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.

Zoomer Chronicles: Speed. Torque.

     Finessing turns, and calculating speed are key to reigning in Zoomer.  Destinations emerge.  That is my department.  Zoomer has given me four choices of speed I may travel.  OK, five.  I forget.  As my intimate, she reminds me--with Joy, I may turn on Zoomer.   I forget.  If Zoomer takes advantage of me--of our partnership--I may simply turn off her reckless abuse of me.
    Speed choices.  Having never before driven, I do not know whether the speed range 1-4 options equal gears used on a manual car.  My formal instruction was minimal.  If memory serves me, the overall potential speed of Zoomer was calibrated to be slow on the speed scale--Zoomer's speed potential was calibrated before she was named.
    The overall speed of Zoomer was calibrated by the manufacturer.  It has been--it is, and it will be always--for me to calibrate the speeds 1-4 based on my confidence initially.  He advises me not to travel at  top speed--on 4.  Fear leads me to agreement.
     Torque.  Torque?  Initially, I recognized only the word--not its meaning.  The vendor told me torque is the power that speed allows me to travel.  OK, I thought.  With time, I may understand.  Words' meanings eluded me.  Traveling up hilly terrain, now I understand.  Speed.  Torque.  Calibration.  Speed.  Torque.  Success.
     My learning curve is steep by my personal expectations.  Yet, by the chronology of our partnership, we--Zoomer and I--are becoming intimate in due time.  Zoomer has the enthusiasm of a young child--an impetuous child.
     "So what if I nick a few walls, run into some basis, get caught in handicap accessible doors?  You've gotta admit, I am better with elevators."
     "Tell me, Patty.  Have I ever hurt you?  Has my "impetuousness" every caused bodily harm to you?  Has my "enthusiasm" ever hurt anyone we have met along the way???"