Mourning A Body--My Body

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.

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.

Advocating or Proselytizing

     Advocate.  Proselytize.  Convert.
     This week, proselytizing, and advocacy came to the fore.  When is proseltyzing appropriate?  When do we advocate?  How do we do so effectively?
     Proselyte.  Greek word, proselytus means "convert to (Judaism), stranger, one who has come over."  

     First, a proselyte appeared.  In the YMCA's (Young Men's Christian Association's) poolroom.  The intended audience?  My personal trainer.  I was not privy to their conversation.  My clues?  A Bible--a hand pointing to biblical passages.  The personal trainer, held captive to the
     What was I called to do?  What am I called to know before deciding to act?  From what past life experiences may I discern today's experience?  Several.

     Common to teenagers, I sought out a willing proselyte in junior high school.  Questions addressed, if not answered.  Bible study sessions.  Context.  My response?  A conversation with the pastor--Mark.  My creekside chidhood home would suggest a conversion blessed by water.  Such was my family's fear.  Have no fear.  Clear to me, this was not the time, this was not for me.  At the creek, with respect, I made clear, this was not my conversion's time--this was not my conversion's place.
     Open to beliefs diverse from my own,  I do call for a foundation.  Respect.  Patty's Prerequisite.  Respect.  Mutual respect.   
     Several years later, a similar seeking.  A far different result.  I was more mature.  My search was on solid ground.  A foundation was laid.  Respect.  My prerequisite met.  Mutual respect.
     The YMCA's poolside proseltyzing was unprovoked.  Yet, I was called to advocate for my own beliefs--my own needs. 
     Advocate.  Latin.  Ad- to, + vocaere, to call, related to  "vocem" (...voice.)

     How was I called to advocate--to advocate effectively?
     I was not privy to the words exchanged between the proseltye, and the personal trainer.  My only clue--a Bible--a hand pointing to biblical passages.
     My choices?  Two.  Proselytize?  No.  I had no reason to address the proselytizer.  She was not talking to me.  She was gone.   Advocacy?  Yes.  The trainer.
     Advocacy.  To call for what?  How?
     My feelings?  Anger.  Frustration.  Disappointment.  Determination.
     Convert.  Latin word, convertere, 'turn around, transform,' from com- 'together' and 'vertere "to turn."

    Open to beliefs diverse from my own,  I do call for a foundation.  Respect.  Patty's prerequisite.  Mutual respect.  Some may call my optimism--my positive nature--to be syrupy.  Yet, I prefer to think of it as an invitation to me, and to others to seek the best opportunity to transform something disappointing, bad, or whatever, into a positive situation.
    In terms of the proselytizer and my personal trainer, I have a positive outcome to share.  In the pool, I kicked my anger, and formed a constructive e-mail message stating my feelings, my intention to cancel our next session, and go back to my swimming routine.  Surprisingly, my direct approach caught the trainer's attention.  In a positive manner.  She understood how she could have handled the proselytizer differently.  She understood that I deserved her attention.  Barb expressed a desire to be more attentive.  We will meet again.

Avenging Death

     Can you help me?  Math never has been my strong suit.  Can you help me?
     What is the sum of the following equation:
      Number of People Killed in the September 11th Attacks x Terrorists Involved= ???
     How many terrorists must be killed in order to avenge--inflict harm in return for (an injury or wrong done to oneself or another)--the deaths of any act of terrorism, or war?
     Are we so caught up in justified grief that we are willing to engage in ill-defined actions of retribution?
     CBS News is one organization of the Fourth Estate, who has used the phrase, "US hit list" to describe the strategy used to fight terrorism.  What does that strategy say regarding the model democracy patriotic Americans strive to present to the rest of the world?  Does that strategy speak with integrity?
     I am not someone who can quote chapter and verse of the Bible.  Innumerable problems have resulted from that practice.  With that said, I offer for your consideration the passage from Exodus 21:23-26:
     But if injury ensues, you shall give life for life,
     Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot,
     Burn for burn, stripe for stripe,
                                                  Exodus: 21: 23-26                                                
    I am not a biblical scholar, I have tremendous difficulty with how the term "patriot" is used in common parlance.  I am at peace with how the term "pacifist" is defined.  So much so that I describe myself as a pacifist.
    Do those facts disqualify me?  Do those facts strip me of any credibility, and integrity my conclusions might have?
     I hope not.
     Is it plausible that families of terrorists pursue peaceful endeavors?  What would the effect of avenging death have on the families of terrorists?  Are all family members committed to engaging in acts of terrorism?
     I have so many questions.
     Can you help me to understand?

Zoomer Chronicles: Safety's Anger

     This morning, Zoomer met fraternal twins--Safety's Anger, and Anger's Safety.  Mirror images of one another, they are born of the same root.  Danger.  Fear.
     A return to swimming was my dear ankle's hope.  Pool maintenance.  Facility remodeling.
     A return to swimming was not to be.  Not this day.  Ankle's hope was dashed--dashed far short of 50 yards.
     An elevator.  Button pushed.  A short wait.  Doors opened. Zoomer wheeled in--turned around.  Facing forward.  Third floor's button pushed.  Ankle's Hope salivating.  Slow and crotchety though she was known to be, today, this elevator went nowhere fast.
     Door Open's button pushed.  As an accordion opens, so too the doors.  Yet, just as with a fast, bad polka, an accordion closes, so too did the doors.  Though Zoomer is learning to dance, the polka is not her step.
     Though armed with her cell phone--a Jitterbug, I kid you not--my ankle's hope kicked back at me.  Angry. With the weight of a bowling ball on her, my ankle's hope was to kick off her burden.  One more time, she implored me.  Third floor button, one more time.  Once again, Zoomer, my ankle's hope, and I went nowhere fast.
    Though Jitterbug tried to call to Ankle's Hope, she would hear none of it.  Take me home, Zoomer.  Take me home.
    Safety's anger. She prevailed.  Safety's Anger drove Zoomer and I out of Harm's Way.
    Though Ankle's Hope kicked high, she fell flat into Zoomer's lap.  No harm.  Just anger.  Frustration.  Door Open's button hit.  Zoomer and I sped forward.  To Safety, we arrived.
    No sign.  Out of Order.  No sign.
    Anger's safety.  Though Safety's Anger had spoken--rescued--now it was for Anger's Safety to speak.
To quiet solitude, find your way.  Let Anger rest, let Safety's Advocate cry forth in due time.
    Impatience overruled quiet solitude.   A simple report. "Your elevator is out of order."  
    "The elevator repairman has been called.  They should be out sometime today."
    Safety's Anger yet satisfied, though Logic told her she should be.
      "You are new to this world, there were many signs not posted before you.  Many signs will not be posted in years yet to come."
     Yet,"Where is the Out of Order sign--Safety's Warning?" was all this impatient soul could ask.