One of the most liberating aspects of Zoomer is her capacity to go from my condominium to the YMCA's pool. Four days a week, I start my morning by riding with Zoomer to the pool.
Four mornings a week, I honor my right ankle. After long discussions, and many arguments, my osteoarthritis and my right ankle won out. No longer did she have the strength to stand by me each day. After the dust settled, it was clear. I needed an electric wheelchair. I needed regular exercise to loosen osteoarthritis' hold on me--her inflamed ego.
I swim one day a week for each month that I spent working to secure Zoomer. I swim one hour a day to be of one mind. I will not be fierce, and argumentative, yet, neither will I roll over and play dead.
With Zoomer, I traveled to the YMCA. I gave myself a birthday present. I am known by name. Jen, Jeannie, and Matt. On guard, Lucy, and Collin, among others. A fellow swimmer greeted me, "Hi, Mermaid."
Elevated walkways--skyways--enable Zoomer and me to travel to the YMCA whatever the outside weather may be--snow, ice, wind, windchill. During St. Paul's precious springtime, and summer, Zoomer cries to be outside. That seemed a reasonable request.
Ramps are common companions to stairs. Just as stairs lead to doors--to open doors--so too should we expect of ramps to be. On one summertime St. Paul day, I succumb to Zoomer's cries. I pressed the door opener button, and readied myself to guide Zoomer down the ramp.
Well...I must digress. Minnesota does not have four seasons--it has two. Winter, and road construction. Particularly, a multiyear project to construct a light-rail transit system that will pass through downtown St. Paul.
Having detoured, let me return to our journey. Zoomer's cry, "Outside...outside....let me out...let me out..." So, I pressed the door opener button. So far, so good. I positioned myself to go through the door without injury--without a nick, or crash. Feat accomplished. It was downhill from there on out. Or, so I thought. A orange-and-white striped sign made clear that I had met my match. We needed to backtrack. Zoomer and I needed to find another pathway. Logic told us to turn around to go back inside the building, and traverse the skyways. But, that was not to be. We found no automatic door opener button on the outside door leading into the building. Who would lead someone, raise someone's expectations of entering the building without ascending insurmountable steps? I have yet to meet the person.
With my first option a failure, we turned around again. The hours of swimming--the strengthening of my left upper arm--proved quite helpful. I re-examined the orange-and-white striped sign. Fortunately, yellow sandbags secured the sign from a winds' power. So, I exercised my muscle to lift the sandbag, ever so slightly, such that I could bypass the sign.
The hijacker and I are in negotiations as to how to assert my needs without losing my inner calm. Zoomer is grateful for my arm's strength. I am too.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Zoomer Chronicles: Open Doors....Open Spaces...
Open doors. Open spaces. I am new to navigating narrow halls, small elevators, doorways, and other such barricades.
Yesterday, literally by accident, I was called to return to a well-established business that I have supported for nearly 30 years--an optical store. Although it is true that they were a bit snobbish, they were convenient physically. Just down the block from my first downtown home, they were the obvious choice.
A fall while volunteering branded my left temple with a touch of red, and positioned my purple glasses askew. As quickly as my temple will heal, I needed my purple glasses to be properly placed on my face.
Aware that the doors were not open to Zoomer, I justified my continued business patronage by telling myself that I did not need to visit the store often. Yet, "did not need to visit the store often" is too often to meet my needs. Asking for help is one thing. I am more comfortable in doing so now than before Zoomer. Yet, I found myself isolated from help longer than I was comfortable, and more than any pride I feel about having to ask for help. Although there was no physical threshold to surmount, the personal threshold--is too great.
Dignity and stolen dignity are two distinct creatures. Dignity is the willingness to go out with Zoomer, knowing that there will be mishaps with door openers, nicked walls, and the like. Dignity is recognizing that going out with Zoomer is more important than pride's perfection.
Stolen dignity is cavalier business practices--practices that dismiss the reasons behind making design adaptations, or accommodations as outlined in the Americans with Disabilities Act. [I confess I need to return to the precise call of the Act.] Stolen dignity is dismissal of business patronage, and her demographic. Stolen dignity is the affirmation that only individuals who do not use wheelchairs are the potential customers of a given business.
I am not fierce in my advocacy. I am new to navigating terrain in a wheelchair. The hijacker of my nervous system lurks in the weeds waiting for me to lose my cool demeanor--my inner calm. So, I negotiate with the hijacker. My business loyalty will not open the doors--open the eyes--to the obstacles they place between their cash registers, and the potential of a broader customer base.
Dignity.
I shall preserve my dignity. I shall meet her needs. I shall knock on the door on another downtown optical business to see if they have seen the light.
Yesterday, literally by accident, I was called to return to a well-established business that I have supported for nearly 30 years--an optical store. Although it is true that they were a bit snobbish, they were convenient physically. Just down the block from my first downtown home, they were the obvious choice.
A fall while volunteering branded my left temple with a touch of red, and positioned my purple glasses askew. As quickly as my temple will heal, I needed my purple glasses to be properly placed on my face.
Aware that the doors were not open to Zoomer, I justified my continued business patronage by telling myself that I did not need to visit the store often. Yet, "did not need to visit the store often" is too often to meet my needs. Asking for help is one thing. I am more comfortable in doing so now than before Zoomer. Yet, I found myself isolated from help longer than I was comfortable, and more than any pride I feel about having to ask for help. Although there was no physical threshold to surmount, the personal threshold--is too great.
Dignity and stolen dignity are two distinct creatures. Dignity is the willingness to go out with Zoomer, knowing that there will be mishaps with door openers, nicked walls, and the like. Dignity is recognizing that going out with Zoomer is more important than pride's perfection.
Stolen dignity is cavalier business practices--practices that dismiss the reasons behind making design adaptations, or accommodations as outlined in the Americans with Disabilities Act. [I confess I need to return to the precise call of the Act.] Stolen dignity is dismissal of business patronage, and her demographic. Stolen dignity is the affirmation that only individuals who do not use wheelchairs are the potential customers of a given business.
I am not fierce in my advocacy. I am new to navigating terrain in a wheelchair. The hijacker of my nervous system lurks in the weeds waiting for me to lose my cool demeanor--my inner calm. So, I negotiate with the hijacker. My business loyalty will not open the doors--open the eyes--to the obstacles they place between their cash registers, and the potential of a broader customer base.
Dignity.
I shall preserve my dignity. I shall meet her needs. I shall knock on the door on another downtown optical business to see if they have seen the light.
Oslo...My Beloved Oslo...
"Oslo, my beloved Oslo."
Those were the four words that came to me the instant my cousin informed me that Oslo had been hit by an explosion.
Twice in my life, I have had the joy of becoming acquainted with Oslo. The summer I graduated from high school, I met Oslo for the first time. I met her as a young tourist. Karl Johan's Gatte was the main street of the town--the mecca for shoppers. Then, there was the majesty of the Oslo City Hall. Majesty is beyond the comprehension of any American, when they hear "city hall." Yet, the murals, the marble floors, and the high ceilings may be defined no less than majestic. Then, Frogner Park. Ah, Frogner Park. Norwegian sculptor, Gustav Vigeland crafted a magnificent study of human form--human beings of all ages, in a multitude of positions. It is a pilgrimage--an artistic pilgrimage of humanity--that any visitor to Oslo must make. Knowing the trip might be beyond you, let Google do the walking http://images.google.com/search and enter Vigeland Park. God was the sculptor for Oslo's other source of awe--the Sogne Fjord. Words do not do it justice.
In 1978, I visited Oslo as a tourist. Little could I imagine that I would have the opportunity to return to Oslo in 2005. I returned as a student--as a resident for a nine-day stay. Frogner Park, and Karl Johan's Gatte were not mine to revisit. I lived the life of a resident--the life of a student--housed in a youth hostel. But, ah...the view. The hostel set atop a hill overlooking the Sogne Fjord. We ate outside and soaked up the sunshine, and the pristine air.
Oslo is a city of hearty, gentle, peace-loving people. Oslo is the home of the Nobel Prize.
At the end of my nine-day visit to Oslo, I had absolutely no desire to return home. In fact, even when I got home, I longed to return immediately.
Oslo...my beloved Oslo...
Those were the four words that came to me the instant my cousin informed me that Oslo had been hit by an explosion.
Twice in my life, I have had the joy of becoming acquainted with Oslo. The summer I graduated from high school, I met Oslo for the first time. I met her as a young tourist. Karl Johan's Gatte was the main street of the town--the mecca for shoppers. Then, there was the majesty of the Oslo City Hall. Majesty is beyond the comprehension of any American, when they hear "city hall." Yet, the murals, the marble floors, and the high ceilings may be defined no less than majestic. Then, Frogner Park. Ah, Frogner Park. Norwegian sculptor, Gustav Vigeland crafted a magnificent study of human form--human beings of all ages, in a multitude of positions. It is a pilgrimage--an artistic pilgrimage of humanity--that any visitor to Oslo must make. Knowing the trip might be beyond you, let Google do the walking http://images.google.com/search and enter Vigeland Park. God was the sculptor for Oslo's other source of awe--the Sogne Fjord. Words do not do it justice.
In 1978, I visited Oslo as a tourist. Little could I imagine that I would have the opportunity to return to Oslo in 2005. I returned as a student--as a resident for a nine-day stay. Frogner Park, and Karl Johan's Gatte were not mine to revisit. I lived the life of a resident--the life of a student--housed in a youth hostel. But, ah...the view. The hostel set atop a hill overlooking the Sogne Fjord. We ate outside and soaked up the sunshine, and the pristine air.
Oslo is a city of hearty, gentle, peace-loving people. Oslo is the home of the Nobel Prize.
At the end of my nine-day visit to Oslo, I had absolutely no desire to return home. In fact, even when I got home, I longed to return immediately.
Oslo...my beloved Oslo...
Friday, July 22, 2011
Spirituality of the Human Body
Respect. Body Parts.
What on earth do these two phrases have in common? Contrary to what you may think, a great deal.
But, before I go further, let me establish what I will not be addressing. First, respect--respect for life--in its common parlance is beyond my call--abortion. I have my views. I respect those of other individuals with differing views than mine. I am open to expressing, and exchanging those perspectives. Yet, my call is to convey my thoughts in a different direction.
Respect for life--respect for the life I have been given to live. That is my call. That is what I pray I will voice today. Yet, that is a broad, unwieldy scope to address.
Body parts. Body parts? Yes, body parts. How is that remotely connected to respect for the life I have been given to live?
Once again, let me establish what I will not address--what I do not mean. I do not drive. I have no knowledge of auto mechanics--I have no knowledge of automobile body parts. That is not my call. I am called to a different direction. I am called to convey my thoughts regarding human body parts.
Private parts. Betrayal. Disability.
I am not writing about private parts, per se. The term is understood--there is an established definition of the term. I do want to include the term in the context of our human body parts. I have never heard reference to, much less definition of what might be called public parts--public human body parts.
We have no understanding of how our bodies serve the rest of us--our mind, and spirit. We do not attend ourselves to how we honor our body parts. How do we serve our body parts?
In recent years, I have been called to respond to these questions. Until recent years, my right hand did little to serve me. Never have I had, or will I have fine motor skills in my right hand. Never have I known any other way to live, so that has required little adjustment of me.
My right ankle, and my left hand are another matter entirely. Osteoarthritis in my right ankle caused me to ask--how does my ankle serve me? It took many months for me to reconcile the fact that my right ankle could not serve me.
My left hand has been my lifelong workhorse. She has been called to make up for the many times when my right hand could be of no service to me. I am scared by little. Yet, the onset of what I now know to be intentional tremors in my left hand rendered me speechless--a feat for anyone who knows me. Intentional tremors. The more I intend to do a given task when I am nervous, the shakier my left hand becomes.
Intentional tremors made essential the honoring of my body parts, and their service to me. I took for granted that my left hand would be at my service, at full strength, throughout my life to meet whatever need I had. Intentional tremors called my right arm and hand to service, as a steadying force.
Intentional tremors were the sign of the first part of spirituality of the body--spirituality of my body. I had to identify--I had to come to terms with--what my body parts could do. How could my body parts serve me? That was the first step.
Honoring my body parts. What does that mean? What does it call me to do?
When I honor my body parts, I must humble myself. I must confess, "What is it that my body part can no longer do? Honoring my body parts, committing myself to confession is not the end. It is the second of a three-step process that continues throughout our lives as we age.
We argue about terms regarding people whose bodies do not function as most people's bodies do. Yet, we have not elevated our understanding to a betrayal of our human body parts to our minds, and spirituality of the human body--the spirituality of our human body. The closest example of spirituality of the human body may be found in the writing of theologian Jean Vanier. If you have never read his writings, I commend him to you.
But, the writing of Jean Vanier does not go far enough. Or, how we read Jean Vanier does not challenge us to examine our own bodies as worthy of having spirituality appended to it. We can separate his comments and compartmentalize them as applying to the residents of L'Arche, and no one else. Whenever we receive communion, we speak of the Body of Christ. Yet, we do not bring our human body to communion with us.
Clinical inventory of our body parts. Physicals, medical tests, and other medical examinations require of us little more than to go skin deep. That is, in and of themselves. Yet, if we are wholly attuned to our human body parts, we are called to go much deeper--far deeper than skin deep.
Glorification of the body. Glorification of the body may be found in two different places--in the media, and in fine art. Glorification of the body may have positive or negative impacts in the media or in fine art. Both need our attention--our open-mindedness.
Spirituality of the human body...spirituality of the human being.
How can we ascend to--advance to--a spirituality of our body parts--a spirituality of our human body-- if we separate our human body as we enter the door of the church, or if we separate the whole notion of spirituality when we open the door to leave the church?
Can we read Julian of Norwich and choose to engage in some form of spirituality regarding our human body? If we accept the invitation Julian of Norwich offers us, can we develop a spirituality of our human being? I am not saying that it is necessary to go as extreme as Julian did. That is not the point. .Yet, are we willing to go further than we have gone up until now? I continue to press the issue, because I believe it is possible--it is essential.
Respect. Respect for life. Respect for the life I have been given to live. How does my body serve me? How may I honor my body? How may I serve my body, so as to preserve and honor her gift--her gifts? Am I willing to commit myself to pursuing a spirituality of my human body--a spirituality of my human being?
What on earth do these two phrases have in common? Contrary to what you may think, a great deal.
But, before I go further, let me establish what I will not be addressing. First, respect--respect for life--in its common parlance is beyond my call--abortion. I have my views. I respect those of other individuals with differing views than mine. I am open to expressing, and exchanging those perspectives. Yet, my call is to convey my thoughts in a different direction.
Respect for life--respect for the life I have been given to live. That is my call. That is what I pray I will voice today. Yet, that is a broad, unwieldy scope to address.
Body parts. Body parts? Yes, body parts. How is that remotely connected to respect for the life I have been given to live?
Once again, let me establish what I will not address--what I do not mean. I do not drive. I have no knowledge of auto mechanics--I have no knowledge of automobile body parts. That is not my call. I am called to a different direction. I am called to convey my thoughts regarding human body parts.
Private parts. Betrayal. Disability.
I am not writing about private parts, per se. The term is understood--there is an established definition of the term. I do want to include the term in the context of our human body parts. I have never heard reference to, much less definition of what might be called public parts--public human body parts.
We have no understanding of how our bodies serve the rest of us--our mind, and spirit. We do not attend ourselves to how we honor our body parts. How do we serve our body parts?
In recent years, I have been called to respond to these questions. Until recent years, my right hand did little to serve me. Never have I had, or will I have fine motor skills in my right hand. Never have I known any other way to live, so that has required little adjustment of me.
My right ankle, and my left hand are another matter entirely. Osteoarthritis in my right ankle caused me to ask--how does my ankle serve me? It took many months for me to reconcile the fact that my right ankle could not serve me.
My left hand has been my lifelong workhorse. She has been called to make up for the many times when my right hand could be of no service to me. I am scared by little. Yet, the onset of what I now know to be intentional tremors in my left hand rendered me speechless--a feat for anyone who knows me. Intentional tremors. The more I intend to do a given task when I am nervous, the shakier my left hand becomes.
Intentional tremors made essential the honoring of my body parts, and their service to me. I took for granted that my left hand would be at my service, at full strength, throughout my life to meet whatever need I had. Intentional tremors called my right arm and hand to service, as a steadying force.
Intentional tremors were the sign of the first part of spirituality of the body--spirituality of my body. I had to identify--I had to come to terms with--what my body parts could do. How could my body parts serve me? That was the first step.
Honoring my body parts. What does that mean? What does it call me to do?
When I honor my body parts, I must humble myself. I must confess, "What is it that my body part can no longer do? Honoring my body parts, committing myself to confession is not the end. It is the second of a three-step process that continues throughout our lives as we age.
We argue about terms regarding people whose bodies do not function as most people's bodies do. Yet, we have not elevated our understanding to a betrayal of our human body parts to our minds, and spirituality of the human body--the spirituality of our human body. The closest example of spirituality of the human body may be found in the writing of theologian Jean Vanier. If you have never read his writings, I commend him to you.
But, the writing of Jean Vanier does not go far enough. Or, how we read Jean Vanier does not challenge us to examine our own bodies as worthy of having spirituality appended to it. We can separate his comments and compartmentalize them as applying to the residents of L'Arche, and no one else. Whenever we receive communion, we speak of the Body of Christ. Yet, we do not bring our human body to communion with us.
Clinical inventory of our body parts. Physicals, medical tests, and other medical examinations require of us little more than to go skin deep. That is, in and of themselves. Yet, if we are wholly attuned to our human body parts, we are called to go much deeper--far deeper than skin deep.
Glorification of the body. Glorification of the body may be found in two different places--in the media, and in fine art. Glorification of the body may have positive or negative impacts in the media or in fine art. Both need our attention--our open-mindedness.
Spirituality of the human body...spirituality of the human being.
How can we ascend to--advance to--a spirituality of our body parts--a spirituality of our human body-- if we separate our human body as we enter the door of the church, or if we separate the whole notion of spirituality when we open the door to leave the church?
Can we read Julian of Norwich and choose to engage in some form of spirituality regarding our human body? If we accept the invitation Julian of Norwich offers us, can we develop a spirituality of our human being? I am not saying that it is necessary to go as extreme as Julian did. That is not the point. .Yet, are we willing to go further than we have gone up until now? I continue to press the issue, because I believe it is possible--it is essential.
Respect. Respect for life. Respect for the life I have been given to live. How does my body serve me? How may I honor my body? How may I serve my body, so as to preserve and honor her gift--her gifts? Am I willing to commit myself to pursuing a spirituality of my human body--a spirituality of my human being?
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Zoomer Chronicles: Damn Door Opener Buttons
Given the choice, I much prefer doors equipped with handicap door opener buttons than those without them. That said, let me go on record as saying that not all door openers are created equal.
Equality of door openers consists of four components--The side of the door on which the door opener is positioned, the proximity of the door opener to the door. Is the door opener located right on the door, or is the door opener located on the left side?
My judgment of equality is skewed by two facts. I tend to forget about both--both have been lifelong physical companions. I do not have full use of my right hand. I do not have any fine motor skills in my right hand. So, although I can use my hand as a support for my left hand, I cannot use it for any manipulative purposes. I tend to forget that I do not have good peripheral vision on my right side. So, as far as Zoomer is concerned, that fact has been responsible for three accidents on my right side.
While learning to navigate door openers, and elevators, I gashed the right armrest of Zoomer. Following several gashes, I hit the armrest once again--for good measure. The last time, as though in slow motion, the gash in the armrest looked more like a cavernous divide. None of those times did I suffer any bodily injury. That made the gashes, or cavernous divide more palatable.
On Monday, I was reacquainted with an old friend. I have made a concerted effort to ride outside with Zoomer. I have done so for a number of reasons. First, while the sidewalks are free of snow and ice, I want to gain confidence in what and how much Zoomer and I can do together. Secondly, I want to improve my indoor navigational skills in more confined spaces by improving my general navigational skills in a less demanding--less confining--space.
Handicap door openers. There are extremes. The creme de la creme of handicap door openers is the Minnesota Children's Museum's front door. You wheel up to the front door--to the right side of the front door--and press the handicap door opener. Within seconds, both the right and the left doors open to make way for your entrance. Talk about having the doors opened for you.
Yesterday, I met up with an old friend. My absence from using this door opener did not bring me fondness toward him. Who is he? I don't know his name, but he is located on Wabasha Street close to Seventh Street in St. Paul. He is located in the heart of St. Paul. I had forgotten that his door opener button was located on the right frame of the door, rather than on a pole in front of the door.
Usually, I have my right arm folded at my elbow in my lap. Well...on Monday I did not. That fact, combined with the position of the door opener meant that I did not allow enough room on Zoomer's ride side to clear the door. My right pinkie finger took the door full force. Ouch. It was a painful lesson to be much more cognizant of my right side, and much more cognizant of door opener button positions.
Damn door opener buttons.
Dignity...Defiance...Grace
During this morning's swim, two words came to mind--dignity, and grace. Are they related? If so, how so?
Dignity seems firm, Grace seems more ethereal.
Dignity brings to mind my maternal grandmother. In 1970, long before today's advances in the treatment of breast cancer, my grandmother had a mastectomy. Mom said that it ravaged my grandmother physically. Yet, she was one of the most dignified, elegant women I have known. She had her faults--her superstitions. Yet, she was an amazing model of dignity to me.
Dignity. According to the Online Etymology Dictionary http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?search=dignity&searchmode=none dignity is derived from "worthiness," from dignus "worth (n.), worthy, proper, fitting" from PIE *dek-no-, from base *dek- "to take, accept"
Grace. According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, grace is derived from late 12c., "God's favor or help," from O.Fr. grace "pardon, divine grace, mercy; favor, thanks; elegance, virtue" (12c.), from L. gratia "favor, esteem, regard; pleasing quality, good will, gratitude" (cf. It. grazia, Sp. gracia), from gratus "pleasing, agreeable," from PIE base *gwere- "to favor" (cf. Skt. grnati "sings, praises, announces," Lith. giriu "to praise, celebrate," Avestan gar- "to praise").
Dignity and grace floated into my consciousness in the midst of a personal valuation--how do I live?
To live with dignity is a worthy aspiration. Authentic dignity, not righteous indignation regarding individuals, or principles.
Grace. Something seems missing. Grace can seem to be a soft way of living. Soft may be too soft of a term. But, let me offer another term that contrasts with grace to clarify grace.
Defiance.
For many years, I lived defiantly. I was judged to be incapable of performing given tasks on numerous occasions. Although not always expressed, it was implied. My response was, "Do you wanna make a bet?" I wanted to defy expectations of me, and demonstrate what I could do.
According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, defiance is derived from c.1300, from O.Fr. desfiance "challenge, declaration of war," from desfiant, prp. of desfier.
Defiance was not necessary. Now it is counterproductive. I cannot entrust my body to the forces of defiance. I must immerse my spirit in grace--seek favor from God--so as to live fully.
Dignity seems firm, Grace seems more ethereal.
Dignity brings to mind my maternal grandmother. In 1970, long before today's advances in the treatment of breast cancer, my grandmother had a mastectomy. Mom said that it ravaged my grandmother physically. Yet, she was one of the most dignified, elegant women I have known. She had her faults--her superstitions. Yet, she was an amazing model of dignity to me.
Dignity. According to the Online Etymology Dictionary http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?search=dignity&searchmode=none dignity is derived from "worthiness," from dignus "worth (n.), worthy, proper, fitting" from PIE *dek-no-, from base *dek- "to take, accept"
Grace. According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, grace is derived from late 12c., "God's favor or help," from O.Fr. grace "pardon, divine grace, mercy; favor, thanks; elegance, virtue" (12c.), from L. gratia "favor, esteem, regard; pleasing quality, good will, gratitude" (cf. It. grazia, Sp. gracia), from gratus "pleasing, agreeable," from PIE base *gwere- "to favor" (cf. Skt. grnati "sings, praises, announces," Lith. giriu "to praise, celebrate," Avestan gar- "to praise").
Dignity and grace floated into my consciousness in the midst of a personal valuation--how do I live?
To live with dignity is a worthy aspiration. Authentic dignity, not righteous indignation regarding individuals, or principles.
Grace. Something seems missing. Grace can seem to be a soft way of living. Soft may be too soft of a term. But, let me offer another term that contrasts with grace to clarify grace.
Defiance.
For many years, I lived defiantly. I was judged to be incapable of performing given tasks on numerous occasions. Although not always expressed, it was implied. My response was, "Do you wanna make a bet?" I wanted to defy expectations of me, and demonstrate what I could do.
According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, defiance is derived from c.1300, from O.Fr. desfiance "challenge, declaration of war," from desfiant, prp. of desfier.
Defiance was not necessary. Now it is counterproductive. I cannot entrust my body to the forces of defiance. I must immerse my spirit in grace--seek favor from God--so as to live fully.
A Human Inventory
Long before computers automated the inventory process of goods, a relative inventoried the goods of several grocery stores. Many years hence, a more sophisticated world has demanded a more advanced inventorying. Valuations are conducted by many professionals, who begin where the automated inventorying leaves off. Valuations established a working value by which business, or the lives of divorced individuals may move forward to more profitable--more fulfilling--lives.
I have known two professionals who engaged in inventorying and valuations. I find myself in the midst of a different--very humbling--sort of valuation. I am being called to itemize how I live my daily life.
How do I live my life? Can I 1. perform this activity independently; 2. Can I perform this activity with the use of equipment or adaptive devices; or is it true that I cannot perform this activity.
Dress; voluntary bladder and bowel control or ability to maintain a reasonable level of personal hygiene; toilet; feed yourself with food that has been prepared and made available to you; bathe (tub, shower, sponge); transfer from bed to chair.
I feel comfortable with each today. Yet, it is daunting to see those very real prospects as a part of my future is akin to the decision to get a power wheelchair--to opt to receive a head rim that I could use at the time in my future when my left hand might no longer be capable of manipulating a joystick.
That is humbling, to say the least.
You will go to college. You will learn to live independently.
I answer the questions with those words in my lifelong memory. I have achieved the first. I continue to achieve the second. The future?
I know how I have lived my life until now. I have seen deterioration of my body in the last ten years, especially in the last two years. But, the future. Seeing its truth presented before me in black and white--starkly--that is humbling.
So, how do I live in the present, such that I make the fullest use of my own abilities currently? How do I live in the present, such that I do not endanger myself--my physical capacities--for the future? How do I live in the present such that I position myself--prepare myself--for the future, with all of its humbling prospects?
Responding to the current valuation, I thought that my visceral response to it was the section regarding activities of daily living--ADLs. I am not partial to any acronym--clinical jargon--that abbreviates individual human beings. To some, activities of daily living--ADLs--is a foreign word--an unknown quantity. To others, it is a clinic scheme used to organize the occupational therapy needs of an individual. Yet, to me activities of daily living--ADLs--represents a test that I can still pass independently, or with some equipment, or adaptive devices.
These are humbling questions.
Will there be a day when I cannot perform this activity--any of the activities of daily living?
Dress; voluntary bladder or bowel control or ability to maintain a reasonable level of personal hygiene; toilet; feed yourself with food that has been prepared and made available to you; bathe (bath, shower, or sponge); transfer from bed to chair. These are tasks in a list--elements at the heart of dignity.
I have known two professionals who engaged in inventorying and valuations. I find myself in the midst of a different--very humbling--sort of valuation. I am being called to itemize how I live my daily life.
How do I live my life? Can I 1. perform this activity independently; 2. Can I perform this activity with the use of equipment or adaptive devices; or is it true that I cannot perform this activity.
Dress; voluntary bladder and bowel control or ability to maintain a reasonable level of personal hygiene; toilet; feed yourself with food that has been prepared and made available to you; bathe (tub, shower, sponge); transfer from bed to chair.
I feel comfortable with each today. Yet, it is daunting to see those very real prospects as a part of my future is akin to the decision to get a power wheelchair--to opt to receive a head rim that I could use at the time in my future when my left hand might no longer be capable of manipulating a joystick.
That is humbling, to say the least.
You will go to college. You will learn to live independently.
I answer the questions with those words in my lifelong memory. I have achieved the first. I continue to achieve the second. The future?
I know how I have lived my life until now. I have seen deterioration of my body in the last ten years, especially in the last two years. But, the future. Seeing its truth presented before me in black and white--starkly--that is humbling.
So, how do I live in the present, such that I make the fullest use of my own abilities currently? How do I live in the present, such that I do not endanger myself--my physical capacities--for the future? How do I live in the present such that I position myself--prepare myself--for the future, with all of its humbling prospects?
Responding to the current valuation, I thought that my visceral response to it was the section regarding activities of daily living--ADLs. I am not partial to any acronym--clinical jargon--that abbreviates individual human beings. To some, activities of daily living--ADLs--is a foreign word--an unknown quantity. To others, it is a clinic scheme used to organize the occupational therapy needs of an individual. Yet, to me activities of daily living--ADLs--represents a test that I can still pass independently, or with some equipment, or adaptive devices.
These are humbling questions.
Will there be a day when I cannot perform this activity--any of the activities of daily living?
Dress; voluntary bladder or bowel control or ability to maintain a reasonable level of personal hygiene; toilet; feed yourself with food that has been prepared and made available to you; bathe (bath, shower, or sponge); transfer from bed to chair. These are tasks in a list--elements at the heart of dignity.
Monday, July 18, 2011
A Hijjacking
Hijacking of planes was common in the 1970s. Long before the Homeland Security Administration, the terrain was quite different. Today, the Transportation Security Administration is charged with protecting the flying public from hijackings.
The TSA has not been granted the power to prevent the hijackings I experience--hijacking of my nervous system when I feel emotionally threatened. I can withstand stress. Humor. Reflection. These are but two of the coping strategies I have used during my 51 years.
Emotionally threatened? If it is not rooted in withstanding stress, then what is it? Though not a scholar of neurology, I do study the triggers.
Friends do not trigger emotional threats to me. They never have. They never could. Friendship is not rooted in power-based authority. Good friends trigger no emotional threats to me.
Authority figures. Supervisors at work. However much I liked the individual, I was afraid of being criticized negatively, or worse yet, fired. I understood the terrain of being demoted--the terrain of being underestimated. Being fired. Knowing that that was highly unlikely--knowing that intellectually--was far different from being free of the fear.
Authority figures have not been limited to the work world, although those authority figures are the easiest to portray.
I have had epilepsy since I was a child. When I was born, my umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck five times, which cut off the oxygen supply to the left side of my brain. [If I had a nickel for every time I have uttered those words, I would be a rich woman:)] One of the realities that flows from my birth is that I have extra electrical activity in my brain--a thunderstorm. Anticonvulsants keep the thunderstorms at bay.
I have been told I have intentional tremors on my left side, primarily in my left hand--my predominant hand. The harder I try to do a given task--the more I intend to do a given task, the more I have tremors.
Upon learning that fact, no, long before that, I concentrated on maintaining a level of inner calm. Just as I have taken anticonvulsants to keep my seizures at bay, so too I have needed to employ other strategies to maintain a level of inner calm. Humor. Music. Reflection. Writing. Seeking the best in other people. It may seem to be superficial to seek the best in other people--to seek the positive in life. If done properly, it is far from superficial. If seeking the best of life--the best in other people--is undertaken in opposition to ignoring the negative, then it is superficial. Ignoring the negative in life--whatever, or whoever it may be--makes impossible any hope of living fully. Seeking the best in other people--seeking the positive--is a hunt for a pearl. But, it must be done with proper intent. Ignoring the negative must be replaced with learning from what seems negative on a superficial level.
These were among my strategies to keep the evil hijackers from taking control of my nervous system. I have heard no one speak of being emotionally hijacked, or having his/her nervous system hijacked. Yet, that is precisely what happens.
I was hijacked emotionally today. The evil hijackers took control of my nervous system. I had the armor of anticonvulsants to protect me. Yet, that was not enough to ward off the intentional tremors. I try to preserve inner calm--ward off the temptation to be defensive regarding my human failings. Yet, my evil intentional tremors manifested themselves in more illegible handwriting than that which is deemed on other days.
The hijackers have been caught. If they are to be neutered, they must be fingerprinted, and identified for who they are, they must be captured by professionals studied in where to quarantine them.
The TSA has not been granted the power to prevent the hijackings I experience--hijacking of my nervous system when I feel emotionally threatened. I can withstand stress. Humor. Reflection. These are but two of the coping strategies I have used during my 51 years.
Emotionally threatened? If it is not rooted in withstanding stress, then what is it? Though not a scholar of neurology, I do study the triggers.
Friends do not trigger emotional threats to me. They never have. They never could. Friendship is not rooted in power-based authority. Good friends trigger no emotional threats to me.
Authority figures. Supervisors at work. However much I liked the individual, I was afraid of being criticized negatively, or worse yet, fired. I understood the terrain of being demoted--the terrain of being underestimated. Being fired. Knowing that that was highly unlikely--knowing that intellectually--was far different from being free of the fear.
Authority figures have not been limited to the work world, although those authority figures are the easiest to portray.
I have had epilepsy since I was a child. When I was born, my umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck five times, which cut off the oxygen supply to the left side of my brain. [If I had a nickel for every time I have uttered those words, I would be a rich woman:)] One of the realities that flows from my birth is that I have extra electrical activity in my brain--a thunderstorm. Anticonvulsants keep the thunderstorms at bay.
I have been told I have intentional tremors on my left side, primarily in my left hand--my predominant hand. The harder I try to do a given task--the more I intend to do a given task, the more I have tremors.
Upon learning that fact, no, long before that, I concentrated on maintaining a level of inner calm. Just as I have taken anticonvulsants to keep my seizures at bay, so too I have needed to employ other strategies to maintain a level of inner calm. Humor. Music. Reflection. Writing. Seeking the best in other people. It may seem to be superficial to seek the best in other people--to seek the positive in life. If done properly, it is far from superficial. If seeking the best of life--the best in other people--is undertaken in opposition to ignoring the negative, then it is superficial. Ignoring the negative in life--whatever, or whoever it may be--makes impossible any hope of living fully. Seeking the best in other people--seeking the positive--is a hunt for a pearl. But, it must be done with proper intent. Ignoring the negative must be replaced with learning from what seems negative on a superficial level.
These were among my strategies to keep the evil hijackers from taking control of my nervous system. I have heard no one speak of being emotionally hijacked, or having his/her nervous system hijacked. Yet, that is precisely what happens.
I was hijacked emotionally today. The evil hijackers took control of my nervous system. I had the armor of anticonvulsants to protect me. Yet, that was not enough to ward off the intentional tremors. I try to preserve inner calm--ward off the temptation to be defensive regarding my human failings. Yet, my evil intentional tremors manifested themselves in more illegible handwriting than that which is deemed on other days.
The hijackers have been caught. If they are to be neutered, they must be fingerprinted, and identified for who they are, they must be captured by professionals studied in where to quarantine them.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Zoomer Chronicles: Personae
Only within the past three months has the notion of persona been an option worthy of my consideration--my adult consideration. I have not fully embraced the notion, yet, I am considering its value to me.
Zoomer is a vital persona to transport me to a better way of living--a vehicle from immobilized isolation to mobilized companionship. Without Invacare FDX-MCG, I lived in a paralyzing isolation that I want no part of reliving. Invacare FDX-MCG was powered by batteries, yet, only Zoomer empowers me to go beyond immobilized isolation.
I have lived with other personae in my younger days. All personae were chosen by me--by family and friends--to expand my shy, introverted, insecure self.
Patrushka was my first indication of my father's love of the Russian world. He could not transport his family--his life--to Russia [he tried:)], but, he could bring the Russian world to his family--to his life.
Patty Tricia was my sister's endearment. It was playful. I don't remember much more of it.
Pat. The only person with...not with permission, but with the proper association...to address me so was Mr. Merry. He came into my life at two very different, yet two very different periods of my life. Ray and Mary Merry were the loving parents of my childhood friend, Jeannie Merry. Jeannie and I were quite a pair. She had the full use of both hands. I could walk. Jeannie had osteogenesis imperfecta. We were friends in the early 1960s. We went to kindergarten together, I believe. Due to her osteogenesis imperfecta, it was for her parents to transport her within their split level home. Yet, Ray Merry did not cast a dark shadow over Jeannie's life. She was a joyful person. I have lost touch with her. The last I knew she was a student at Arizona State University, who was majoring in nutrition. Is she still alive? Did her osteogenesis imperfecta accelerate her aging process? Is she still alive? Honestly, I do not know. My mastery of research does not render answers. But, I digress. Ray Merry--or Mr. Merry as any child would address an adult--was playful in spirit with me. We lost touch. Then, in high school, one of the assistant principals was none other than Mr. Merry. I had not achieved the age that would enable me to address him by his given name.
Bubbles. Yes, Bubbles. What else do you call a classmate--a choir partner--who laughed so hard that she starts snorting? I had remembered the name, but, it was not until a recent visit from Woody or Woodstock that I was reminded of my snorting, bubbly persona. Bubbles was the alter ego to the teenager struggling to be accepted for who she was. I was not alone. I sang, I laughed with Woodstock, and Jungle Bunny, and then, oh, we can't forget Grunt or Gruntly. I have no idea how he got that name. Grunt or Gruntly hardly personified the friendly, unconditionally loving classmate. Everybody liked Gruntly. Teachers, classmates, cliques. Gruntly exceeded the confines of any cliques. Gruntly was judgmental of no one.
Ms. P.T. A teenager coming of age during the emergence of Gloria Steinem--of Ms. magazine--found someone who was advocating a more liberated identity that accepted the potential of underestimated individuals--women. A high school home ec project required the construction of some project. Together with my dad, we created wooden bookends with the cork letters Ms. on one bookend and P.T. on the other bookend. I have those bookends yet today. I am still seeking liberation--fulfillment of a life I don't understand.
Perfect Patty Thorsen. Having joined the library staff, some had trouble remembering my previous department, as though that really mattered. It seemed so at the time. PPT--Product Performance Testing--was quickly translated to Perfect Patty Thorsen. Amid struggles to meet up to department--company--production standards, Perfect Patty Thorsen has survived in friendship with a work partner in crime.
Roboaunt? Yes, Roboaunt. The nervous introduction of Zoomer to my nephew was embraced fully. Thus, among my personae is Roboaunt. The name, in and of itself, is not my favorite. Yet, that my nephew so called me--has so embraced me--Roboaunt is a persona I welcome.
I relinquished Pat long ago to describe me. Patrushka is used no more. Yet, hearing her once more brings Russia back to life in me. Patty Tricia brings to life a loyal sister, who took the abuse of a frustrated, bratty little sister. Patty Tricia's sister is the best sistah any person could ever wish to be given. Bubbles. Long ago, she went flat. Roboaunt has to grow on me. Time with Zoomer--time with my nephew--may change that. Bubbles has adult connotations that do not befit me. Yet, the fun spirit of Bubbles is there somewhere, maybe??? I don't know. Perfect Patty Thorsen is fun. Maybe Perfect Patty is Bubbles' adult persona.
I want to embrace my personae as they befit me. Yet, I do not want to embrace any of my personae, however endearing they may be to me, at the price of assassinating the true character I was given at birth to live til death do us part.
Zoomer is a vital persona to transport me to a better way of living--a vehicle from immobilized isolation to mobilized companionship. Without Invacare FDX-MCG, I lived in a paralyzing isolation that I want no part of reliving. Invacare FDX-MCG was powered by batteries, yet, only Zoomer empowers me to go beyond immobilized isolation.
I have lived with other personae in my younger days. All personae were chosen by me--by family and friends--to expand my shy, introverted, insecure self.
Patrushka was my first indication of my father's love of the Russian world. He could not transport his family--his life--to Russia [he tried:)], but, he could bring the Russian world to his family--to his life.
Patty Tricia was my sister's endearment. It was playful. I don't remember much more of it.
Pat. The only person with...not with permission, but with the proper association...to address me so was Mr. Merry. He came into my life at two very different, yet two very different periods of my life. Ray and Mary Merry were the loving parents of my childhood friend, Jeannie Merry. Jeannie and I were quite a pair. She had the full use of both hands. I could walk. Jeannie had osteogenesis imperfecta. We were friends in the early 1960s. We went to kindergarten together, I believe. Due to her osteogenesis imperfecta, it was for her parents to transport her within their split level home. Yet, Ray Merry did not cast a dark shadow over Jeannie's life. She was a joyful person. I have lost touch with her. The last I knew she was a student at Arizona State University, who was majoring in nutrition. Is she still alive? Did her osteogenesis imperfecta accelerate her aging process? Is she still alive? Honestly, I do not know. My mastery of research does not render answers. But, I digress. Ray Merry--or Mr. Merry as any child would address an adult--was playful in spirit with me. We lost touch. Then, in high school, one of the assistant principals was none other than Mr. Merry. I had not achieved the age that would enable me to address him by his given name.
Bubbles. Yes, Bubbles. What else do you call a classmate--a choir partner--who laughed so hard that she starts snorting? I had remembered the name, but, it was not until a recent visit from Woody or Woodstock that I was reminded of my snorting, bubbly persona. Bubbles was the alter ego to the teenager struggling to be accepted for who she was. I was not alone. I sang, I laughed with Woodstock, and Jungle Bunny, and then, oh, we can't forget Grunt or Gruntly. I have no idea how he got that name. Grunt or Gruntly hardly personified the friendly, unconditionally loving classmate. Everybody liked Gruntly. Teachers, classmates, cliques. Gruntly exceeded the confines of any cliques. Gruntly was judgmental of no one.
Ms. P.T. A teenager coming of age during the emergence of Gloria Steinem--of Ms. magazine--found someone who was advocating a more liberated identity that accepted the potential of underestimated individuals--women. A high school home ec project required the construction of some project. Together with my dad, we created wooden bookends with the cork letters Ms. on one bookend and P.T. on the other bookend. I have those bookends yet today. I am still seeking liberation--fulfillment of a life I don't understand.
Perfect Patty Thorsen. Having joined the library staff, some had trouble remembering my previous department, as though that really mattered. It seemed so at the time. PPT--Product Performance Testing--was quickly translated to Perfect Patty Thorsen. Amid struggles to meet up to department--company--production standards, Perfect Patty Thorsen has survived in friendship with a work partner in crime.
Roboaunt? Yes, Roboaunt. The nervous introduction of Zoomer to my nephew was embraced fully. Thus, among my personae is Roboaunt. The name, in and of itself, is not my favorite. Yet, that my nephew so called me--has so embraced me--Roboaunt is a persona I welcome.
I relinquished Pat long ago to describe me. Patrushka is used no more. Yet, hearing her once more brings Russia back to life in me. Patty Tricia brings to life a loyal sister, who took the abuse of a frustrated, bratty little sister. Patty Tricia's sister is the best sistah any person could ever wish to be given. Bubbles. Long ago, she went flat. Roboaunt has to grow on me. Time with Zoomer--time with my nephew--may change that. Bubbles has adult connotations that do not befit me. Yet, the fun spirit of Bubbles is there somewhere, maybe??? I don't know. Perfect Patty Thorsen is fun. Maybe Perfect Patty is Bubbles' adult persona.
I want to embrace my personae as they befit me. Yet, I do not want to embrace any of my personae, however endearing they may be to me, at the price of assassinating the true character I was given at birth to live til death do us part.
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