new films, but I am only one man. Before I can do that, I need a little backup. I occasionally need to free up my arms. When you are headed uphill, sometimes you just need a little push. I know my friends are following my journey and I could not imagine making the level of progress I have made without you. You have my love and gratitude and please forgive me if I go a little too fast , sometimes...

A passage from my book, from the chapter, “Wheels.”

“Speeding tickets. These were an occupational hazard of mine, for years. I loved to drive fast. The car was an extension of my body and it responded in kind. When I would drive, the rest of the world felt like an obstacle. I could not figure out why everyone else drove so slowly, as I continually racked up increasingly lucrative tickets. When I would push my foot down on the gas, my destination would grow closer. Where once I pushed with feet, now I push with hands, with arms. Slowly, I roll to a stop by the window. The blue sky, seemingly as wide as ever, is contained within the picture frame confines of the square window edges. The world is out there and I am in here. For the moment, the horizon, towards which I roll, is a painting rendered with a brush I cannot reach. Within this fishbowl I must rely on muscle memory. Roll the wheels, move the feet, feel the breeze through my hair. Remind my brain that my body is still there. They say that in space there is no sense of direction because, when in free fall, human senses cannot detect up or down. Reach out with the mind. The distant setting sun is a floating static point. It is at once motionless and yet seemingly ceaselessly expanding. Sit up in the chair. Start the rolling of the wheels. I can still move. There is someone eagerly awaiting my arrival, with open arms. I must still move. My body must be reminded that my brain has not totally forgotten. Close my eyes. She breathes on my face and whispers in my ear. Waves of hair waft in a light breeze and shimmer in the golden light. Feel the swelling of gooseflesh, on contact. The feeling of being alive. The open road still beckons. Push after push, to enter that infinite horizon.”

Love,

Jason R. Gray’20
liminal-arts.com

Please watch the video, below