Spring is in full swing in Seattle. I see reminders everywhere that renewal is possible. “That’s me,” I say when I wheel by one of the London Plane trees that line Occidental Mall, somewhat scarred but ready to burst forth with new leaves.

I live with a complicated diagnosis and a chronic, idiosyncratic illness. I survived another lengthy, unsettling hospital stay.  I returned home ready to resume friendships. I was eager to seek out the culinary, canine, and community joys of living in an eccentric, vibrant neighborhood.

But even on the sunniest, most promising days, I struggle with shame and dread. I left the hospital with a new contraption: a Foley catheter and its accompanying bag. At first, I focused on the practical. Besides a hospital gown, what kind of clothing could accommodate my temporary companion? My father joked that a kilt and a sporran could do the trick. That suggestion is still in play. Someone mentioned tear-away basketball pants with the snaps up the sides. Classic Adidas in black with three white stripes. Just in time for March Madness. Done. Then I found a pair of hiking pants that convert to shorts and zip in various ways. When my new wardrobe additions arrived, I felt better suited to be in public.

I know. I know. You’re tired of being inundated with story after story of catheter chic. What? Deafening silence, you say? That’s why I’m adding mine, not because it’s particularly unique but because it raises issues of acceptance. My apologies in advance for offending anyone with delicate sensibilities who reads this topic as taboo.

For me, it’s all about shame. Shame threatens to make my life small, my spirit small, my outlook small.

Catheters can evoke shame.

At first, I was advised by medical professionals to use a smaller leg bag for outside outings. It’s more discrete, for sure. After a couple teaching sessions prior to my release, I was still not confident about the changing process. I was alarmed by talk of infection. Best leave the original bag in place, I thought. It was a safe and sanctioned option. Then I had to figure out how to attach the bulky contraption to my wheelchair.

I started to worry about appearances. That’s when shame talked to me in a most insidious way. After being tethered to EKG wires and IV drips and blood pressure monitors and other machines that blink and beep, I craved freedom of motion.  I imagined the blood-orange gelato at Cafe Umbria. I thirsted for the oddly-delicious celery soda at Rainshadow Meats. I longed to walk Gus in the stadium and watch him play with Sherman and Gary and Shiloh and Daisy. I signed up to hear a lecture at the Hub on growing on-line businesses for entrepreneurs. I planned to attend a community meeting about the Waterfront Plan. And I didn’t relish tackling an elaborate and exhausting ritual on every occasion, one that might cause me to rethink my original intention. Eventually, I used the nothing-ventured-nothing-gained approach to conquering self-doubt. I wrapped the whole kit and caboodle in an old pillow case and pushed out the door.

Yes, I saw people notice it. Yes, I think people wondered. Yes, I felt a twinge of self-consciousness every now and then. But, no, I didn’t let fastidious notions of propriety keep me from my goals. I didn’t hide myself away.

So you, whoever you are, whatever your struggle or perceived limitation, go out and be a witness to all that beauty and some of that grit that is the stuff of our lives.