I am a Catholic. Vacationing left me to Pope Benedict XVI's resignation only last week. Acquaintance with likely papal candidates is now my undertaking. Not experienced in church matters, nary a neophyte to this process.
Who might lead the Catholic Church next? What are his perspectives? His visions? What of his person-as a human being, not as anything theologically, or hierarchically?
Learning about the selection process of bishops--according to Canon Law--is a filter for my own views--educated in the possible while open to the yet-to-be lived.
Contemplating possibilities is a passion. Cynicism is a toxin I do my best to avoid.
Theologian Thomas Reese provided a questionnaire sent to bishop candidates seeking basic information about the candidates to be used in decision making.
"1. Personal Characteristics: Physical appearance, health, work capacity; family condition, especially regarding any manifestations of hereditary illness." [Thomas Reese, Archbishop: Inside the Power Structure of the Roman Catholic Church, Chapter 1, pp.20-21.]
I do not know if the questionnaire is used currently or not in the selection of bishops, or other church leaders, such as the Pope.
Among attributes polled was "physical condition." Living with cerebral palsy, epilepsy, essential tremors, and osteoarthritis, I am attuned to the "physical condition" aspect of evaluating church leaders. Thomas Reese noted that "physical conditions" could be used to disqualify men from consideration to be a bishop.
Papal selection is a more secretive process to say the least. Yet, I am called to evaluate the current papal selection process by Reese's "physical conditions" revelation. John Paul II was noted to have Parkinson's Disease only in his death certificate.
I am led to wonder. If disclosure of "physical conditions" were the norm, who might be selected Pope?
What might physical vulnerability bring to papal leadership?
Papal wish lists are being proffered at the pace of children's Christmas letters to Santa in December. Many Catholic papal wish lists to the College of Cardinals at the Vatican include leadership on vital issues, such as:
1. Clergy sex abuse
2. Financial accountability and transparency
3. Married priests
4. Women's ordination
These are but a few of the issues put forth. All are vital. I defer to other advocates more experienced than I to speak to these and other valid issues of concern.
No litmus test on a single issue will lead to selection of our next Pope. The most effective leader is a man who understands these issues. I pray we may have a Pope receptive to Catholics, and individuals of all world religions of diverse perspectives and convictions.
Within that context, may the College of Cardinals be open to a man who is vulnerable in spirit, compassionate in heart, mindful of understanding, and receptive in manner of being.
Physical condition should be no more a positive selector of a new Pope any more than a negative disqualification to be Pope, or a matter seen worthy of no more note than a death certificate--as with Pope John Paul II's death certificate.
What might the result--the possibilities--be if we opened the papacy to an exemplar of vulnerability? What might the result--the possibilities--be if we opened the papacy who a man who understands being brought to his knees, literally, by his own vulnerability?
[I was witness to breaths held by the physical vulnerability of a priest at Easter time. Would the priest be able to uphold his priestly duties in his physically compromised condition? Yet, that priest's physically vulnerable presence at Easter intensified his message far more than any words could ever have done.]
Others offer themselves as the champions of clergy sex abuse issues, the advocates for financial accountability, the proponents of married priesthood, or the pioneers for women's ordination. I give voice to vulnerability--physical vulnerability.
How might physical vulnerability humble our next Pope to understand the diverse issues, needs, and hopes of Catholics and other world citizens? How might physical vulnerability of our next Pope reveal to each of us to live with our own vulnerabilities as human beings?
Showing posts with label undeniable help. Show all posts
Showing posts with label undeniable help. Show all posts
Monday, March 4, 2013
Monday, October 3, 2011
Where is the Middle???
I find myself in the middle of a different search for information. The search is new to me. I am accustomed to the search for information regarding my epilepsy, and seizures most prominently. Brain damage and cerebral palsy to a lesser degree. Although all four are intertwined. My search is for how to be of compassionately informed support to someone, who is academically familiar with the medical condition he faces now as he looks in the mirror.
With some, the temptation is to throw facts, and information--research--at them to help them contain their condition into a manageable form. With others,, the temptation is to offer pity. Sometimes, that is manifest in Poster Children to attract justifiable support for individuals with the condition, and for research. On a personal level, pity well may be uncertainty, and discomfort, as to how to address the situation. Most tempting, and most frightening to me is the offer to cure or to heal someone by mystical powers.
Most helpful to me with regard to my seizures, epilepsy, cerebral palsy and brain damage is a balanced approach.
I don't seek to be cured, or to have never had brain damage, cerebral palsy, epilepsy, and seizures. I cannot roll back history. Such is a waste of precious energy. I prefer to seek insights--to how to live an insightful life--on the basis of my brain damage, cerebral palsy, epilepsy, and seizures. To some degree, I have known that since eighth grade.
I don't know how to be of help. Facts, and information are readily available. Pity is against my religion--pity that is closed to the possibility that more constructive responses are available. Healing by means of mystical powers frightens me.
I do make a distinction between healing by means of magical waving-of-a-wand means--full healing--and prayer. The distinction is difficult to articulate. Sometimes, the words may be the same, yet the tone is different--completely different. I know it when I hear it--when I feel it. I try to respond, so as to increase the likelihood of more compassion in the future.
So, where does that leave the man facing a medical condition new to him personally? We have known one another for a lifetime. We respond similarly to much of what I have described--research, pity, cures, and healing by mystical powers. I find it difficult to articulate the nuances in prayer that exist.
I am leery of the support that consumer organizations can, and do provide. I am not saying that they serve no useful purpose. My concern is that the support--their expressed mission--is aimed more at publicizing research, and raising funds for the continuation for that research. Both, essential.
Where is the spiritual element of support? Where is the spirituality of the human body in this discussion? Often, the triangle, body, mind, and spirit," is discussed. Of the three, most often, body and mind are linked. Similarly, mind and spirit are linked.
Yet, body and spirit seem miles apart. I don't know precisely how to articulate it. Maybe if I did--if we were willing to--articulate the relationship between the two, we might get beyond some ghost-in-a-white-sheet mentality of the body and the spirit.
With some, the temptation is to throw facts, and information--research--at them to help them contain their condition into a manageable form. With others,, the temptation is to offer pity. Sometimes, that is manifest in Poster Children to attract justifiable support for individuals with the condition, and for research. On a personal level, pity well may be uncertainty, and discomfort, as to how to address the situation. Most tempting, and most frightening to me is the offer to cure or to heal someone by mystical powers.
Most helpful to me with regard to my seizures, epilepsy, cerebral palsy and brain damage is a balanced approach.
I don't seek to be cured, or to have never had brain damage, cerebral palsy, epilepsy, and seizures. I cannot roll back history. Such is a waste of precious energy. I prefer to seek insights--to how to live an insightful life--on the basis of my brain damage, cerebral palsy, epilepsy, and seizures. To some degree, I have known that since eighth grade.
I don't know how to be of help. Facts, and information are readily available. Pity is against my religion--pity that is closed to the possibility that more constructive responses are available. Healing by means of mystical powers frightens me.
I do make a distinction between healing by means of magical waving-of-a-wand means--full healing--and prayer. The distinction is difficult to articulate. Sometimes, the words may be the same, yet the tone is different--completely different. I know it when I hear it--when I feel it. I try to respond, so as to increase the likelihood of more compassion in the future.
So, where does that leave the man facing a medical condition new to him personally? We have known one another for a lifetime. We respond similarly to much of what I have described--research, pity, cures, and healing by mystical powers. I find it difficult to articulate the nuances in prayer that exist.
I am leery of the support that consumer organizations can, and do provide. I am not saying that they serve no useful purpose. My concern is that the support--their expressed mission--is aimed more at publicizing research, and raising funds for the continuation for that research. Both, essential.
Where is the spiritual element of support? Where is the spirituality of the human body in this discussion? Often, the triangle, body, mind, and spirit," is discussed. Of the three, most often, body and mind are linked. Similarly, mind and spirit are linked.
Yet, body and spirit seem miles apart. I don't know precisely how to articulate it. Maybe if I did--if we were willing to--articulate the relationship between the two, we might get beyond some ghost-in-a-white-sheet mentality of the body and the spirit.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Medicare
Medicare. White-haired senior citizens. Medicare. 65-year-olds. Medicare. Part A. Medicare. Part B. Medicare. Part C. Medicare Part D. Medicare. Medigap. Medicare. Open Enrollment. Medicare. Fraud. Medicare.
Each of these are aspects of Medicare. Yet, Medicare--the word, "Medicare"--evokes emotions as inflamed as arthritic joints. I cannot--I will not--inflame the word further by engaging in the political debates surrounding the federal program.
I find myself at a peculiar crossroads. Had you told me five years ago that I would be selecting which Medicare Parts B, C, and D options to select, I would not have believed you.
An envelope from the Social Security Administration arrived this week. My question, "Do I need to initiate contact regarding Medicare?" was answered. No. As I hoped, I could read the wealth of information given to me, sign onto a helpful website, www.Medicare.gov, and create an account. My guard against anxiety, and obsession is a playful detachment.
I love crossword puzzles. I love the World Wide Web--navigating the structure of its information, the internet.
With playful discovery, I found a database into which I may search for my doctors, hospitals, pharmacies. Nursing homes? No, I am far from ready for that move.
It is ironic. I tell one of my nephews to join the world of adult responsibility. Yet, I tell myself not to get too obsessed regarding the eventualities with which the plan options confront me.
One of the options I will not select is Plan H--Political Hyperbole--which plays on the emotions of senior citizens, and others eligible to receive Medicare. I will steer clear of candidates, who use a condescending tone in their discussions of Medicare. I will steer clear of Victims' Volley--a game too often played by politicians, in which recipients of Medicare become political footballs.
Do you think Medicare will judge ear plugs I buy as medically necessary?
Each of these are aspects of Medicare. Yet, Medicare--the word, "Medicare"--evokes emotions as inflamed as arthritic joints. I cannot--I will not--inflame the word further by engaging in the political debates surrounding the federal program.
I find myself at a peculiar crossroads. Had you told me five years ago that I would be selecting which Medicare Parts B, C, and D options to select, I would not have believed you.
An envelope from the Social Security Administration arrived this week. My question, "Do I need to initiate contact regarding Medicare?" was answered. No. As I hoped, I could read the wealth of information given to me, sign onto a helpful website, www.Medicare.gov, and create an account. My guard against anxiety, and obsession is a playful detachment.
I love crossword puzzles. I love the World Wide Web--navigating the structure of its information, the internet.
With playful discovery, I found a database into which I may search for my doctors, hospitals, pharmacies. Nursing homes? No, I am far from ready for that move.
It is ironic. I tell one of my nephews to join the world of adult responsibility. Yet, I tell myself not to get too obsessed regarding the eventualities with which the plan options confront me.
One of the options I will not select is Plan H--Political Hyperbole--which plays on the emotions of senior citizens, and others eligible to receive Medicare. I will steer clear of candidates, who use a condescending tone in their discussions of Medicare. I will steer clear of Victims' Volley--a game too often played by politicians, in which recipients of Medicare become political footballs.
Do you think Medicare will judge ear plugs I buy as medically necessary?
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Epilepsy Chronicles: The Other Side
I turned the corner. Sixth and Cedar Streets. The 14B bus stop. I have arrived. 1:30 P.M. I am ready. A 2 P.M. appointment with my college adviser. My purpose? To enroll in a pastoral ministry program. I am prepared.
As I round the corner, a man in his mid-60s is struggling to stand up an unresponsive woman from the ground.
"Is she having a seizure?" I ask. I know the answer. I need my question's time to marshal strength.
Is she having a seizure? I think she is having a seizure. This is strange. Not unfamiliar, but strange nonetheless. Never have I been on this side of a seizure.
I grabbed the older man's arm firmly.
"She seems so helpless. Are they ever going to get here?" the man cried plaintively.
"Let the woman sit here on the bench. The police are on their way. I know it seems like a long time...
You have no idea how much I understand...the time warp...I understand...seconds seem like minutes...minutes seem like hours...I understand...believe me, I understand.
Several minutes later, help arrived. Finally, help has arrived. She will be safe now. The paramedics arrived. She will get medication in her bloodstream immediately--anticonvulsants. They will minimize recurrence of such seizures.
...
Moments later, the 14B bus arrived. I was off to meet my college adviser. I was off to explore enrolling in a pastoral ministry program.
I boarded the bus. I sat down. Suddenly, tears came streaming down my face. I lost my composure completely.
My witness at the bus stop was no accident.
As I round the corner, a man in his mid-60s is struggling to stand up an unresponsive woman from the ground.
"Is she having a seizure?" I ask. I know the answer. I need my question's time to marshal strength.
Is she having a seizure? I think she is having a seizure. This is strange. Not unfamiliar, but strange nonetheless. Never have I been on this side of a seizure.
I grabbed the older man's arm firmly.
"She seems so helpless. Are they ever going to get here?" the man cried plaintively.
"Let the woman sit here on the bench. The police are on their way. I know it seems like a long time...
You have no idea how much I understand...the time warp...I understand...seconds seem like minutes...minutes seem like hours...I understand...believe me, I understand.
Several minutes later, help arrived. Finally, help has arrived. She will be safe now. The paramedics arrived. She will get medication in her bloodstream immediately--anticonvulsants. They will minimize recurrence of such seizures.
...
Moments later, the 14B bus arrived. I was off to meet my college adviser. I was off to explore enrolling in a pastoral ministry program.
I boarded the bus. I sat down. Suddenly, tears came streaming down my face. I lost my composure completely.
My witness at the bus stop was no accident.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
ADLs: Activities of Daily Living
The term activities of daily living, or ADLs, refers to the basic tasks of everday life, such as eating, bathing, dressing, toileting, and transferring. When people are unable to perform these activities, they need help in order to cope, either from human beings, or mechanical devices.
Measuring the Activities of Daily Living: A Comparison Across National Surveys
Joshua M. Wiener, and Raymond J. Hanley, The Brookings Institution; Robert Clark, and Joan F. Van Nostrand, U.S. Department of Education
I was paralyzed. EAT. FEED YOURSELF WITH FOOD THAT HAD BEEN PREPARED FOR YOU. VOLUNTARY BLADDER AND BOWEL CONTROL OR ABILITY TO MAINTAIN A REASONABLE LEVEL OF PERSONAL HYGIENE. BATHE (TUB, SHOWER, OR SPONGE.) TRANSFER FROM BED TO CHAIR.
I was paralyzed. These words screamed out--pierced my eardrums. Though still able to perform these tasks with some adaptive devices, the day I could not perform any of these skills came into focus. Though not imminent, a potent image nonetheless.
Breathe in....breathe out...breathe in....breathe out...
Stark are the activities of daily living on paper before my eyes--they were then, they remain so. Before assessing these activities, my pierced ears must be muffled. My jangled nerves quieted. My tight stomach calm.
Eat. Feed yourself with food that had been prepared for you. Voluntary bladder and bowel control or ability to maintain a reasonable level of personal hygiene. Bathe (tub, shower, or sponge.) Transfer from bed to chair.
A scale. Rate myself. Simple. Or so it seemed. Straightforward. Or so it seemed.
1. I can perform this activity regularly. 2. I can perform this activity with the use of equipment or adaptive device. 3. I cannot perform this activity.
The activities of daily living are the province of a child to learn. I am an adult. Diminishment is the province of senior citizens to accept. It is a realistic expectation that senior citizens should need equipment or adaptive devices. It is within reason to watch someone else confront diminishment. Senior citizens learn that they "cannot perform this activity." Or so it seems. Yet, I am not a senior citizen. I am 51.
Were these my only choices? Could I take an essay test? A multiple choice test of a life lived proving false the truths set before me to live. Yet, those were my choices.
Measuring the Activities of Daily Living: A Comparison Across National Surveys
Joshua M. Wiener, and Raymond J. Hanley, The Brookings Institution; Robert Clark, and Joan F. Van Nostrand, U.S. Department of Education
I was paralyzed. EAT. FEED YOURSELF WITH FOOD THAT HAD BEEN PREPARED FOR YOU. VOLUNTARY BLADDER AND BOWEL CONTROL OR ABILITY TO MAINTAIN A REASONABLE LEVEL OF PERSONAL HYGIENE. BATHE (TUB, SHOWER, OR SPONGE.) TRANSFER FROM BED TO CHAIR.
I was paralyzed. These words screamed out--pierced my eardrums. Though still able to perform these tasks with some adaptive devices, the day I could not perform any of these skills came into focus. Though not imminent, a potent image nonetheless.
Breathe in....breathe out...breathe in....breathe out...
Stark are the activities of daily living on paper before my eyes--they were then, they remain so. Before assessing these activities, my pierced ears must be muffled. My jangled nerves quieted. My tight stomach calm.
Eat. Feed yourself with food that had been prepared for you. Voluntary bladder and bowel control or ability to maintain a reasonable level of personal hygiene. Bathe (tub, shower, or sponge.) Transfer from bed to chair.
A scale. Rate myself. Simple. Or so it seemed. Straightforward. Or so it seemed.
1. I can perform this activity regularly. 2. I can perform this activity with the use of equipment or adaptive device. 3. I cannot perform this activity.
The activities of daily living are the province of a child to learn. I am an adult. Diminishment is the province of senior citizens to accept. It is a realistic expectation that senior citizens should need equipment or adaptive devices. It is within reason to watch someone else confront diminishment. Senior citizens learn that they "cannot perform this activity." Or so it seems. Yet, I am not a senior citizen. I am 51.
Were these my only choices? Could I take an essay test? A multiple choice test of a life lived proving false the truths set before me to live. Yet, those were my choices.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Crossed Wires...Jangled Nerves...
Crossed wires….jangled nerves….
When you were born,
your umbilical cord was wrapped around your neck five times.
Crossed wires….jangled nerves….
The corded gifts that keep on giving—epilepsy…cerebral palsy.
Crossed wires….jangled nerves….
You have excess electrical activity in your brain--epilepsy.
Crossed wires….jangled nerves….
Epilepsy is like a thunderstorm in the brain.
Crossed wires….jangled nerves.
I can do it myself, Mom, don’t you know, I can do it myself….
Can’t you see, Mom, I can’t do it myself, I need your help.
Crossed wires….jangled nerves….
The faster I walk, the more I trip.
Crossed wires….jangled nerves.
Your cerebral palsy accelerates your aging process.
Crossed wires….jangled nerves.
The harder you intend to use your left hand, the more it will shake—intentional tremors.
Crossed wires….jangled nerves….
The more hostile I am, the more intense my tremors.
Crossed wires….jangled nerves...
The more data you throw at me, the slower I compute.
Crossed wires...jangled nerves...
The more instructions I hear, the more I must write them--
the more Velcro from my ear to my brain I need.
Crossed wires….jangled nerves….
The more instructions I hear, the more I must write--
the more Velcro from my ear to my brain I need.
Crossed wires….jangled nerves….
The less I write, the less I remember.
Crossed wires….jangled nerves….
The more I write, the deeper I think.
Crossed wires….jangled nerves….
Crossed wires….jangled nerves….
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Epilepsy Chronicles: The Other Face
Some coworkers feared I might have a seizure on command. Others feared it happening in their presence. I understand. Being out of control of my body in my mind's eye. I understand. Yet, not moreso than when I happened upon a seizure of a man awaiting a bus.
"Focus on the positive, and ignore negative behavior," Mom chants in the deep reaches of my memory. From my earliest memory, "Focus on the positive, and ignore negative behavior."
I understood what he needed. Not medically. Yet, I knew what help he needed from the many helpless people who surrounded him. I knew the helpless individuals, who surrounded him, were far from helpless. While others surrounding me were viewing their first seizure, I was on the other end of the seizure. I understood what he needed.
I had never met the seizing man before witnessing his seizure. I have not seen him since that day.
Yet, I was given a voice--words to speak---for a reason. I am not committed to vengeance against other individuals. Yet, I can and must commit myself to positive vengeance against the excessive electrical energy in my brain, the root of my disabilities. I can and must be the human irritant--the nacre--that contributes to pearls of understanding.
"Focus on the positive, and ignore negative behavior," Mom chants in the deep reaches of my memory. From my earliest memory, "Focus on the positive, and ignore negative behavior."
I understood what he needed. Not medically. Yet, I knew what help he needed from the many helpless people who surrounded him. I knew the helpless individuals, who surrounded him, were far from helpless. While others surrounding me were viewing their first seizure, I was on the other end of the seizure. I understood what he needed.
I had never met the seizing man before witnessing his seizure. I have not seen him since that day.
Yet, I was given a voice--words to speak---for a reason. I am not committed to vengeance against other individuals. Yet, I can and must commit myself to positive vengeance against the excessive electrical energy in my brain, the root of my disabilities. I can and must be the human irritant--the nacre--that contributes to pearls of understanding.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Zoomer Chronicles: Open Doors....Open Spaces...
Open doors. Open spaces. I am new to navigating narrow halls, small elevators, doorways, and other such barricades.
Yesterday, literally by accident, I was called to return to a well-established business that I have supported for nearly 30 years--an optical store. Although it is true that they were a bit snobbish, they were convenient physically. Just down the block from my first downtown home, they were the obvious choice.
A fall while volunteering branded my left temple with a touch of red, and positioned my purple glasses askew. As quickly as my temple will heal, I needed my purple glasses to be properly placed on my face.
Aware that the doors were not open to Zoomer, I justified my continued business patronage by telling myself that I did not need to visit the store often. Yet, "did not need to visit the store often" is too often to meet my needs. Asking for help is one thing. I am more comfortable in doing so now than before Zoomer. Yet, I found myself isolated from help longer than I was comfortable, and more than any pride I feel about having to ask for help. Although there was no physical threshold to surmount, the personal threshold--is too great.
Dignity and stolen dignity are two distinct creatures. Dignity is the willingness to go out with Zoomer, knowing that there will be mishaps with door openers, nicked walls, and the like. Dignity is recognizing that going out with Zoomer is more important than pride's perfection.
Stolen dignity is cavalier business practices--practices that dismiss the reasons behind making design adaptations, or accommodations as outlined in the Americans with Disabilities Act. [I confess I need to return to the precise call of the Act.] Stolen dignity is dismissal of business patronage, and her demographic. Stolen dignity is the affirmation that only individuals who do not use wheelchairs are the potential customers of a given business.
I am not fierce in my advocacy. I am new to navigating terrain in a wheelchair. The hijacker of my nervous system lurks in the weeds waiting for me to lose my cool demeanor--my inner calm. So, I negotiate with the hijacker. My business loyalty will not open the doors--open the eyes--to the obstacles they place between their cash registers, and the potential of a broader customer base.
Dignity.
I shall preserve my dignity. I shall meet her needs. I shall knock on the door on another downtown optical business to see if they have seen the light.
Yesterday, literally by accident, I was called to return to a well-established business that I have supported for nearly 30 years--an optical store. Although it is true that they were a bit snobbish, they were convenient physically. Just down the block from my first downtown home, they were the obvious choice.
A fall while volunteering branded my left temple with a touch of red, and positioned my purple glasses askew. As quickly as my temple will heal, I needed my purple glasses to be properly placed on my face.
Aware that the doors were not open to Zoomer, I justified my continued business patronage by telling myself that I did not need to visit the store often. Yet, "did not need to visit the store often" is too often to meet my needs. Asking for help is one thing. I am more comfortable in doing so now than before Zoomer. Yet, I found myself isolated from help longer than I was comfortable, and more than any pride I feel about having to ask for help. Although there was no physical threshold to surmount, the personal threshold--is too great.
Dignity and stolen dignity are two distinct creatures. Dignity is the willingness to go out with Zoomer, knowing that there will be mishaps with door openers, nicked walls, and the like. Dignity is recognizing that going out with Zoomer is more important than pride's perfection.
Stolen dignity is cavalier business practices--practices that dismiss the reasons behind making design adaptations, or accommodations as outlined in the Americans with Disabilities Act. [I confess I need to return to the precise call of the Act.] Stolen dignity is dismissal of business patronage, and her demographic. Stolen dignity is the affirmation that only individuals who do not use wheelchairs are the potential customers of a given business.
I am not fierce in my advocacy. I am new to navigating terrain in a wheelchair. The hijacker of my nervous system lurks in the weeds waiting for me to lose my cool demeanor--my inner calm. So, I negotiate with the hijacker. My business loyalty will not open the doors--open the eyes--to the obstacles they place between their cash registers, and the potential of a broader customer base.
Dignity.
I shall preserve my dignity. I shall meet her needs. I shall knock on the door on another downtown optical business to see if they have seen the light.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Understanding's--Compassion's---Scope
The wait for a wheelchair continues. Work with the vendor of the wheelchair, and the insurance company advocate continues. The need is unrelenting. The work seems without end--without a tangible result.
I am a reasonable, logical, peaceful woman. I am not comfortable being aggressive in stating my proven needs--my proven need.
Friends, family, and acquaintances recognize my need, and offer the compassion ever so helpful as I strive toward my goal--a wheelchair. I never imagined--I resisted--my need for a wheelchair. Time, and my ankle convince me otherwise.
I try to draw on my natural tendencies to achieve my goal--a wheelchair. Logical. I identified the steps necessary to secure a wheelchair. An accounting of my physical symptoms, and capacities, a doctor's mobility assessment, an insurance company advocate, a medical vendor acceptable to the insurance company.
Reasonable. I listened to the doctor's recommendations. I spoke with the insurance company advocate. I visited the medical vendor. I tried wheelchairs likely to meet my needs. I maintained constant contact with the advocate, and the medical vendor.
Aggressiveness expresses itself in cries of desperation from me. Threats to change vendors. Yet, aggressiveness, and threats help no one.
Working to secure a wheelchair in the last three-and-a-half months lead me back to a lifelong question. First, is it reasonable to expect that another human being may understand basic human needs, and life circumstances that may not be their own? Second, is it true that no one may understand my/our human needs, because my/our life circumstances are not theirs?
I am either a foolish optimist, or an optimistic fool. Maybe both. I hate to think that none of us may understand the basic human needs of another person, or persons, because our life circumstances are different--are not identical.
Is it possible to surmount seeming indifference to those basic human needs? If so, how?
My default has been that indifference is surmountable. I begin with logical appeals. I resort to emotional appeals. I seek support, and reinforcement to identify, and pursue other courses of action.
Then, I wonder. If my need is not enough--if the need/needs of the individuals for whom I am advocating are not enough--then, how can I appeal to the self-interests of the indifferent party?
I am far beyond angry. I am exasperated. I am exhausted. I am depressed. Yet, none of these strategies, insights, or feelings has rendered a wheelchair. Anger, exasperation, exhaustion, depression serve no one. They are not effective conveyors of my emotions to the people who seem to have the resources to meet my needs.
I wonder about the appearance of my need. I am extremely grateful to be able to navigate my condominium. So, to anyone who observes me navigate just short distances, they would surmise that my need does not rise to their requisite threshold. Yet, anyone who has known me for any length of time--before I stopped working in 2009--they would know that I do not whine. I do not pull the pity card--the victim's vengeance--in my daily dealings.
How do I communicate the need that exceeds my immediate home environment? How do I communicate that my need in a dignified manner? Does pity need to be the weapon I must use to get my needs met? I am no victim--by nature, I am no victim. Yet, indifference is victimizing me unnecessarily.
I am a reasonable, logical, peaceful woman. I am not comfortable being aggressive in stating my proven needs--my proven need.
Friends, family, and acquaintances recognize my need, and offer the compassion ever so helpful as I strive toward my goal--a wheelchair. I never imagined--I resisted--my need for a wheelchair. Time, and my ankle convince me otherwise.
I try to draw on my natural tendencies to achieve my goal--a wheelchair. Logical. I identified the steps necessary to secure a wheelchair. An accounting of my physical symptoms, and capacities, a doctor's mobility assessment, an insurance company advocate, a medical vendor acceptable to the insurance company.
Reasonable. I listened to the doctor's recommendations. I spoke with the insurance company advocate. I visited the medical vendor. I tried wheelchairs likely to meet my needs. I maintained constant contact with the advocate, and the medical vendor.
Aggressiveness expresses itself in cries of desperation from me. Threats to change vendors. Yet, aggressiveness, and threats help no one.
Working to secure a wheelchair in the last three-and-a-half months lead me back to a lifelong question. First, is it reasonable to expect that another human being may understand basic human needs, and life circumstances that may not be their own? Second, is it true that no one may understand my/our human needs, because my/our life circumstances are not theirs?
I am either a foolish optimist, or an optimistic fool. Maybe both. I hate to think that none of us may understand the basic human needs of another person, or persons, because our life circumstances are different--are not identical.
Is it possible to surmount seeming indifference to those basic human needs? If so, how?
My default has been that indifference is surmountable. I begin with logical appeals. I resort to emotional appeals. I seek support, and reinforcement to identify, and pursue other courses of action.
Then, I wonder. If my need is not enough--if the need/needs of the individuals for whom I am advocating are not enough--then, how can I appeal to the self-interests of the indifferent party?
I am far beyond angry. I am exasperated. I am exhausted. I am depressed. Yet, none of these strategies, insights, or feelings has rendered a wheelchair. Anger, exasperation, exhaustion, depression serve no one. They are not effective conveyors of my emotions to the people who seem to have the resources to meet my needs.
I wonder about the appearance of my need. I am extremely grateful to be able to navigate my condominium. So, to anyone who observes me navigate just short distances, they would surmise that my need does not rise to their requisite threshold. Yet, anyone who has known me for any length of time--before I stopped working in 2009--they would know that I do not whine. I do not pull the pity card--the victim's vengeance--in my daily dealings.
How do I communicate the need that exceeds my immediate home environment? How do I communicate that my need in a dignified manner? Does pity need to be the weapon I must use to get my needs met? I am no victim--by nature, I am no victim. Yet, indifference is victimizing me unnecessarily.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Government Services--Personal Energy Policy
Having identified myself in prolific terms, it is important to examine the services, and regulations of government. How does my profile affect my needs for, and views regarding government services, and regulations.
I must confess that my views are rooted in deep fear. I understand the need for debate regarding the organization of and support for Medicare that is imminent. Knowledge of my own need for it next year leads me to put my head in the sand with cotton balls in my ears. The forthcoming hyperbole makes me ill.
I could be the audience to whom politicians will base their positions regarding Medicare. I do not want to be a part of politicians' Medicare focus group. I cannot deny my needs. I will seek what I need, nothing more, and nothing less. That is my contribution toward a picture of a balanced budget. My contribution may not be financially balanced, but, it will be balanced in terms of medical necessity. I purchase private insurance commensurate with my medical need, and financial affordability.
With regard to Medicare--its future health--we need to take several actions independent of any legislative action. We need to accept our own aging, and the corresponding needs we may have--needs that are quite likely, however unsavory they may be.
I do not know how to arm myself further from the imminent hyperbole. All I may do is to assert logic, reason, and insight, and pray that it resonates somewhere within decision-making bodies.
I have strong views against military expenditures, as well as support for other government priorities--government investments. Yet, in the past ten years, I have learned the essence of energy conservation. No. Not nuclear power, oil, coal, solar power. I speak of none. My personal energy. My life is ruled by a single policy personal energy conservation. I must not take on advocacy for issues outside of my passion--issues outside of my understanding--issues beyond my individual needs. I consider myself to be concerned about social justice issues. Yet, I invest my personal energies in trusting other more effective--more passionate--advocates, who have the knowledge requisite for success.
May we adopt the policy of personal energy conservation to lessen the rhetoric, increase civility, and improve the quality of decision-making with regard to such vital issues. If we do not do so, we deserve the quality of decisions that are made, and the tenor that precedes it. I, for one, do not think we can afford such lavish use of our precious resources.
I must confess that my views are rooted in deep fear. I understand the need for debate regarding the organization of and support for Medicare that is imminent. Knowledge of my own need for it next year leads me to put my head in the sand with cotton balls in my ears. The forthcoming hyperbole makes me ill.
I could be the audience to whom politicians will base their positions regarding Medicare. I do not want to be a part of politicians' Medicare focus group. I cannot deny my needs. I will seek what I need, nothing more, and nothing less. That is my contribution toward a picture of a balanced budget. My contribution may not be financially balanced, but, it will be balanced in terms of medical necessity. I purchase private insurance commensurate with my medical need, and financial affordability.
With regard to Medicare--its future health--we need to take several actions independent of any legislative action. We need to accept our own aging, and the corresponding needs we may have--needs that are quite likely, however unsavory they may be.
I do not know how to arm myself further from the imminent hyperbole. All I may do is to assert logic, reason, and insight, and pray that it resonates somewhere within decision-making bodies.
I have strong views against military expenditures, as well as support for other government priorities--government investments. Yet, in the past ten years, I have learned the essence of energy conservation. No. Not nuclear power, oil, coal, solar power. I speak of none. My personal energy. My life is ruled by a single policy personal energy conservation. I must not take on advocacy for issues outside of my passion--issues outside of my understanding--issues beyond my individual needs. I consider myself to be concerned about social justice issues. Yet, I invest my personal energies in trusting other more effective--more passionate--advocates, who have the knowledge requisite for success.
May we adopt the policy of personal energy conservation to lessen the rhetoric, increase civility, and improve the quality of decision-making with regard to such vital issues. If we do not do so, we deserve the quality of decisions that are made, and the tenor that precedes it. I, for one, do not think we can afford such lavish use of our precious resources.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
On the Front Line...In Harm's Way...
American troops fighting in Afghanistan, Iraq, among other battlefields, were described as being, "people on the front lines," and "people being placed in harm's way." The context? An inventory of those who would be affected by a federal government shutdown.
"People on the front lines," and "Being placed in harm's way" have bothered me long before this morning's newscast. It has seemed to me to be an unnecessary expression of bravado.
In no way do I mean to belittle what people in military service endure. I have listened intently to first-hand accounts, and I have viewed moving photographs of the Korean War. But, for now, I must dispense with a worthy exploration of the singular military meaning of these phrases.
"People being placed in harm's way" and "people on the front line" should be considered in the context of women, and children, primarily, who seek out the protection of domestic abuse shelters.
I live in the State of Minnesota. Like many other states in the United States, Minnesota faces a huge deficit that needs to be reconciled. I make no claim of being an expert in budgets, and finances.
Yet, I cannot reconcile, morally or ethically, the comment of one state legislator, who suggested cutting state funding for domestic abuse shelters.
Moral outrage is my response to the justification he presented. He suggested that existing shelters were not at full capacity.
Full capacity may be a central function of productivity in the business world. Yet, how can we as a society possibly quantify such life-or-death human need? What does it say of our society, if our domestic abuse shelters are at full capacity?
We speak of putting our lives on the line, people being on the front line, and people put in harm's way.
Don't individuals who need domestic abuse shelters fit into the definitions of these three phrases? If not, aren't they victimized twice due to no action of their own?
"People on the front lines," and "Being placed in harm's way" have bothered me long before this morning's newscast. It has seemed to me to be an unnecessary expression of bravado.
In no way do I mean to belittle what people in military service endure. I have listened intently to first-hand accounts, and I have viewed moving photographs of the Korean War. But, for now, I must dispense with a worthy exploration of the singular military meaning of these phrases.
"People being placed in harm's way" and "people on the front line" should be considered in the context of women, and children, primarily, who seek out the protection of domestic abuse shelters.
I live in the State of Minnesota. Like many other states in the United States, Minnesota faces a huge deficit that needs to be reconciled. I make no claim of being an expert in budgets, and finances.
Yet, I cannot reconcile, morally or ethically, the comment of one state legislator, who suggested cutting state funding for domestic abuse shelters.
Moral outrage is my response to the justification he presented. He suggested that existing shelters were not at full capacity.
Full capacity may be a central function of productivity in the business world. Yet, how can we as a society possibly quantify such life-or-death human need? What does it say of our society, if our domestic abuse shelters are at full capacity?
We speak of putting our lives on the line, people being on the front line, and people put in harm's way.
Don't individuals who need domestic abuse shelters fit into the definitions of these three phrases? If not, aren't they victimized twice due to no action of their own?
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Dependence's Reconciliation
What will dependence demand of me to reconcile?
I have never been good at reconciliation--my bank account--my physical needs. Neither have been my strengths. I had a strong inner sense of both balances. My bank balance has been more stable than my physical balance. I knew the limits of both--or so I thought--so, I did not waste my anxiety on balance--on those balances. I lived within my means--or so I thought.
Ray--I am too young to be called "Grandpa"--spoke treasured words to me in the last years of his life. My grandmother having died, Ray lived with us. Listening to this beloved storyteller share his life experiences, I knew the younger alterego of this shy man had quite a temper. He had deeply ingrained stereotypes not softened by age. So, his words are all the more treasured. "When I die, don't feel sad. I have made amends with everyone I had differences with. Ray was no scholar. But, Ray was brilliant in his understanding of reconciliation. I try to live by Ray's words. Yet, I do better in reconciling with others than I do in reconciling with my self--with my body.
My physical balance is changing. My stamina long gone, my physical balance demands my attention. I am called to reconcile my life's accounting--my balance of independence at one end of the teeter totter and dependence at the other end. I have tried to brace myself for the radical changes that lay ahead. Literally, I brace myself from my foot to my calf--you could say that I am on the right side of bracing myself. I am physically. Time will tell whether I am on the right side of bracing myself fully for the future.
Physical balance demands putting one foot in front of the other. Physical balance demands deliberation of movement. Balanced living demands of me now deliberation of mind.
Yesterday's step toward balance was to answer the second of three questions. "What will dependence demand of me to reconcile?"
My question's posing was to an independent contractor, whose product and services I was seeking. I accepted that he had the mechanical knowledge I needed. I presumed that to be enough to meet our mutual needs. Yet, I was surprised to be told that I did not need to do a certain task. He seemed to dismiss my need. Would the electric wheelchair enable me to open doors, get through my bedroom door, most notably? I know my weakness for defensiveness. I tried to disrobe myself of any defensiveness.
I am willing to hear that I may not be able to accomplish a given task--perform a given maneuver--with this machine--with this alien entering my life. I may not like the answer I am given. But, I must ask the question if I am to be able to accommodate my life to a changing body. I must receive answers.
I may not be able to be independent as I have known myself to be for 50 years. Yet, if I am to proceed with any semblance of independence, even if I am not, I need to know. If all independence is taken from me, I need to know so that I make other arrangements to live differently. For now, all of my independence is not being taken from me. Yet, I do need to have as much information as possible to allow me to do a different form of life planning than I ever imagined. I did not have a full appreciation of the partnership--the co-conspiratorial relationship between cerebral palsy and aging. I could put my head in the sand. I could ignore--deny---the issues, considerations, and questions that my future may call me to address. But, I cannot fixate myself--every day's breath--with anxiety regarding what is to come. I am called to acknowledge what I may not like now, while I have such a deep sense of love and support from family, friends, a worshiping community surrounding me.
What will dependence demand of me to reconcile?
I have never been good at reconciliation--my bank account--my physical needs. Neither have been my strengths. I had a strong inner sense of both balances. My bank balance has been more stable than my physical balance. I knew the limits of both--or so I thought--so, I did not waste my anxiety on balance--on those balances. I lived within my means--or so I thought.
Ray--I am too young to be called "Grandpa"--spoke treasured words to me in the last years of his life. My grandmother having died, Ray lived with us. Listening to this beloved storyteller share his life experiences, I knew the younger alterego of this shy man had quite a temper. He had deeply ingrained stereotypes not softened by age. So, his words are all the more treasured. "When I die, don't feel sad. I have made amends with everyone I had differences with. Ray was no scholar. But, Ray was brilliant in his understanding of reconciliation. I try to live by Ray's words. Yet, I do better in reconciling with others than I do in reconciling with my self--with my body.
My physical balance is changing. My stamina long gone, my physical balance demands my attention. I am called to reconcile my life's accounting--my balance of independence at one end of the teeter totter and dependence at the other end. I have tried to brace myself for the radical changes that lay ahead. Literally, I brace myself from my foot to my calf--you could say that I am on the right side of bracing myself. I am physically. Time will tell whether I am on the right side of bracing myself fully for the future.
Physical balance demands putting one foot in front of the other. Physical balance demands deliberation of movement. Balanced living demands of me now deliberation of mind.
Yesterday's step toward balance was to answer the second of three questions. "What will dependence demand of me to reconcile?"
My question's posing was to an independent contractor, whose product and services I was seeking. I accepted that he had the mechanical knowledge I needed. I presumed that to be enough to meet our mutual needs. Yet, I was surprised to be told that I did not need to do a certain task. He seemed to dismiss my need. Would the electric wheelchair enable me to open doors, get through my bedroom door, most notably? I know my weakness for defensiveness. I tried to disrobe myself of any defensiveness.
I am willing to hear that I may not be able to accomplish a given task--perform a given maneuver--with this machine--with this alien entering my life. I may not like the answer I am given. But, I must ask the question if I am to be able to accommodate my life to a changing body. I must receive answers.
I may not be able to be independent as I have known myself to be for 50 years. Yet, if I am to proceed with any semblance of independence, even if I am not, I need to know. If all independence is taken from me, I need to know so that I make other arrangements to live differently. For now, all of my independence is not being taken from me. Yet, I do need to have as much information as possible to allow me to do a different form of life planning than I ever imagined. I did not have a full appreciation of the partnership--the co-conspiratorial relationship between cerebral palsy and aging. I could put my head in the sand. I could ignore--deny---the issues, considerations, and questions that my future may call me to address. But, I cannot fixate myself--every day's breath--with anxiety regarding what is to come. I am called to acknowledge what I may not like now, while I have such a deep sense of love and support from family, friends, a worshiping community surrounding me.
What will dependence demand of me to reconcile?
What Will Independence Include?
What will independence include?
This has been a lifelong question that I have rushed in to answer before anyone else dared to define it--to deny its possibility. Age has called me to question my irrefutable, infallible lifetime's answers. Defiance was my youth's inseparable companion. Age severed friendship. The strain was too costly.
My child took on faith my mother's inheritance to me. You will live independently.
Though neither of us knew the details, we accepted on faith that her commandment could be--would be--followed. Her inheritance to me was that commandment. Her inheritance to me was defiance--a commitment to defiance. She defied doctors' doubts of my life's capabilities. She defied educators' questions of my mentality. She defied all doubters of my life's potential. She would hear nothing of doubts, or questions.
She committed herself beyond defiance. She committed herself to action. Unsupported defiance was hollow. It still is.
To doctors, she used knowledge of her two older children to call on her advocate's spirit. She demanded diagnosis, when no need for such diagnosis was recognized.
To educators, she committed herself to identify needed services. To counselors, she refused doubts. She committed her time, her energy--her determination--for her commandment's adherence. She committed her strength to fortify her mantras.
To me, she instilled the mantra. You will go to college. I responded. Passion about world events. Pursuit of an undergraduate degree. Graduation resulting from my pursuits. Not a star student by a grade's measure of my mind. But, graduation nonetheless. An inquisitive mind was nurtured. In defiance of all expectations--mine included--I pursued graduate-level education. I was granted graduation as a master.
Not a boasting. No. Defiance. Faithfulness.
Mom, I bet you never thought I would take you so seriously.
Family pride. Friends' celebration.
You will learn to live independently.
I had no idea of its details. Yet, I adhered. On faith, I adhered to this commandment. I adhered to this commandment. For 24 years, I adhered.
Then....then....a life's body of work died at the hands of a desperate body--a ravaged body demanding healing. Mom and I are called to question her commandment--her mantra. It worked for a lifetime. Not without its serious imperfections. But, it worked, nonetheless.
Now what?
What will independence include?
This has been a lifelong question that I have rushed in to answer before anyone else dared to define it--to deny its possibility. Age has called me to question my irrefutable, infallible lifetime's answers. Defiance was my youth's inseparable companion. Age severed friendship. The strain was too costly.
My child took on faith my mother's inheritance to me. You will live independently.
Though neither of us knew the details, we accepted on faith that her commandment could be--would be--followed. Her inheritance to me was that commandment. Her inheritance to me was defiance--a commitment to defiance. She defied doctors' doubts of my life's capabilities. She defied educators' questions of my mentality. She defied all doubters of my life's potential. She would hear nothing of doubts, or questions.
She committed herself beyond defiance. She committed herself to action. Unsupported defiance was hollow. It still is.
To doctors, she used knowledge of her two older children to call on her advocate's spirit. She demanded diagnosis, when no need for such diagnosis was recognized.
To educators, she committed herself to identify needed services. To counselors, she refused doubts. She committed her time, her energy--her determination--for her commandment's adherence. She committed her strength to fortify her mantras.
To me, she instilled the mantra. You will go to college. I responded. Passion about world events. Pursuit of an undergraduate degree. Graduation resulting from my pursuits. Not a star student by a grade's measure of my mind. But, graduation nonetheless. An inquisitive mind was nurtured. In defiance of all expectations--mine included--I pursued graduate-level education. I was granted graduation as a master.
Not a boasting. No. Defiance. Faithfulness.
Mom, I bet you never thought I would take you so seriously.
Family pride. Friends' celebration.
You will learn to live independently.
I had no idea of its details. Yet, I adhered. On faith, I adhered to this commandment. I adhered to this commandment. For 24 years, I adhered.
Then....then....a life's body of work died at the hands of a desperate body--a ravaged body demanding healing. Mom and I are called to question her commandment--her mantra. It worked for a lifetime. Not without its serious imperfections. But, it worked, nonetheless.
Now what?
What will independence include?
Dignity's Pecularities
Dignity.
The image that comes to mind is a woman dressed in an elegant black blouse, a fuschia fabric belt, and a floral floor-length skirt. Her gray hair is adorned with a matching long black scarf that was wound through her fine strands. Her cheeks are patted with pink powder. That is the surface of Mrs. Dignity. Dignity's prescribed behavior matches her elegant gown. A diamond ring on her ring finger makes clear, she has invested herself in a lifetime with a well-respected, hard-working man, who has provided her a comfortable life. They had the requisite three children. Her children married. They provided her with grandchildren for her doting. She survived the normal ups and downs of any marriage. Clearly, he had died, but, she did not die with him. She rekindled an old friendship--her gentleman friend. She has survived with a quiet air of confidence. Her emotions are spent on her children--her grandchildren. But, as to the challenges--the disappointments, the opportunities--life in her time did not afford, she said nothing.
That is dignity's face in my stereotype's vision.
I feel far from dignity's face. Yet, something pulls at me--some vague, amoebic form that escapes my grasp, much less my firm hold. What pulls at me is a stranger I have not met, or do not recognize, if I have met her. What pulls at me is not for bravado's ego to claim. At least, I don't think so. Selfish? I may be pulled more for my self to claim. I hope it is somewhere on the teeter totter between bravado and selfishness. That is beyond me to know at this moment.
Still ambulatory, I wheeled into an hourlong test drive--to test the power a chair will provide into a future whose physical boundaries I may know in this life's moment. Perceptive rather than sensate on Myers Briggs scale, I exceed what is natural. I write a checklist of my 730-foot condominium. Where do I need to travel--where will I need to travel if I lose my ambulation---lose more than distance's stamina, which has been taken from me. I succeed in my inventory--my checklist for my hourlong evaluation. I have itemized my travel needs, my task needs, and my needs for recreational pursuits in my home. Unknown to my conscious self, I have created a three-part questionnaire for the evaluation. First, what may I do with the power chair, now? Second, what will I be capable of doing given practice. Third, what will I need to ask others to do because it is beyond my capacity to do?
I enter the evaluation with quiet confidence. My checklist is in place. It is in writing for my reliance. My questionnaire is ready for the answering. I am ready for the answers. Or, so I think. After all, this checklist--these answers--are at the heart of wheeling forward in my life with some semblance of interdependence.
The checklist--the questionnaire--is at the heart of defining three terms in my future's essence.
What will independence include?
What will dependence demand of me to reconcile?
How will the equation of interdependence be formulated?
Some ask of any life's dilemmas, "What would Jesus do?"
A different voice--a different face comes to mind. She is in no competition with Jesus. No. A different voice--a different face--presents herself to me now.
Six months before death, she sat. Ravaged by breast cancer--by a radical mastectomy--long before medicine's advances, she sat in her manual wheelchair. From the dining room table to the living room, her 14-year-old--her youngest--granddaughter wheeled her. A loving, albeit overprotective life history together, she said, "I bet you never thought you would see your grandmother like this." Though never voiced then, "No, I never did." Now, lo these many years later, the answer of my own question's asking still is, "No, I never did."
The image that comes to mind is a woman dressed in an elegant black blouse, a fuschia fabric belt, and a floral floor-length skirt. Her gray hair is adorned with a matching long black scarf that was wound through her fine strands. Her cheeks are patted with pink powder. That is the surface of Mrs. Dignity. Dignity's prescribed behavior matches her elegant gown. A diamond ring on her ring finger makes clear, she has invested herself in a lifetime with a well-respected, hard-working man, who has provided her a comfortable life. They had the requisite three children. Her children married. They provided her with grandchildren for her doting. She survived the normal ups and downs of any marriage. Clearly, he had died, but, she did not die with him. She rekindled an old friendship--her gentleman friend. She has survived with a quiet air of confidence. Her emotions are spent on her children--her grandchildren. But, as to the challenges--the disappointments, the opportunities--life in her time did not afford, she said nothing.
That is dignity's face in my stereotype's vision.
I feel far from dignity's face. Yet, something pulls at me--some vague, amoebic form that escapes my grasp, much less my firm hold. What pulls at me is a stranger I have not met, or do not recognize, if I have met her. What pulls at me is not for bravado's ego to claim. At least, I don't think so. Selfish? I may be pulled more for my self to claim. I hope it is somewhere on the teeter totter between bravado and selfishness. That is beyond me to know at this moment.
Still ambulatory, I wheeled into an hourlong test drive--to test the power a chair will provide into a future whose physical boundaries I may know in this life's moment. Perceptive rather than sensate on Myers Briggs scale, I exceed what is natural. I write a checklist of my 730-foot condominium. Where do I need to travel--where will I need to travel if I lose my ambulation---lose more than distance's stamina, which has been taken from me. I succeed in my inventory--my checklist for my hourlong evaluation. I have itemized my travel needs, my task needs, and my needs for recreational pursuits in my home. Unknown to my conscious self, I have created a three-part questionnaire for the evaluation. First, what may I do with the power chair, now? Second, what will I be capable of doing given practice. Third, what will I need to ask others to do because it is beyond my capacity to do?
I enter the evaluation with quiet confidence. My checklist is in place. It is in writing for my reliance. My questionnaire is ready for the answering. I am ready for the answers. Or, so I think. After all, this checklist--these answers--are at the heart of wheeling forward in my life with some semblance of interdependence.
The checklist--the questionnaire--is at the heart of defining three terms in my future's essence.
What will independence include?
What will dependence demand of me to reconcile?
How will the equation of interdependence be formulated?
Some ask of any life's dilemmas, "What would Jesus do?"
A different voice--a different face comes to mind. She is in no competition with Jesus. No. A different voice--a different face--presents herself to me now.
Six months before death, she sat. Ravaged by breast cancer--by a radical mastectomy--long before medicine's advances, she sat in her manual wheelchair. From the dining room table to the living room, her 14-year-old--her youngest--granddaughter wheeled her. A loving, albeit overprotective life history together, she said, "I bet you never thought you would see your grandmother like this." Though never voiced then, "No, I never did." Now, lo these many years later, the answer of my own question's asking still is, "No, I never did."
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Am I One of THOSE People?
By my persona, some might say, "Patty is an enlightened advocate of individuals, who are often thought of in low esteem in society." Yet, truth be told, I find myself desperately trying, without wanting to admit so, that I am better than other people--better than those people. Other people? Who? The very people for whom I claim myself to be an advocate.
I do not want to believe that this describes every ounce of me. But, today, the unattractive truth was revealed to me.
How you ask? Receiving certification to use a paratransit service, which will help me to get out, gave me knots in my stomach.
Ungrateful? I should be happy.
Yet, as I walked down the sidewalk to get my id picture taken, loud and clear came the Voice, "You are one of those people now...unable to be spontaneous in motion--spontaneous in your daily living. You are wholly dependent on other people to meet your needs. You are needy. You are one of those people. Your are at the mercy of other people. You have NO control over your life."
Needy is SO extreme. Is it possible to soften his edges--discover her acceptable soul that makes me human--and become an intimate with her human heart?
He continues to question me. She eludes my answers' box.
I do not want to believe that this describes every ounce of me. But, today, the unattractive truth was revealed to me.
How you ask? Receiving certification to use a paratransit service, which will help me to get out, gave me knots in my stomach.
Ungrateful? I should be happy.
Yet, as I walked down the sidewalk to get my id picture taken, loud and clear came the Voice, "You are one of those people now...unable to be spontaneous in motion--spontaneous in your daily living. You are wholly dependent on other people to meet your needs. You are needy. You are one of those people. Your are at the mercy of other people. You have NO control over your life."
Needy is SO extreme. Is it possible to soften his edges--discover her acceptable soul that makes me human--and become an intimate with her human heart?
He continues to question me. She eludes my answers' box.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Dignitaries of Compassion
This week two experiences regarding help, listening, and hearing were given to me. The first came with a doctor, who is new to me. I was desperate for help. I did not want to feel as needy as I felt. Yet, I came to the doctor with undeniable needs. The second experience continues yet today. When I receive help, how do I respond?
I am not alone in having needs--undeniable needs. I am not alone in needing help. If all of us have been given undeniable needs, does that mean that help is undeniable?
Help.
Can I ask for help? Do I exert the strength I have been given to be needy to the degree I require? Can I dignify compassion, while I deflect pity for my needs?
Dignitaries of Compassion. Deflectors of Pity.
Can we serve as dignitaries of compassion in our lives each day, as we meet individuals in need? Can we be deflectors of pity, who serve as dignitaries of compassion?
Cultivators Who Redefine "Needy."
Can we be cultivators willing to redefine needy? Can we be cultivators willing to redefine undeniable help?
Undeniable Needs. Undeniable Help.
Do we hear undeniable needs? Do we listen to provide undeniable help?
Worthy Recipients?
Do we view ourselves as the only worthy recipients of undeniable help?
Do we view others as the only worthy recipients of undeniable help?
Recipients. Seekers. Recipients.
I am not alone. We are receiving help. Yet, how are we accepting it? What are our undeniable needs?
What undeniable help do we seek? What undeniable help will we receive?
I am not alone in having needs--undeniable needs. I am not alone in needing help. If all of us have been given undeniable needs, does that mean that help is undeniable?
Help.
Can I ask for help? Do I exert the strength I have been given to be needy to the degree I require? Can I dignify compassion, while I deflect pity for my needs?
Dignitaries of Compassion. Deflectors of Pity.
Can we serve as dignitaries of compassion in our lives each day, as we meet individuals in need? Can we be deflectors of pity, who serve as dignitaries of compassion?
Cultivators Who Redefine "Needy."
Can we be cultivators willing to redefine needy? Can we be cultivators willing to redefine undeniable help?
Undeniable Needs. Undeniable Help.
Do we hear undeniable needs? Do we listen to provide undeniable help?
Worthy Recipients?
Do we view ourselves as the only worthy recipients of undeniable help?
Do we view others as the only worthy recipients of undeniable help?
Recipients. Seekers. Recipients.
I am not alone. We are receiving help. Yet, how are we accepting it? What are our undeniable needs?
What undeniable help do we seek? What undeniable help will we receive?
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