My left hand is my life's blood. It is the vehicle I use to craft words, the tool I use to live. My right hand has never served me. She never will. I know that. Blame is not for me to assign. Anger is not mine to wield. My right hand has never served me as others' have.
This week, a gradual diminishment--a lifelong fear--came to a head. I made progress to the outer world. Not by others misassigning it. I didn't misassign it either. Rather, I rallied the consolation I need.
A mere appointment for hand therapy, hand x-rays, and a neck MRI did not deliver this week to me...not alone.
Every 18 months or so, I receive a questionnaire to reauthorize my long-term disability insurance. A formality perhaps. Yet, this time it hit me hard--it hits me in the gut. She pulls no punches.
I have forgotten the sound of my left hand's voice propelling me up out of bed in the morning. Did she ever speak? Have I lost my hearing? Am I deaf to her call for help? How long has she--how long have they--been gone?
Did I abuse my left had so much--with such bravado--that I have lost her forever?
Will remorse...a contrite heart...a confessing of my wrongful pride...be enough that my hand may be entrusted to my service?
Voicing that thought through my still-working fingers is embarrassing. Am I losing dignity as I stand aside of my body?
I hold on for dear life in the bathtub as I pull my body to a standing position after bathing myself. Will this be the time I will lose my grip and fall?
The time for contrition has come...a shower/bath bench. I have looked from afar. This week's questions--the questions are served by only one answer. I confess a bit of vanity remains. With Amazon.com's hand to hold mine, soon I will be the proud owner of a reasonably-priced teak shower/bath bench.
I mourn a body--my body. Is it mine to blame? Is it mine to wield anger at because it is not serving me.
I must serve my body regardless of how it serves me.
Thirty-two years ago I was baptized--I joined the Catholic Church. Through friends, I learned it was more than possible to blend intellect into faith into my being. Skeptics to that blending asked, "But...resurrection...that just doesn't make any sense! Do you believe in resurrection? Do you believe in The Resurrection?"
I did not know I did not understand what words to utter.
Time has passed....years have elapsed....life has changed me...life has changed my body....much over many years has made now sense at all.
Do I understand resurrection? Do I believe in resurrection?
No. I must. I am a woman of faith, I am a woman of hope. I am a woman of love. I am a woman of belief.
Do I understand The Resurrection? Do I believe in The Resurrection.
No. I breathe seeking to believe what I do not understand.
I mourn a body--my body. I mourn a bath--the loss of a bath. I was always a woman of a shower. So, why am I mourning? I seek understanding that has yet to be delivered to me.
I mourn a body--my body.
Showing posts with label adversities. Show all posts
Showing posts with label adversities. Show all posts
Friday, April 11, 2014
Sunday, April 21, 2013
If My Life Was Perfect...
I have struggled to advise a family member as to how to fulfill their unique human potential. Knowing the position of respect bestowed on me has given me a sense of responsibility. Only following the Boston Marathon Bombings have I been given an inkling as to how to fulfill my responsibility.
My family member lacks the sense of how to fulfill his adult responsibilities--fulfill his human potential. Ascribing responsibilities on other intimates how they have failed their responsibiltiies to my family member has clouded his willingness to look at his own human potential--the gift he has been given by God--by his belief in God. I know that belief exists in him. I do not know the form of belief.
My belief--the form of my belief--calls me to offer something.
From an unlikely source--the Boston Marathon Bombings suspect--I understand one way--one something--I may offer.
Optimist--idealist--that I am, recent years have taught me, "life is not perfect." Self-pity is not the sum of that equation in my life. So where does that leave me--how does that affect my offering to my family member.
A List. An Itemized--A Humbling List.
If My Life Was Perfect...
I Would Not:
Need to wear my ankle foot orthotic--my brace on my right leg
Need to walk long distances with a cane
Need to use a wheelchair
Need to take medication to control my intentional tremors
Need to take anticonvulsants to control my seizures
Need to grab the right handrail with my left hand when walking up or down a flight of stairs
I Would Not Fear:
Outstretching my left hand--lose the use of my left and right hand by:
Opening doorknobs
Carrying heavy bags of groceries
Carrying heavy loads of laundry
My capacity to stand up from the ground
People Would:
Think my handwriting was beautiful
My family member lacks the sense of how to fulfill his adult responsibilities--fulfill his human potential. Ascribing responsibilities on other intimates how they have failed their responsibiltiies to my family member has clouded his willingness to look at his own human potential--the gift he has been given by God--by his belief in God. I know that belief exists in him. I do not know the form of belief.
My belief--the form of my belief--calls me to offer something.
From an unlikely source--the Boston Marathon Bombings suspect--I understand one way--one something--I may offer.
Optimist--idealist--that I am, recent years have taught me, "life is not perfect." Self-pity is not the sum of that equation in my life. So where does that leave me--how does that affect my offering to my family member.
A List. An Itemized--A Humbling List.
If My Life Was Perfect...
I Would Not:
Need to wear my ankle foot orthotic--my brace on my right leg
Need to walk long distances with a cane
Need to use a wheelchair
Need to take medication to control my intentional tremors
Need to take anticonvulsants to control my seizures
Need to grab the right handrail with my left hand when walking up or down a flight of stairs
I Would Not Fear:
Outstretching my left hand--lose the use of my left and right hand by:
Opening doorknobs
Carrying heavy bags of groceries
Carrying heavy loads of laundry
My capacity to stand up from the ground
People Would:
Think my handwriting was beautiful
Intentional Failings. Human Potential.
Be it Mom's "focus on the positive, and ignore on the negative" mantra, strengthened by my necessary modification of that mantra, "focus on the positive and learn from the negative," not since my junior high school cry, "Mom, don't you know I can't do that!" have I allowed myself to itemize "the negative" and use that low "bank [of capabilities] balance" deter me from investing my life in what I could do. In fact, many times, truth be told, use of "the negative" as a justification for not acting or doing a given task leads me to cry out in opposition.
The Boston Marathon Bombings suspect has led me to revisit my mantra, "Focus on the positive and learn from the negative."
We have not heard from the the Boston Marathon bombings suspect regarding his motivations and intent. I have not addressed--I cannot--my questions, or feelings with him. Only in prayers seeking understanding have I done so.
I believe he might describe some failing in his upbringing that led him to his actions. Failings in his perceptions of given aspects of his upbringing. Economic situation. Family dynamic. Social interactions in the community. Experiences and influences of formative years--of current worldview, have overridden any belief in his power to learn from his experiences and influences, and dedicate himself to others not experiencing the same situation.
Two caveats. First, the actions--the intents--of the individuals or groups credited with causing the negative experiences and influences must be separated from the individuals or groups credited so credited.
Second, condemning other human beings for any action overlooks a fundamental reality. We are all human beings created with enduring frailty. As hard as we may try, we cannot escape the fact we fail our potential.
Our enduring human frailty is not an excuse, or a justification for acting with intentional failing--from intentional failings. Intentional failings that rise to the threshold of criminality must be treated as such.
We must strive to achieve to our human potential--forever and in all ways. Failing to do so is the ultimate intentional failing we may commit with our lives.
The Boston Marathon Bombings suspect has led me to revisit my mantra, "Focus on the positive and learn from the negative."
We have not heard from the the Boston Marathon bombings suspect regarding his motivations and intent. I have not addressed--I cannot--my questions, or feelings with him. Only in prayers seeking understanding have I done so.
I believe he might describe some failing in his upbringing that led him to his actions. Failings in his perceptions of given aspects of his upbringing. Economic situation. Family dynamic. Social interactions in the community. Experiences and influences of formative years--of current worldview, have overridden any belief in his power to learn from his experiences and influences, and dedicate himself to others not experiencing the same situation.
Two caveats. First, the actions--the intents--of the individuals or groups credited with causing the negative experiences and influences must be separated from the individuals or groups credited so credited.
Second, condemning other human beings for any action overlooks a fundamental reality. We are all human beings created with enduring frailty. As hard as we may try, we cannot escape the fact we fail our potential.
Our enduring human frailty is not an excuse, or a justification for acting with intentional failing--from intentional failings. Intentional failings that rise to the threshold of criminality must be treated as such.
We must strive to achieve to our human potential--forever and in all ways. Failing to do so is the ultimate intentional failing we may commit with our lives.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
My Handwriting...My Spirit...
I see your face before me--barely recognizable. Not because of pen scratchings, as some might think. No, I am surprised by how far we have drifted apart--in still waters. My spirit. Your body--of letters, of words.
Not a divorce. Not bitter. Not amicable. Just an imperceptible drifting in still waters.
Not an annulment. Our partnership. I seek no clean break. No erasure. I seek no space for a new bridegroom.
I seek not sole custody of our children. Our children. Conceptions of my spirit borne of your fingers, --of your hands.
I protect our creatures--our creations--with block printing. I intend no defensiveness. Yet, no one can take me past my blind spot.
Tell me. Show me. Your handwriting. Others' handwriting.
Where does legibility lie? Where does readability rest?
I must reconcile with you. I must revel in time perched on my bed with pen in hand, and paper before me. I know how to type. I love touching keys. Yet, handwriting touches more than my hands--he touches my spirit. He is more than an "it," he is a "he."
Not a divorce. Not bitter. Not amicable. Just an imperceptible drifting in still waters.
Not an annulment. Our partnership. I seek no clean break. No erasure. I seek no space for a new bridegroom.
I seek not sole custody of our children. Our children. Conceptions of my spirit borne of your fingers, --of your hands.
I protect our creatures--our creations--with block printing. I intend no defensiveness. Yet, no one can take me past my blind spot.
Tell me. Show me. Your handwriting. Others' handwriting.
Where does legibility lie? Where does readability rest?
I must reconcile with you. I must revel in time perched on my bed with pen in hand, and paper before me. I know how to type. I love touching keys. Yet, handwriting touches more than my hands--he touches my spirit. He is more than an "it," he is a "he."
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
A Keen Ear. An Accommodating Spirit.
Little scares me.
Fearless I am not. Fear I do.
Osteoarthritis. Puffy fingers. Inflamed tissues.
Some have knobby knees. I have knobby knuckles.
I fear not the appearance. Such is vanity--pure vanity.
I fear the knobby knuckles--its killing paralysis.
I fear loss. I fear loss of my voice--loss of my voice through my left hand. I fear not the loss of my right hand--the loss of my right hand as the instrument of my voice. My right hand has never had such muscle power.
My osteoarthritis affects my left hand, my left hip, and my right ankle. God only knows as to its selectivity within my body.
I do not ask--I have never asked--"Why me?" I abhor that question. What possible answer could serve anyone or any good end.
Rather, I ask, "What lesson am I to be learning."
I take this as no punishment for any action I have taken. Some, extreme in their thinking, take that tack. I never have. I never will.
Rather, I ask, "What preparation am I being called to make?"
A lifetime ago my answer to a call seems. Just one year ago, I was counselled to look ahead,
"Think of your needs beyond the next year--beyond the next five years. I advise you to get a power wheelchair with a joystick on your left armrest. I advise you to get a head rim. At the point when you need it, a head rim will control the movement of your chair when you cannot."
I do not torture myself--I cannot--with the prospect of using the head rim. Yet, I know that I have learned that lesson--made that preparation.
Osteoarthritis. My left hip? A simple four-legged cane. Common sense born of experience--carry no heavy packages, such as groceries, any distance. A fairly easy solution. For vanity, two canes. One is multiple shades of dark blue. The other is colored in shades of brown. It looks like wood. One must be color-coordinated, of course. Living alone, one must be prepared. Though not needed today, I need to have the tools at hand--the tools for as independent a life as is possible.
Osteoarthritis. My right ankle. Zoomer, my power wheelchair, is my antidote. Should she not be enough, I have been told that it is a matter of time--ten years perhaps--that I might need ankle surgery, an ankle replacement, perhaps.
Osteoarthritis. I do my best not to torture myself with eventualities. Osteoarthritis is not a condition of steadiness or control. Osteoarthritis is an amoeba, a chameleon. Some days, people may wonder, "I don't understand. I saw her in her wheelchair yesterday, now today she is walking just fine." I wonder too.
Osteoarthritis. A snake, who lurks in the bushes, waiting to catch me unawares.
Osteoarthritis. Exercise. Not a physical cure. But a wellspring of mental, and emotional energy. Exercise. A keeping at bay of inflammation's paralysis.
Osteoarthritis. My right ankle. My left hand. My left hip. My color-coordinated canes. Exercise. Osteoarthritis.
Osteoarthritis. A keen ear. An accommodating spirit. Osteoarthritis.
Fearless I am not. Fear I do.
Osteoarthritis. Puffy fingers. Inflamed tissues.
Some have knobby knees. I have knobby knuckles.
I fear not the appearance. Such is vanity--pure vanity.
I fear the knobby knuckles--its killing paralysis.
I fear loss. I fear loss of my voice--loss of my voice through my left hand. I fear not the loss of my right hand--the loss of my right hand as the instrument of my voice. My right hand has never had such muscle power.
My osteoarthritis affects my left hand, my left hip, and my right ankle. God only knows as to its selectivity within my body.
I do not ask--I have never asked--"Why me?" I abhor that question. What possible answer could serve anyone or any good end.
Rather, I ask, "What lesson am I to be learning."
I take this as no punishment for any action I have taken. Some, extreme in their thinking, take that tack. I never have. I never will.
Rather, I ask, "What preparation am I being called to make?"
A lifetime ago my answer to a call seems. Just one year ago, I was counselled to look ahead,
"Think of your needs beyond the next year--beyond the next five years. I advise you to get a power wheelchair with a joystick on your left armrest. I advise you to get a head rim. At the point when you need it, a head rim will control the movement of your chair when you cannot."
I do not torture myself--I cannot--with the prospect of using the head rim. Yet, I know that I have learned that lesson--made that preparation.
Osteoarthritis. My left hip? A simple four-legged cane. Common sense born of experience--carry no heavy packages, such as groceries, any distance. A fairly easy solution. For vanity, two canes. One is multiple shades of dark blue. The other is colored in shades of brown. It looks like wood. One must be color-coordinated, of course. Living alone, one must be prepared. Though not needed today, I need to have the tools at hand--the tools for as independent a life as is possible.
Osteoarthritis. My right ankle. Zoomer, my power wheelchair, is my antidote. Should she not be enough, I have been told that it is a matter of time--ten years perhaps--that I might need ankle surgery, an ankle replacement, perhaps.
Osteoarthritis. I do my best not to torture myself with eventualities. Osteoarthritis is not a condition of steadiness or control. Osteoarthritis is an amoeba, a chameleon. Some days, people may wonder, "I don't understand. I saw her in her wheelchair yesterday, now today she is walking just fine." I wonder too.
Osteoarthritis. A snake, who lurks in the bushes, waiting to catch me unawares.
Osteoarthritis. Exercise. Not a physical cure. But a wellspring of mental, and emotional energy. Exercise. A keeping at bay of inflammation's paralysis.
Osteoarthritis. My right ankle. My left hand. My left hip. My color-coordinated canes. Exercise. Osteoarthritis.
Osteoarthritis. A keen ear. An accommodating spirit. Osteoarthritis.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Calculation of an Ankle...Solving for X...
Algebra was never my forte. Yet, now I understand applied algebra, or I think I do. Applied algebra, or is it Christian algebra. You tell me.
Walking from the bus to church--or at least to an intersection at which someone from church welcomes me into their car--is a very prayerful time. Today came "the Calculation of an Ankle and a Hip--my Ankle, and My Hip."
My memory has faded. I do believe that algebra is adding several factors to solve for X. The young Patty did not understand. Humor this nearly 52-year-old woman, as she solves for X.
Factors.
Oxford Dictionaries defines factors as "expression by which another is exactly divisible."
Variables.
Oxford Dictionaries defines variable as "a quantity that during calculation is assumed to vary or be capable of varying." I am not satisfied with any definition that uses another form of itself to define itself. Vary is a verb, whereas variable is a noun. Therefore, let us define the verb. Vary is defined as, "differ in size, amount, degree, or nature from something else of the same general class."
My eyes are starting to glaze over now. Let me offer just one more definition to solve for X.
Constants. Oxford defines constants as, "noun. a situation or state of affairs that does not change." The example offered is ironic--truly ironic. "the condition of struggle remained a constant."
Definitions are established. Let us proceed.
A multitude of factors makes solving for X complex. However, it is essential.
X=Living inspired by, and insightful from, the lessons my ankle--my osteoarthritis--my cerebral palsy, and my epilepsy have taught, and continue to teach me.
X=Sharing the inspirations, the insights my disabilities--my life conditions have given me; advocating for the full living of each of our individual life conditions.
Constants.
Brain damage. Cerebral palsy. Osteoarthritis. Intentional tremors. Epilepsy.
Factors.
Inner calm. Humor. Optimism. Keen listening.
Variables.
Humidity. Distance traveled on my ankle. Weight borne on my left hip, and my right ankle. Do I listen to my body--to her instructions regarding my pace, and my activity?
This morning I witnessed the baptisms of three babies. The priest affirmed truth. The babies are entering a world far more difficult than those of us, who are older.
"There are no easy answers."
The priest asked the community, whether we were willing to offer support to the parents in raising their newly baptized children. His request was not hollow. Clear was how much we are called to share the joys and the sorrows with other people we meet--other people with whom we are in communion. I try not to feel discouragement. Yet, our unwillingness to share both our joys and our sorrows, and our strengths, and our vulnerabilities is a sad commentary on our commitment to our lives.
Why is it so hard to solve for X? What are our joys? What are our sorrows? Are we inspired in our lives? By what? By whom? Are we mindful of any insights in our day? What are they? Do we share them?
Why is self-disclosure so difficult? What is our purpose, if we are not to disclose our selves?
Why is it so difficult to solve for X?
Walking from the bus to church--or at least to an intersection at which someone from church welcomes me into their car--is a very prayerful time. Today came "the Calculation of an Ankle and a Hip--my Ankle, and My Hip."
My memory has faded. I do believe that algebra is adding several factors to solve for X. The young Patty did not understand. Humor this nearly 52-year-old woman, as she solves for X.
Factors.
Oxford Dictionaries defines factors as "expression by which another is exactly divisible."
Variables.
Oxford Dictionaries defines variable as "a quantity that during calculation is assumed to vary or be capable of varying." I am not satisfied with any definition that uses another form of itself to define itself. Vary is a verb, whereas variable is a noun. Therefore, let us define the verb. Vary is defined as, "differ in size, amount, degree, or nature from something else of the same general class."
My eyes are starting to glaze over now. Let me offer just one more definition to solve for X.
Constants. Oxford defines constants as, "noun. a situation or state of affairs that does not change." The example offered is ironic--truly ironic. "the condition of struggle remained a constant."
Definitions are established. Let us proceed.
A multitude of factors makes solving for X complex. However, it is essential.
X=Living inspired by, and insightful from, the lessons my ankle--my osteoarthritis--my cerebral palsy, and my epilepsy have taught, and continue to teach me.
X=Sharing the inspirations, the insights my disabilities--my life conditions have given me; advocating for the full living of each of our individual life conditions.
Constants.
Brain damage. Cerebral palsy. Osteoarthritis. Intentional tremors. Epilepsy.
Factors.
Inner calm. Humor. Optimism. Keen listening.
Variables.
Humidity. Distance traveled on my ankle. Weight borne on my left hip, and my right ankle. Do I listen to my body--to her instructions regarding my pace, and my activity?
This morning I witnessed the baptisms of three babies. The priest affirmed truth. The babies are entering a world far more difficult than those of us, who are older.
"There are no easy answers."
The priest asked the community, whether we were willing to offer support to the parents in raising their newly baptized children. His request was not hollow. Clear was how much we are called to share the joys and the sorrows with other people we meet--other people with whom we are in communion. I try not to feel discouragement. Yet, our unwillingness to share both our joys and our sorrows, and our strengths, and our vulnerabilities is a sad commentary on our commitment to our lives.
Why is it so hard to solve for X? What are our joys? What are our sorrows? Are we inspired in our lives? By what? By whom? Are we mindful of any insights in our day? What are they? Do we share them?
Why is self-disclosure so difficult? What is our purpose, if we are not to disclose our selves?
Why is it so difficult to solve for X?
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Betrayal of My Body...Stolen Dignity
Selective amnesia. I just noticed two posts in a row addressed a connection I see between health insurance, and auto insurance. Though I feel a tad guilty for abusing the privilege of the precious time we are given each day, the two successive posts do speak to a larger truth about my daily life. Most of my life, I have tried to stay abreast of world affairs, and the nuances of current affairs on the national, and local levels of government.
Since I stopped working due to my cerebral palsy, and osteoarthritis, I have become keenly aware of inner calm--the priority, above all else, that my pursuit of inner calm must take. My neurologist diagnosed that I have what is known as "intentional tremors." Throughout my life, my left hand has been the powerhouse that has muscled me through college, a master's program, a 24-year career at a legal publishing company, and through living independently. I have never had full use of my right hand, so, not until three years ago did I even question the role that my left hand plays in my life. A friend, who has cerebral palsy affecting use of her right hand, and I have often said that we were frightened of something ever happening to our left hands.
Then, July 8, 2009, the life as I had known it, changed radically. Optimist that I always have been, I can say that the ending of my career in the paid workforce made possible the diagnosis of an unknown, frightening tremor in my left hand and arm. The only possibility to explain my tremors seemed to be Parkinson's Disease. It was not. It may sound strange, but, being told that I had--that I have--intentional tremors enabled me to determine how to live with it.
Intentional Tremors.
At its core, intentional tremors are shaking that becomes more intense the more a person with them tries to do a given task. Three tasks come to mind. Eating. Drinking. Handwriting. To some, reasonable accommodation is a term that describes a central concept within the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990. To me, reasonable accommodation is my intimate. I try not to succumb to stolen dignity--the betrayal of my body.
Drinking. Reasonable accommodations took time. Straws. But, not just any straws. With any reasonable accommodation, there must be a reasonable amount of fun, without the bendable, store-bought disposable straws, or boring straws found in catalogs for individuals far older than I. To that end, I found colorfully-ribboned straws. I do not want to be consumed by a body that confines me to a world outside the vibrancy life offers.
Eating. Strange though it may sound, eating in public is truly humbling. While drinking may be reasonably accommodated, eating in public is much trickier. I have never been much of a soup aficionado. Thank God.
Forks are my friends. With them, I have a half a chance with food. With the exception of Breyer's vanilla ice cream, spoons are a slippery slope to use. Knives are fairly useless, not obstacles, not my enemies, just benign tools.
Handwriting.
For a lifetime, my handwriting--its readability--has been a bone of contention.
My high school teacher said of my homework, "I know it is from you, but, I have no idea what it says." Ouch! That hurt. I loved--I love--to write. That hurt.
So, in some ways, handwriting has been less traumatic, or less of a new trauma with which to cope, and adjust. I learned to type one-handed in high school. Technology has made available technology that I may use one day should my left hand give up. I am in no rush. Typing--or the worlds it opens--brings enormous joy. If need be I will learn to use a program called Dragon Naturally Speaking.
Dragon Naturally Speaking does not ameliorate a very fundamental loss. At Christmastime, receiving cards and letters is enveloped in something as special as the letter. The handwriting of a friend, or a family member engenders emotions far beyond that which is ever conveyed. I may be presumptuous to believe that others feel the same of me or my written communication.
Yet, the pain of the significant loss of my handwriting due to my intentional tremors runs deep. No one can take from me my signature. I do not fear identity theft:) No one can duplicate my handwritten signature.
I could torment myself by focusing on any of these realities. I cannot run from them, literally, or figuratively. Call me a Pollyanna, if you must. Yet, I can concentrate my energies on my signature abilities, gifts, passions, and people in my life. Optimism. Humor. Purpose. My survival skills. My pathway to inner calm--inner peace. I am no saint. One look at my bedroom can tell you that.
Essential to pursuing passions is filtering out all of the excess noise that surrounds hot button issues. Essential to pursuing my passions is in concentrating on what is truly life-giving. I cannot engage myself in--embrace a world that offers no receptiveness to the nuances of living vibrantly.
Since I stopped working due to my cerebral palsy, and osteoarthritis, I have become keenly aware of inner calm--the priority, above all else, that my pursuit of inner calm must take. My neurologist diagnosed that I have what is known as "intentional tremors." Throughout my life, my left hand has been the powerhouse that has muscled me through college, a master's program, a 24-year career at a legal publishing company, and through living independently. I have never had full use of my right hand, so, not until three years ago did I even question the role that my left hand plays in my life. A friend, who has cerebral palsy affecting use of her right hand, and I have often said that we were frightened of something ever happening to our left hands.
Then, July 8, 2009, the life as I had known it, changed radically. Optimist that I always have been, I can say that the ending of my career in the paid workforce made possible the diagnosis of an unknown, frightening tremor in my left hand and arm. The only possibility to explain my tremors seemed to be Parkinson's Disease. It was not. It may sound strange, but, being told that I had--that I have--intentional tremors enabled me to determine how to live with it.
Intentional Tremors.
At its core, intentional tremors are shaking that becomes more intense the more a person with them tries to do a given task. Three tasks come to mind. Eating. Drinking. Handwriting. To some, reasonable accommodation is a term that describes a central concept within the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990. To me, reasonable accommodation is my intimate. I try not to succumb to stolen dignity--the betrayal of my body.
Drinking. Reasonable accommodations took time. Straws. But, not just any straws. With any reasonable accommodation, there must be a reasonable amount of fun, without the bendable, store-bought disposable straws, or boring straws found in catalogs for individuals far older than I. To that end, I found colorfully-ribboned straws. I do not want to be consumed by a body that confines me to a world outside the vibrancy life offers.
Eating. Strange though it may sound, eating in public is truly humbling. While drinking may be reasonably accommodated, eating in public is much trickier. I have never been much of a soup aficionado. Thank God.
Forks are my friends. With them, I have a half a chance with food. With the exception of Breyer's vanilla ice cream, spoons are a slippery slope to use. Knives are fairly useless, not obstacles, not my enemies, just benign tools.
Handwriting.
For a lifetime, my handwriting--its readability--has been a bone of contention.
My high school teacher said of my homework, "I know it is from you, but, I have no idea what it says." Ouch! That hurt. I loved--I love--to write. That hurt.
So, in some ways, handwriting has been less traumatic, or less of a new trauma with which to cope, and adjust. I learned to type one-handed in high school. Technology has made available technology that I may use one day should my left hand give up. I am in no rush. Typing--or the worlds it opens--brings enormous joy. If need be I will learn to use a program called Dragon Naturally Speaking.
Dragon Naturally Speaking does not ameliorate a very fundamental loss. At Christmastime, receiving cards and letters is enveloped in something as special as the letter. The handwriting of a friend, or a family member engenders emotions far beyond that which is ever conveyed. I may be presumptuous to believe that others feel the same of me or my written communication.
Yet, the pain of the significant loss of my handwriting due to my intentional tremors runs deep. No one can take from me my signature. I do not fear identity theft:) No one can duplicate my handwritten signature.
I could torment myself by focusing on any of these realities. I cannot run from them, literally, or figuratively. Call me a Pollyanna, if you must. Yet, I can concentrate my energies on my signature abilities, gifts, passions, and people in my life. Optimism. Humor. Purpose. My survival skills. My pathway to inner calm--inner peace. I am no saint. One look at my bedroom can tell you that.
Essential to pursuing passions is filtering out all of the excess noise that surrounds hot button issues. Essential to pursuing my passions is in concentrating on what is truly life-giving. I cannot engage myself in--embrace a world that offers no receptiveness to the nuances of living vibrantly.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Family Crossfires
My family is close. Reconciled to inevitable differences present within any family. Reconciled. At peace. Not seething silently. We are blessed. Some families are not so blessed.
Christmas. Christmas cards. Childhood neighbors and friends remain close. Some closer to me.
Though not closest to me, two women are on my "must send" list, nonetheless. One is blinded by sight. The other? Her mother--her housemate.
The first woman is blinded by sight. Yet, far beyond any physical manifestation of blindness, her mind has been blinded--blinded by her own volition-- to what might be possible if she believed. No one forced it upon her. By unbelief--by ultimate inaction--she has taken the strongest action.
She is tragic of her own making. More tragic is the blind ensnarement of her mother. Imposed Catholic guilt is a joke most times funny. This is no joke. This is not funny.
Born in a generation when etiquette, propriety, manners, and grace were virtues, the mother instilled these in her children. Or, so she tried. Through no fault of her own, Catholic guilt is being imposed on her by her daughter. Though not privy to their conversations, there is no doubt.
I need you. Don't leave me alone in my blindness. Literally. Since my blindness imprisons me in this house, you cannot leave the house either. Don't leave me alone. If you dare, you will live to regret it. I will take irrevocable action that you will live to regret.
The mother's golden years are being held hostage. The daughter's potential choked. A travesty. Imposed. A travesty. Self-imposed. A travesty.
What may I do? Virtuous I am not. I cannot violate the virtues instilled by my own mother. So what can I do?
A simple Christmas card. Supporting UNICEF--supporting the belief of what is possible in each child's life, if we unite. A simple Christmas card addressed to both mother and daughter.
Merry Christmas.
Christmas. Christmas cards. Childhood neighbors and friends remain close. Some closer to me.
Though not closest to me, two women are on my "must send" list, nonetheless. One is blinded by sight. The other? Her mother--her housemate.
The first woman is blinded by sight. Yet, far beyond any physical manifestation of blindness, her mind has been blinded--blinded by her own volition-- to what might be possible if she believed. No one forced it upon her. By unbelief--by ultimate inaction--she has taken the strongest action.
She is tragic of her own making. More tragic is the blind ensnarement of her mother. Imposed Catholic guilt is a joke most times funny. This is no joke. This is not funny.
Born in a generation when etiquette, propriety, manners, and grace were virtues, the mother instilled these in her children. Or, so she tried. Through no fault of her own, Catholic guilt is being imposed on her by her daughter. Though not privy to their conversations, there is no doubt.
I need you. Don't leave me alone in my blindness. Literally. Since my blindness imprisons me in this house, you cannot leave the house either. Don't leave me alone. If you dare, you will live to regret it. I will take irrevocable action that you will live to regret.
The mother's golden years are being held hostage. The daughter's potential choked. A travesty. Imposed. A travesty. Self-imposed. A travesty.
What may I do? Virtuous I am not. I cannot violate the virtues instilled by my own mother. So what can I do?
A simple Christmas card. Supporting UNICEF--supporting the belief of what is possible in each child's life, if we unite. A simple Christmas card addressed to both mother and daughter.
Merry Christmas.
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 10, 2011
The Good Short Life
Dudley Clendinen, a former New York Times national correspondent and editorial writer, chronicled his experience with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Many call it ALS. Others Lou Gehrig's disease, in honor of a New York Yankee who died of the disease in 1938.
Dudley offers a first-person perspective of Lou, as he calls it. Reading his chronicle, it is clear, the it is really he. Dudley's intimacy with Lou is worthy of our embrace.
Some are choked up to read of the final curtain call, which befalls the individuals intimate with him. Three people come to mind, known to me, who live with or have died at Lou's hands. I would lie to exclude myself from being choked up about Lou.
Yet, reading Dudley's commentary in today's New York Times calls me to reflect. I am aware of life's realities. Dudley says, "I sometimes call it Lou, in its honor, and because the familiar feels less threatening." I understand. Whether it be confronting a condition personally, or facing the condition in relations with other human beings, familiarity with--intimacy with--the condition is vital.
I have lived with cerebral palsy since my first breath. I have known no other intimate companion. Epilepsy seizes me at times, when I abstain from my anticonvulsants' commands for me to take. Yet, when I awaken from the seizing moments of my life, I am left to humor my cerebral palsy. I must not abbreviate her presence in my life by calling her CP as a means of escaping the realities she presents to me daily. I respect the abbreviation of--the calling of--her as CP by her other intimates.
Yet, I am challenged enough to maintain my own balance, without taking on responsibility of another individual, however similarly conditioned they may be. Two years ago, chemical imbalances seized my clarity of thought. While navigating my life through the clouds, I was informed of a stunning reality. Cerebral palsy accelerates the aging process.
My lifelong understanding was that cerebral palsy was not a degenerative condition. Yet, accelerates the aging process was not synonymous with degenerative condition. I confess, I am not faced with the prospect of being choked by my cerebral palsy. Yet, I do endeavor to understand the distinction between accelerate and degenerative.
Accelerate is derived from accelerare "to hasten, to quicken," from ad- "to" + celerare"hasten," from celer "swift." Whereas, degenerative is derived from de + genus (gen. generis) "birth, descent." Figurative sense of "to fall off, decline."
During the nine days when my anticonvulsant imbalances were addressed, my understanding of degenerative in its figurative sense was accelerated at lightning speed. As contrary as it may seem, striving to compete with the speed of others differently conditioned than I was no longer the point of my life. It couldn't be. The price to do so would have been too great--it would have driven me to my immediate demise. If I strive to exceed the boundaries of who I am meant to be--who I will myself to co-operate with God to be--then I am avoiding what is available for me to live.
As I say this, I recognize that this is far easier said than done. I have yet to accomplish living what is within my boundaries to live. For this reason, and to achieve this goal, I must return to two people's wisdom. Let me be clear, I am not speaking of imminent death for myself, that is not my point.
...we don't talk about how to die. We act as if facing death weren't one of life's greatest, most absorbing thrills and challenges. Believe me, it is. This is not dull. But we have to be able to see doctors and machines, medical and insurance systems, family and friends and religions as informative--not governing--to be free.
And that's the point. This is not about one particular disease or even about Death. It's about Life, when you know there's not much left. That is the weird blessing of Lou. There is no escape, and nothing much to do. It's liberating.
Reading Dudley's commentary, I am transported back to the words of my maternal grandfather--a mentor to me. He lived with us during the last few years of his life. While still quite lucid, he spoke words that guide my living yet today.
"When I die, don't be sad. I have made amends with everyone I have had differences with."
Returning to Dudley Clendinen, "the familiar seems less threatening," is essential to how I must live--to how I may thrive. On April 14, 2011, I took ownership of an Invacare FDX-MCG power wheelchair. Yet, that was not the first step toward my liberating mobility. Familiarity. Less threatening. These two qualities were essential to moving forward in my life. Thus, Zoomer was born. Zoomer moves me closer to other people, and other people closer to me. Mechanical parts take a back seat to the persona of a more active way of living--not faster than other people, rather, different from others.
I pray to be defined--guided--by blessing, making amends, familiar and less threatening. May we be attuned to--listen to--the sages in our lives--in our world.
Dudley offers a first-person perspective of Lou, as he calls it. Reading his chronicle, it is clear, the it is really he. Dudley's intimacy with Lou is worthy of our embrace.
Some are choked up to read of the final curtain call, which befalls the individuals intimate with him. Three people come to mind, known to me, who live with or have died at Lou's hands. I would lie to exclude myself from being choked up about Lou.
Yet, reading Dudley's commentary in today's New York Times calls me to reflect. I am aware of life's realities. Dudley says, "I sometimes call it Lou, in its honor, and because the familiar feels less threatening." I understand. Whether it be confronting a condition personally, or facing the condition in relations with other human beings, familiarity with--intimacy with--the condition is vital.
I have lived with cerebral palsy since my first breath. I have known no other intimate companion. Epilepsy seizes me at times, when I abstain from my anticonvulsants' commands for me to take. Yet, when I awaken from the seizing moments of my life, I am left to humor my cerebral palsy. I must not abbreviate her presence in my life by calling her CP as a means of escaping the realities she presents to me daily. I respect the abbreviation of--the calling of--her as CP by her other intimates.
Yet, I am challenged enough to maintain my own balance, without taking on responsibility of another individual, however similarly conditioned they may be. Two years ago, chemical imbalances seized my clarity of thought. While navigating my life through the clouds, I was informed of a stunning reality. Cerebral palsy accelerates the aging process.
My lifelong understanding was that cerebral palsy was not a degenerative condition. Yet, accelerates the aging process was not synonymous with degenerative condition. I confess, I am not faced with the prospect of being choked by my cerebral palsy. Yet, I do endeavor to understand the distinction between accelerate and degenerative.
Accelerate is derived from accelerare "to hasten, to quicken," from ad- "to" + celerare"hasten," from celer "swift." Whereas, degenerative is derived from de + genus (gen. generis) "birth, descent." Figurative sense of "to fall off, decline."
During the nine days when my anticonvulsant imbalances were addressed, my understanding of degenerative in its figurative sense was accelerated at lightning speed. As contrary as it may seem, striving to compete with the speed of others differently conditioned than I was no longer the point of my life. It couldn't be. The price to do so would have been too great--it would have driven me to my immediate demise. If I strive to exceed the boundaries of who I am meant to be--who I will myself to co-operate with God to be--then I am avoiding what is available for me to live.
As I say this, I recognize that this is far easier said than done. I have yet to accomplish living what is within my boundaries to live. For this reason, and to achieve this goal, I must return to two people's wisdom. Let me be clear, I am not speaking of imminent death for myself, that is not my point.
...we don't talk about how to die. We act as if facing death weren't one of life's greatest, most absorbing thrills and challenges. Believe me, it is. This is not dull. But we have to be able to see doctors and machines, medical and insurance systems, family and friends and religions as informative--not governing--to be free.
And that's the point. This is not about one particular disease or even about Death. It's about Life, when you know there's not much left. That is the weird blessing of Lou. There is no escape, and nothing much to do. It's liberating.
Reading Dudley's commentary, I am transported back to the words of my maternal grandfather--a mentor to me. He lived with us during the last few years of his life. While still quite lucid, he spoke words that guide my living yet today.
"When I die, don't be sad. I have made amends with everyone I have had differences with."
Returning to Dudley Clendinen, "the familiar seems less threatening," is essential to how I must live--to how I may thrive. On April 14, 2011, I took ownership of an Invacare FDX-MCG power wheelchair. Yet, that was not the first step toward my liberating mobility. Familiarity. Less threatening. These two qualities were essential to moving forward in my life. Thus, Zoomer was born. Zoomer moves me closer to other people, and other people closer to me. Mechanical parts take a back seat to the persona of a more active way of living--not faster than other people, rather, different from others.
I pray to be defined--guided--by blessing, making amends, familiar and less threatening. May we be attuned to--listen to--the sages in our lives--in our world.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Betty Ford
Oh, gosh. Betty Ford died today.
My heart skipped a beat--sank--upon reading that former First Lady Betty Ford died today at the age of 93. She served in office--as the First Lady--when I was a teenager. Several years after my grandmother died of breast cancer--at a time when breast cancer ravaged the spirits of women, whose tissues it invaded--Betty Ford gave voice to the disease.
Betty Ford was not an abrasive woman. She abided by the expectations of her generation. She lived the realities of a demanding political life--the wife of a long-time U.S. Representative. She raised four children. She did not do so begrudgingly. She was not seeking a career beyond her young family. Her public career--her sphere of influence--would be broadened beyond what could have been imagined by anyone, thanks to the Ford family entry into the nation's history.
Yet, at the same time, Betty Ford was hardly a spineless wallflower. In the best sense of the word, Betty Ford was an opportunist--a graceful opportunist. She took her life experiences--her personal challenges--and transformed them into sources of help from which others so challenged could find practical help, and personal strength. Just as Betty Ford was the face of a country learning how to articulate what Gloria Steinem, and others advocated--women's rights. Betty Ford was comfortable giving voice to uncomfortable social realities of our time together--marijuana, addiction, premarital sex, and abortion, among others. Betty Ford gave a face--literally--to putt
Obituaries, and memorials offered for individuals, who have died recently--Betty Ford, can seem maudlin. Yet, maudlinness survives only when we fail to ignite in our spirits the essence of Betty Ford in our own lives. How did we know her? When did we meet her? Did Betty Ford give voice to values--issues--of import to us? Did Betty Ford teach us anything about ourselves--about our world?
My heart skipped a beat--sank--upon reading that former First Lady Betty Ford died today at the age of 93. She served in office--as the First Lady--when I was a teenager. Several years after my grandmother died of breast cancer--at a time when breast cancer ravaged the spirits of women, whose tissues it invaded--Betty Ford gave voice to the disease.
Betty Ford was not an abrasive woman. She abided by the expectations of her generation. She lived the realities of a demanding political life--the wife of a long-time U.S. Representative. She raised four children. She did not do so begrudgingly. She was not seeking a career beyond her young family. Her public career--her sphere of influence--would be broadened beyond what could have been imagined by anyone, thanks to the Ford family entry into the nation's history.
Yet, at the same time, Betty Ford was hardly a spineless wallflower. In the best sense of the word, Betty Ford was an opportunist--a graceful opportunist. She took her life experiences--her personal challenges--and transformed them into sources of help from which others so challenged could find practical help, and personal strength. Just as Betty Ford was the face of a country learning how to articulate what Gloria Steinem, and others advocated--women's rights. Betty Ford was comfortable giving voice to uncomfortable social realities of our time together--marijuana, addiction, premarital sex, and abortion, among others. Betty Ford gave a face--literally--to putt
Obituaries, and memorials offered for individuals, who have died recently--Betty Ford, can seem maudlin. Yet, maudlinness survives only when we fail to ignite in our spirits the essence of Betty Ford in our own lives. How did we know her? When did we meet her? Did Betty Ford give voice to values--issues--of import to us? Did Betty Ford teach us anything about ourselves--about our world?
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Failed Attempts...Gifted Moments...
From the moment I woke up this morning, this was a day of failed attempts--or so it seemed.
Never setting an alarm does not mean that I value schedules any less. 7AM. That is my awakened perfection. Pills. News. Shower. Pack. 8:15 to 8:25. Enroute to the Y. 8:45 to 9AM. In the pool. 9:45AM to 10AM. Out of the pool. One hour of vigorous swimming. No calculated laps. No. Intentional right leg kicks and right arm strokes. 10:20 AM to 10:40 AM. Enroute home. E-mail message review. Writing. Explore potential adventures with Zoomer. Two hours outside with Zoomer.
Yet, I work hard not to pressure myself to abide by those guidelines. I admit, it is completely counter-intuitive, as was much of today. I set the guidelines precisely to guide me, not to dictate when, what, and how I breathe--how I live.
In 2009, years of pressuring myself to abide by someone else's standards for me came to a head. In and of themselves, the standards were and are reasonable, and essential. Corporate benchmarks. Anticonvulsant drug prescriptions. Essential.
In 2009, my life changed radically. My body. My nervous system. I could not live in accord with essential. My body--my nervous system--would hear nothing of it.
At 49, I rebuilt my life from the ground up. New drug dosages. Physical therapy. Occupational therapy. No written lists of appointments whatsoever. I needed quiet time. I knew what needed to be done. Yet, my nervous system was reeling from years of sensory overload. I needed no reminders of how I was not measuring up to expectations--even my own, especially my own expectations for myself.
Ankle surgery. A new leg brace. An electric wheelchair.
No news...no debate about health care reform. The hyperbole hit a raw nerve. No one said, "I commit myself to making decisions rooted in the conviction that none of us is guaranteed that we will wake up tomorrow morning with the same capacities we have when we go to sleep tonight."
Years of education did not teach me to listen to my body--to submit myself to my body's wisdom. Hold less in my left hand. Respect my left hand--the irreplaceable value she contributes to my quality of life. Break down laundry into much smaller loads. Grasp nothing more than what my left hand tolerates. No more of this throwing everything together. No more putting one load of laundry in the dryer at the same time I put the previous load from the washer into the dryer. Reasonable to most people, yet, my nervous system felt overloaded by not completing the one task--the one load--before starting the next load. It was unreasonable to my nervous system to expect more of it than it could handle. Yet, that is precisely what I did for years. To have done otherwise would have meant conceding to the helpless, incapable person I felt others would see me to be.
Attend to my ankle. Step gently. Alleviate walking's burden. Alleviate walking's pain. Preserve my ankle.
With time, I rid myself of toxins that poisoned my essence. Hostility. Career potential unfulfilled. I relinquished a nebulous, yet, grandiose ambition of advocacy. Somehow I could save people from themselves--from their attitudes. With a laser, I could extract prejudices regarding disabilities, and people who have them. Or, so I thought. I could rid the world of all prejudice, if only I used the right words. Or so I prayed.
With time and patience, I have added simple elements into my aging body to create a new life. Not perfect. Not idyllic. But, a new life, nonetheless.
Swimming. Writing. Volunteering. Crossword puzzle solving. Corresponding. News. Hyperbole censored without guilt.
Family. Friends. Faith community. Neighbors. Acquaintances. Doctors.
Challenges loom. Medicare.
Questions remain. What next? Wintertime mobility?
Failed attempts. My knee jerk reaction. Yet, all my life, contrary to the belief of loved ones, I believed that each difficulty has its lesson to be learned. Each challenge has its gift to present. I do not consult my astrologer to schedule my actions--to choreograph my life. Yet, I have no doubt that what happens in my life is no mistake--each moment in my life is a gift to be lived.
Never setting an alarm does not mean that I value schedules any less. 7AM. That is my awakened perfection. Pills. News. Shower. Pack. 8:15 to 8:25. Enroute to the Y. 8:45 to 9AM. In the pool. 9:45AM to 10AM. Out of the pool. One hour of vigorous swimming. No calculated laps. No. Intentional right leg kicks and right arm strokes. 10:20 AM to 10:40 AM. Enroute home. E-mail message review. Writing. Explore potential adventures with Zoomer. Two hours outside with Zoomer.
Yet, I work hard not to pressure myself to abide by those guidelines. I admit, it is completely counter-intuitive, as was much of today. I set the guidelines precisely to guide me, not to dictate when, what, and how I breathe--how I live.
In 2009, years of pressuring myself to abide by someone else's standards for me came to a head. In and of themselves, the standards were and are reasonable, and essential. Corporate benchmarks. Anticonvulsant drug prescriptions. Essential.
In 2009, my life changed radically. My body. My nervous system. I could not live in accord with essential. My body--my nervous system--would hear nothing of it.
At 49, I rebuilt my life from the ground up. New drug dosages. Physical therapy. Occupational therapy. No written lists of appointments whatsoever. I needed quiet time. I knew what needed to be done. Yet, my nervous system was reeling from years of sensory overload. I needed no reminders of how I was not measuring up to expectations--even my own, especially my own expectations for myself.
Ankle surgery. A new leg brace. An electric wheelchair.
No news...no debate about health care reform. The hyperbole hit a raw nerve. No one said, "I commit myself to making decisions rooted in the conviction that none of us is guaranteed that we will wake up tomorrow morning with the same capacities we have when we go to sleep tonight."
Years of education did not teach me to listen to my body--to submit myself to my body's wisdom. Hold less in my left hand. Respect my left hand--the irreplaceable value she contributes to my quality of life. Break down laundry into much smaller loads. Grasp nothing more than what my left hand tolerates. No more of this throwing everything together. No more putting one load of laundry in the dryer at the same time I put the previous load from the washer into the dryer. Reasonable to most people, yet, my nervous system felt overloaded by not completing the one task--the one load--before starting the next load. It was unreasonable to my nervous system to expect more of it than it could handle. Yet, that is precisely what I did for years. To have done otherwise would have meant conceding to the helpless, incapable person I felt others would see me to be.
Attend to my ankle. Step gently. Alleviate walking's burden. Alleviate walking's pain. Preserve my ankle.
With time, I rid myself of toxins that poisoned my essence. Hostility. Career potential unfulfilled. I relinquished a nebulous, yet, grandiose ambition of advocacy. Somehow I could save people from themselves--from their attitudes. With a laser, I could extract prejudices regarding disabilities, and people who have them. Or, so I thought. I could rid the world of all prejudice, if only I used the right words. Or so I prayed.
With time and patience, I have added simple elements into my aging body to create a new life. Not perfect. Not idyllic. But, a new life, nonetheless.
Swimming. Writing. Volunteering. Crossword puzzle solving. Corresponding. News. Hyperbole censored without guilt.
Family. Friends. Faith community. Neighbors. Acquaintances. Doctors.
Challenges loom. Medicare.
Questions remain. What next? Wintertime mobility?
Failed attempts. My knee jerk reaction. Yet, all my life, contrary to the belief of loved ones, I believed that each difficulty has its lesson to be learned. Each challenge has its gift to present. I do not consult my astrologer to schedule my actions--to choreograph my life. Yet, I have no doubt that what happens in my life is no mistake--each moment in my life is a gift to be lived.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
A Limp of Truth
Tonight,
You limped ahead of me.
You sensed
My exposed nerves;
Straight to my core you cut.
In your limp,
You spoke a truth of me.
The truth you speak
Is
One from which
I may not walk away.
August 1993
Truth survives the test of time. Though 18 years ago, the place, and the image are indelibly etched in my memory.
Sharing this story--walking in an elevated walkway past a mirror--serves as a reminder of lessons that I am called to learn. I am not alone.
Each of us is given lessons in our life--each day--to learn. The question? Am I--are you--willing students of our life lessons given each day?
You limped ahead of me.
You sensed
My exposed nerves;
Straight to my core you cut.
In your limp,
You spoke a truth of me.
The truth you speak
Is
One from which
I may not walk away.
August 1993
Truth survives the test of time. Though 18 years ago, the place, and the image are indelibly etched in my memory.
Sharing this story--walking in an elevated walkway past a mirror--serves as a reminder of lessons that I am called to learn. I am not alone.
Each of us is given lessons in our life--each day--to learn. The question? Am I--are you--willing students of our life lessons given each day?
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Elizabeth Edwards. Resilience.
I just learned that Elizabeth Edwards died today.
I commend to you Elizabeth Edwards' autobiography, Resilience: Reflections on the Burdens and Gifts of Facing Life's Adversities. I read it earlier this year.
Reflections.
Elizabeth conveyed a truth FAR too often missed. Response to our lives' experiences, whatever they may be, is not a simple matter. Reading her life's story conveyed to me the importance of living the nuances of my experiences. To live the nuances--the complicated realities of my life--with one unified response, with one broad stroke of a brush, is to miss Elizabeth's conveyed truth.
Burdens. Gifts.
She addressed the complexities of her husband's affair in a way worthy of our notice. Elizabeth made a distinction between her relationship with her husband, and her partnership with John as a parent to their four children--three of whom are still living. When questioned by confounded reporters, as to why she continued to have amicable contact with John, she said something to the effect that John is a good father. She said she did not want to get in the way of those strong relationships continuing.
Life's Adversities.
She lived realistic optimism. She did not deny what she was facing. Yet, she took actions necessary to co-create a positive life for herself--for her family. She used her life experiences to support research and exploration. My rereading is needed to listen as to what actions I may take in my own life. How do I--how do we--live our lives.
I pray that I do not elevate Elizabeth to the precarious perch of a hero. She deserves a more personal response than heroism conveys. I do not want to romanticize how she handled her life experiences. That would be to drown out the truths she offers with noisy. self-serving declarations.
My prayer is that I and others may be motivated to read her autobiography, and learn what she can teach us regarding resilience, reflection, burdens, gifts, and adversities.
Resilience: Reflections on the Burdens, and Gifts, of Facing Life's Adversities
Elizabeth Edwards, 1949-2010
I commend to you Elizabeth Edwards' autobiography, Resilience: Reflections on the Burdens and Gifts of Facing Life's Adversities. I read it earlier this year.
Reflections.
Elizabeth conveyed a truth FAR too often missed. Response to our lives' experiences, whatever they may be, is not a simple matter. Reading her life's story conveyed to me the importance of living the nuances of my experiences. To live the nuances--the complicated realities of my life--with one unified response, with one broad stroke of a brush, is to miss Elizabeth's conveyed truth.
Burdens. Gifts.
She addressed the complexities of her husband's affair in a way worthy of our notice. Elizabeth made a distinction between her relationship with her husband, and her partnership with John as a parent to their four children--three of whom are still living. When questioned by confounded reporters, as to why she continued to have amicable contact with John, she said something to the effect that John is a good father. She said she did not want to get in the way of those strong relationships continuing.
Life's Adversities.
She lived realistic optimism. She did not deny what she was facing. Yet, she took actions necessary to co-create a positive life for herself--for her family. She used her life experiences to support research and exploration. My rereading is needed to listen as to what actions I may take in my own life. How do I--how do we--live our lives.
I pray that I do not elevate Elizabeth to the precarious perch of a hero. She deserves a more personal response than heroism conveys. I do not want to romanticize how she handled her life experiences. That would be to drown out the truths she offers with noisy. self-serving declarations.
My prayer is that I and others may be motivated to read her autobiography, and learn what she can teach us regarding resilience, reflection, burdens, gifts, and adversities.
Resilience: Reflections on the Burdens, and Gifts, of Facing Life's Adversities
Elizabeth Edwards, 1949-2010
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