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 weakness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label weakness. Show all posts
Friday, April 11, 2014
Thursday, March 28, 2013
My Subconscious View. Me. LTD. SSDI.
Me. Work Ethic. LTD. SSDI. Me.
Work ethic was instilled in me from childhood. By example. By parental instruction. By familial heritage. From 1960 til 2009, Work Ethic was held in high esteem--faithfully unquestioned.
SSDI. Before 2009, initials. Social Security Disability Income. A paragraph in a yearly Social Security Administration statement of credits earned. SSDI.
LTD. Before 2009, initials. Long-Term Disability. A sensible work benefit offering. An insurance policy. A minuscule deduction--$2.72? per paycheck I presume. A remote need that echoed it the possibility of my imagination--a need vague to my view, yet, haunting to my anxiety. An anxiety inexpensive to appease, however remote it seemed. LTD.
SSDI. LTD. I knew no one within the limits of LTD--of SSDI. LTD. SSDI.
LTD. My knowledge of anyone on long-term disability was LTD to no one. LTD.
2009.
A defining moment in my view of the world--in a view of myself.
2009.
SSDI. I knew no one on SSDI. Enlightened though I thought myself to be, I had far different images of who were receiving SSDI. Some of those images haunt me yet today. They do not describe who I am, yet, they define my sense of what I believe I must be in order to receive SSDI.
SSDI. Bedridden. Paralyzed. Confined to a wheelchair. Totally dependent. Unable to meet my activities of daily living independently. Feeding. Bathing. Dressing. SSDI.
Bedridden. Paralyzed. Confined. Incapable. Unable. Incontinent. Dependent.
2013.
Four years have passed since 2009.
2013.
I am redefining what my life within the limits of my body is. Volunteer. Researcher. Swimmer. Friend. Sister. Cousin. Aunt. Daughter. Writer. Catholic activist.
2013.
Yet, four years later, the haunting drumbeat of my Subconscious View tower over me--the haunting drumbeat is deafening. LTD. SSDI.
2009.
Periodically--necessarily--surveyed, the haunting drumbeat is pounded into my spirit. LTD. SSDI.
Surveyed--periodically--necessarily. My personal questionnaire.
2013.
Do I fulfill my misconception--the haunting drumbeat?
OR
Am I moving forward to Redefine My Life within my Body's Limits.
Me. SSDI. LTD. The haunting drumbeat is deafening to my spirit. LTD. SSDI. Me.
Work ethic was instilled in me from childhood. By example. By parental instruction. By familial heritage. From 1960 til 2009, Work Ethic was held in high esteem--faithfully unquestioned.
SSDI. Before 2009, initials. Social Security Disability Income. A paragraph in a yearly Social Security Administration statement of credits earned. SSDI.
LTD. Before 2009, initials. Long-Term Disability. A sensible work benefit offering. An insurance policy. A minuscule deduction--$2.72? per paycheck I presume. A remote need that echoed it the possibility of my imagination--a need vague to my view, yet, haunting to my anxiety. An anxiety inexpensive to appease, however remote it seemed. LTD.
SSDI. LTD. I knew no one within the limits of LTD--of SSDI. LTD. SSDI.
LTD. My knowledge of anyone on long-term disability was LTD to no one. LTD.
2009.
A defining moment in my view of the world--in a view of myself.
2009.
SSDI. I knew no one on SSDI. Enlightened though I thought myself to be, I had far different images of who were receiving SSDI. Some of those images haunt me yet today. They do not describe who I am, yet, they define my sense of what I believe I must be in order to receive SSDI.
SSDI. Bedridden. Paralyzed. Confined to a wheelchair. Totally dependent. Unable to meet my activities of daily living independently. Feeding. Bathing. Dressing. SSDI.
Bedridden. Paralyzed. Confined. Incapable. Unable. Incontinent. Dependent.
2013.
Four years have passed since 2009.
2013.
I am redefining what my life within the limits of my body is. Volunteer. Researcher. Swimmer. Friend. Sister. Cousin. Aunt. Daughter. Writer. Catholic activist.
2013.
Yet, four years later, the haunting drumbeat of my Subconscious View tower over me--the haunting drumbeat is deafening. LTD. SSDI.
2009.
Periodically--necessarily--surveyed, the haunting drumbeat is pounded into my spirit. LTD. SSDI.
Surveyed--periodically--necessarily. My personal questionnaire.
2013.
Do I fulfill my misconception--the haunting drumbeat?
OR
Am I moving forward to Redefine My Life within my Body's Limits.
Me. SSDI. LTD. The haunting drumbeat is deafening to my spirit. LTD. SSDI. Me.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
At Arm's Length--Or--Take to Heart
A fortuitous nightmare awakened me to the installation of Pope Francis I. A moment before me--before my eyes--a moment before the eyes of the world. The moment is now.
Pope Francis I touched me--touched the world--with the Hand of Jesus. He held a baby. He went to a man unable to come to him.
Some spoke of--whispered "the economic"--the Poor, the Weak, the Vulnerable--as others within view safely from an arm's length.
Others speculate whether this is The Moment when administrative mismanagement within the Catholic Church will be cleaned up--whether church management will be made transparent. Management in the Vatican. Management in local dioceses.
Still others ask whether this is The Moment when the Catholic Church will move into the twenty-first century. Will the Catholic Church embrace married priesthood? Women's ordination. Same-sex marriage.
I shall work--continue to work--with those dedicated to Church Transparency. I shall work--I shall continue to work--with those dedicated to moving the Catholic Church in the twenty-first century.
I like others are elated--surprisingly elated. Yet, I pray of This Moment differently.
I pray.
May We embrace This Moment--This Franciscan Moment.
May we embrace not just the economically--the socially--Poor--the physically Weak, and the Visibly Vulnerable.
May we embrace our Inner Poverty, our Unifying Weakness, our Inescapable Vulnerability.
May we not hide under the Guise of Heroism--the Cry of Pity--at those Stronger or Weaker than we see ourselves to be.
Are you--are We--up to the task of embracing this Franciscan Moment?
I pray. May we open our arms to Pope Francis I--to this Franciscan Moment.
Pope Francis I touched me--touched the world--with the Hand of Jesus. He held a baby. He went to a man unable to come to him.
Some spoke of--whispered "the economic"--the Poor, the Weak, the Vulnerable--as others within view safely from an arm's length.
Others speculate whether this is The Moment when administrative mismanagement within the Catholic Church will be cleaned up--whether church management will be made transparent. Management in the Vatican. Management in local dioceses.
Still others ask whether this is The Moment when the Catholic Church will move into the twenty-first century. Will the Catholic Church embrace married priesthood? Women's ordination. Same-sex marriage.
I shall work--continue to work--with those dedicated to Church Transparency. I shall work--I shall continue to work--with those dedicated to moving the Catholic Church in the twenty-first century.
I like others are elated--surprisingly elated. Yet, I pray of This Moment differently.
I pray.
May We embrace This Moment--This Franciscan Moment.
May we embrace not just the economically--the socially--Poor--the physically Weak, and the Visibly Vulnerable.
May we embrace our Inner Poverty, our Unifying Weakness, our Inescapable Vulnerability.
May we not hide under the Guise of Heroism--the Cry of Pity--at those Stronger or Weaker than we see ourselves to be.
Are you--are We--up to the task of embracing this Franciscan Moment?
I pray. May we open our arms to Pope Francis I--to this Franciscan Moment.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Pope Francis I
February 11th 2013 was a day of historic surprise. Adrift in the Mediterranean on vacation, I floated in my own excitement--surprise at my own excitement--regarding the resignation of Pope Benedict XVI. I was aflutter with excitement over who the next pope might be--over what people at home, invested in church reform, were thinking and saying.
My faith does not rest--does not depend upon--the stance of the Pope, or the state of the Vatican in the Catholic Church.
Raised as a Universalist, "church hierarchy" was not an issue. By its very nature, church hierarchy was nonexistent. Sometimes I feel out of step when I hear that phrase, because it is not a part of my spiritual heritage.
I am reticent to criticize the Universalist Church, more often referred to as the Unitarian Universalist Federation today. Rather, with all due respect, I want to speak as someone who understands the need to have church hierarchy of some form in order to have a rich spiritual heritage, which may be transmitted--communicated--from one generation to the next. The Universalist Church, as I was raised to call it, was a marvelous home for my parents. They did not find their needs to be met in the Catholic, or Episcopalian Churches of the 1940s. Later, the Congregationalist Church specific to their experience was a transition time for them. Later, with young children, the Universalist Church met their needs. From the Catholic, and Episcopalian Churches, my parents left the pageantry, not the basic Christian values of love and hope. Although "faith" was something understood to them as a trapping--a mindless trapping of the pageantry they sought to escape.
I came into their lives without the heritage of the Catholic or Episcopalian Churches--without the Christian tradition--to draw upon in my childhood. I was left to draw upon the Universalist Church tradition that worshipped the mind, the intellect, and reason, as the sole sources of answers to the big questions of life.
I value my mind, my intellect, and reason. However, the answers I sought, and the answers I seek exceed the purview of the mind, the intellect, and reason. Beyond words to explain--beyond any words, faith is my home in which I form my questions, and search for answers.
Structure is necessary. Many times when I hear people spew venom about CHURCH HIERARCHY, I silently wonder, "Do you really want religion without some hierarchy? How do you propose to build community without some foundation."
We idolize democracy, yet, we must not confuse democracy in religion as being free of some hierarchy--some structure--on which to build a foundation for communion. We need some structure. We need leadership.
Many times in the 31 years I have been Catholic, I have heard differing views regarding the obligation to go to Mass. I confess, I do not have a perfect attendance record at Mass. Yet, when I hear people bemoan having to go to Mass with a heavy heart, I scream silently, "DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS LIKE NOT TO HAVE MASS TO GO TO?"
I confess, I have been very blessed in awesome worship communities. Save one parish, my mind has been fed, my spirit filled with joyous notes of music, and a wealth of people surrounding me as models of living what Christ taught--what Christ teaches--through the words spoken, and actions taken each Sunday at Mass.
I do not know where Pope Francis I will lead the Church. Where will he lead me through the life he lives? Where will I entrust myself to be led by him.
I am quite surprised by how excited I have felt about Pope Francis I. Never have I felt much, if any, investment in who the Pope in the distant place called the Vatican in Rome thousands of miles from me in St. Paul.
Some people I know are concerned--disappointed--by his conservative stances on issues such as same-sex marriage, and women's ordination, to name a few. I pray some day these issues will be given the heartfelt blessing of the Catholic Church they deserve.
For now, I shall work to advance what it means to be a progressive Catholic. For now, however contradictory it may seem, I invest myself--I celebrate--the opportunity to live the poverty of my body. When we hear, "the poor," or "poverty," immediately our minds go to economic poverty, or begging for food, clothing, and shelter. Is that the full meaning of poverty?
Pope Francis I, teach us the meaning of Poverty that we may embrace it, not run from it. Teach us to Listen through the vessel of Poverty.
My faith does not rest--does not depend upon--the stance of the Pope, or the state of the Vatican in the Catholic Church.
Raised as a Universalist, "church hierarchy" was not an issue. By its very nature, church hierarchy was nonexistent. Sometimes I feel out of step when I hear that phrase, because it is not a part of my spiritual heritage.
I am reticent to criticize the Universalist Church, more often referred to as the Unitarian Universalist Federation today. Rather, with all due respect, I want to speak as someone who understands the need to have church hierarchy of some form in order to have a rich spiritual heritage, which may be transmitted--communicated--from one generation to the next. The Universalist Church, as I was raised to call it, was a marvelous home for my parents. They did not find their needs to be met in the Catholic, or Episcopalian Churches of the 1940s. Later, the Congregationalist Church specific to their experience was a transition time for them. Later, with young children, the Universalist Church met their needs. From the Catholic, and Episcopalian Churches, my parents left the pageantry, not the basic Christian values of love and hope. Although "faith" was something understood to them as a trapping--a mindless trapping of the pageantry they sought to escape.
I came into their lives without the heritage of the Catholic or Episcopalian Churches--without the Christian tradition--to draw upon in my childhood. I was left to draw upon the Universalist Church tradition that worshipped the mind, the intellect, and reason, as the sole sources of answers to the big questions of life.
I value my mind, my intellect, and reason. However, the answers I sought, and the answers I seek exceed the purview of the mind, the intellect, and reason. Beyond words to explain--beyond any words, faith is my home in which I form my questions, and search for answers.
Structure is necessary. Many times when I hear people spew venom about CHURCH HIERARCHY, I silently wonder, "Do you really want religion without some hierarchy? How do you propose to build community without some foundation."
We idolize democracy, yet, we must not confuse democracy in religion as being free of some hierarchy--some structure--on which to build a foundation for communion. We need some structure. We need leadership.
Many times in the 31 years I have been Catholic, I have heard differing views regarding the obligation to go to Mass. I confess, I do not have a perfect attendance record at Mass. Yet, when I hear people bemoan having to go to Mass with a heavy heart, I scream silently, "DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS LIKE NOT TO HAVE MASS TO GO TO?"
I confess, I have been very blessed in awesome worship communities. Save one parish, my mind has been fed, my spirit filled with joyous notes of music, and a wealth of people surrounding me as models of living what Christ taught--what Christ teaches--through the words spoken, and actions taken each Sunday at Mass.
I do not know where Pope Francis I will lead the Church. Where will he lead me through the life he lives? Where will I entrust myself to be led by him.
I am quite surprised by how excited I have felt about Pope Francis I. Never have I felt much, if any, investment in who the Pope in the distant place called the Vatican in Rome thousands of miles from me in St. Paul.
Some people I know are concerned--disappointed--by his conservative stances on issues such as same-sex marriage, and women's ordination, to name a few. I pray some day these issues will be given the heartfelt blessing of the Catholic Church they deserve.
For now, I shall work to advance what it means to be a progressive Catholic. For now, however contradictory it may seem, I invest myself--I celebrate--the opportunity to live the poverty of my body. When we hear, "the poor," or "poverty," immediately our minds go to economic poverty, or begging for food, clothing, and shelter. Is that the full meaning of poverty?
Pope Francis I, teach us the meaning of Poverty that we may embrace it, not run from it. Teach us to Listen through the vessel of Poverty.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
A Fulfilling Living
An amazing day. An amazing week.
January's ice box has moved into St. Paul today. Yet, the sun shines. Nary a cloud in the sky. Cold hard facts. I am warming to perfection.
Monday's moments?
Personal training. New swimming equipment identified. Noodles. Paddles. New exercises. A stronger right hand perhaps? Volunteering. Research. Pay dirt. Struck gold. Hit the jackpot.
Tuesday's treasures?
Catholic Church reform. A new council. The first of its kind. Supporting researcher. A witness to history that has yet to be made. An invitation--a special invitation. Do you want to share your story as part of a retreat on transition? Amazing.
Wednesday's wonders?
Twenty-one Council members. Twenty-one life stories. Twenty-one crafters of a more democratic Catholic Church. Wonder-filled. Awe-inspiring.
Thursday's triumph? The noodle--the white noodle. A hand clenched for a lifetime. Through no fault of her own, my hand clenched tightly nonetheless. Past efforts to open my clenched hand met with unwilling resistance from a stubborn soul. There was just no possibility of an Open Hand--Outstretched Fingers, a Strong Wrist with a Firm Grip.
An Open Hand. Outstretching Fingers. A Strengthening Wrist. A Firming Grip.
Amazing. Wonder-filled. Awe-inspiring. Simple to some. Amazing to me.
January's ice box has moved into St. Paul today. Yet, the sun shines. Nary a cloud in the sky. Cold hard facts. I am warming to perfection.
Monday's moments?
Personal training. New swimming equipment identified. Noodles. Paddles. New exercises. A stronger right hand perhaps? Volunteering. Research. Pay dirt. Struck gold. Hit the jackpot.
Tuesday's treasures?
Catholic Church reform. A new council. The first of its kind. Supporting researcher. A witness to history that has yet to be made. An invitation--a special invitation. Do you want to share your story as part of a retreat on transition? Amazing.
Wednesday's wonders?
Twenty-one Council members. Twenty-one life stories. Twenty-one crafters of a more democratic Catholic Church. Wonder-filled. Awe-inspiring.
Thursday's triumph? The noodle--the white noodle. A hand clenched for a lifetime. Through no fault of her own, my hand clenched tightly nonetheless. Past efforts to open my clenched hand met with unwilling resistance from a stubborn soul. There was just no possibility of an Open Hand--Outstretched Fingers, a Strong Wrist with a Firm Grip.
An Open Hand. Outstretching Fingers. A Strengthening Wrist. A Firming Grip.
Amazing. Wonder-filled. Awe-inspiring. Simple to some. Amazing to me.
Friday, September 16, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Epilepsy Chronicles: Precursory Shakiness
Honestly, I don't know if what I am about to describe is germane to the Epilepsy Chronicles. I think it is. My thoughts, words, and descriptions deal with brain damage most directly, moreso than epilepsy per se.
I work very hard to stay as calm as is possible--humor, empathy, patience, among other attributes that elude me. These attributes may be seen as laudable, and, in one sense, they may be. Yet, there is a neurological basis that makes these attributes essential. I am not a doctor. I have not studied neurology, or any scientific discipline that might offer me insight.
I can quantify the dosages of anticonvulsants I am prescribed to tame the extra electrical activity in my brain--milligrams. I can quantify the level of anticonvulsants in my bloodstream, which are determined by a blood test--a therapeutic blood level range. Based on my weight, at least, there is a numeric scale established. If the therapeutic blood level is too low, my experience has been that more medication is prescribed. The opposite is true, too. In my experience, blood levels that are too high on that scale lead doctors to prescribe a higher dosage of medications. Sometimes, an altogether different anticonvulsant is prescribed.
Yet, I cannot quantify the threshold I have for anger, and frustration, which leads to shakiness of my whole body--I cannot quantify it for myself or for others. I recognize it myself. All I know to do is to cry, and then, isolate myself until my jangled nerves are tamed, and my body is steadied physically. The crying is the cleansing agent essential to taming the extra electrical activity in my brain.
Compounding my own response, I know that the apologies of other people, well-intended though I know they are, only exacerbate my initial response. Trying to be rational long enough to isolate myself for my necessary cry, and quiet time is extremely difficult. I know that a part of that quiet means removing any activities that I know will involve further neurological agitation. I try to be rational, so as to explain that I can withstand some tension, frustration, and anger. Yet, my rational efforts are useless. My nervous system has been hijacked such that being physically steady is next to impossible.
What I have just described is not a seizure, as I understand it, after having lived with epilepsy for more than 40 years. My description today is fresh to my life--fresh to this moment. After anticipating a personal training session for several weeks--a session to identify further efforts I may take to strengthen my arms, hands, and legs--I met with tremendous disappointment, frustration, and anger that a perfectly understandable mixup in appointment times occurred. Not knowing precisely what to ask for to reschedule--what specific terms to use (a neurosis of mine)--my neurological response is intensified.
I need peace--inner peace, calm, perspective, and determination to reclaim goals I know have been strengthening me, irrespective of reliable help I expected, and hoped I would be given today. I need insight. Am I merely making an excuse for unnecessary, irrational behavior, or is there some credibility to my thoughts--my descriptions?
I work very hard to stay as calm as is possible--humor, empathy, patience, among other attributes that elude me. These attributes may be seen as laudable, and, in one sense, they may be. Yet, there is a neurological basis that makes these attributes essential. I am not a doctor. I have not studied neurology, or any scientific discipline that might offer me insight.
I can quantify the dosages of anticonvulsants I am prescribed to tame the extra electrical activity in my brain--milligrams. I can quantify the level of anticonvulsants in my bloodstream, which are determined by a blood test--a therapeutic blood level range. Based on my weight, at least, there is a numeric scale established. If the therapeutic blood level is too low, my experience has been that more medication is prescribed. The opposite is true, too. In my experience, blood levels that are too high on that scale lead doctors to prescribe a higher dosage of medications. Sometimes, an altogether different anticonvulsant is prescribed.
Yet, I cannot quantify the threshold I have for anger, and frustration, which leads to shakiness of my whole body--I cannot quantify it for myself or for others. I recognize it myself. All I know to do is to cry, and then, isolate myself until my jangled nerves are tamed, and my body is steadied physically. The crying is the cleansing agent essential to taming the extra electrical activity in my brain.
Compounding my own response, I know that the apologies of other people, well-intended though I know they are, only exacerbate my initial response. Trying to be rational long enough to isolate myself for my necessary cry, and quiet time is extremely difficult. I know that a part of that quiet means removing any activities that I know will involve further neurological agitation. I try to be rational, so as to explain that I can withstand some tension, frustration, and anger. Yet, my rational efforts are useless. My nervous system has been hijacked such that being physically steady is next to impossible.
What I have just described is not a seizure, as I understand it, after having lived with epilepsy for more than 40 years. My description today is fresh to my life--fresh to this moment. After anticipating a personal training session for several weeks--a session to identify further efforts I may take to strengthen my arms, hands, and legs--I met with tremendous disappointment, frustration, and anger that a perfectly understandable mixup in appointment times occurred. Not knowing precisely what to ask for to reschedule--what specific terms to use (a neurosis of mine)--my neurological response is intensified.
I need peace--inner peace, calm, perspective, and determination to reclaim goals I know have been strengthening me, irrespective of reliable help I expected, and hoped I would be given today. I need insight. Am I merely making an excuse for unnecessary, irrational behavior, or is there some credibility to my thoughts--my descriptions?
Sunday, August 28, 2011
The Epilepsy Chronicles: A Firm Grip on Me
You have a hold on my right leg and arm no longer. Yet, your grip on me is firm--firmer than I realize. I try to erase you from my memory--put you in the well within me. Yet, I look back to my words--to my writings. You have a firm grip on my mind. You take words from my my sentences. You steal the precious part of me that I want to give. You give me no clue as to where you are. You give me no key to find you. Where are you? You are hiding from me.
I try to understand.
I try to understand.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
The Glass Doll
As the reed of the oboe cries out with music,
My heart yearns
To break the glass doll
Others have chosen to encase me in.
I am a strong being.
My strength is welled up deep within my soul.
I do not trumpet my strength
For the ears of others to hear me.
Such brassy notes are wasted,
When life demands of me an attentive ear.
My attention is focused on this day,
On the task before me at this moment.
My memory
Fortifies my resolve
To ensure my reputation
As a glass doll
Is shattered,
Now and forever.
Patty Thorsen, July 1993
First piece written reflecting on my disabilities
Patty Thorsen, July 1993
First piece written reflecting on my disabilities
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.
Epilepsy Chronicles: In the Throes...
I fear the worst. My body is out of control.
Relieve me of my consciousness. At this moment, relieve me of my consciousness. Help me. God, help me. Help me to hang on.
My right arm and leg are falling off my body.
God, help me. ... Mom, help me. I need you. Mom, help me.
Home alone, I cry as though Mom can hear me from the next room.
Mom, help me. I need you.
"You will learn to live independently," she said. "You will learn to live independently."
My roommate is gone. I need you. How dare you leave me in my time of need! How dare you leave me in my time of need.
I am alone. Someone has been here, always someone has been here--within earshot of my cries. However embarrassed, or shame filled I have been that I have not taken my medicatiion, someone has been within earshot.
I am alone.
Maybe if I turn on my right side, my arm and leg will stop shaking. Maybe, they won't fall off my body. What else can I do?
Relieve me of my consciousness. Let me sleep. My head is throbbing. Let me sleep off my throbbing headache. My head is throbbing.
Finally, without my knowing, sleep is given to me. My consciousness relieved.
Relieve me of my consciousness. At this moment, relieve me of my consciousness. Help me. God, help me. Help me to hang on.
My right arm and leg are falling off my body.
God, help me. ... Mom, help me. I need you. Mom, help me.
Home alone, I cry as though Mom can hear me from the next room.
Mom, help me. I need you.
"You will learn to live independently," she said. "You will learn to live independently."
My roommate is gone. I need you. How dare you leave me in my time of need! How dare you leave me in my time of need.
I am alone. Someone has been here, always someone has been here--within earshot of my cries. However embarrassed, or shame filled I have been that I have not taken my medicatiion, someone has been within earshot.
I am alone.
Maybe if I turn on my right side, my arm and leg will stop shaking. Maybe, they won't fall off my body. What else can I do?
Relieve me of my consciousness. Let me sleep. My head is throbbing. Let me sleep off my throbbing headache. My head is throbbing.
Finally, without my knowing, sleep is given to me. My consciousness relieved.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Getting It Right
For a lifetime, balance has been an issue for me. I am not so different from everyone else. Each of us struggles with finding balance. Be it work, money, chemicals, emotions--whatever it may be, each of us has struggles with balance. For me, physical imbalance is my struggle--what I strive to surmount.
I am drawn to the picture of me in 1966 dressed as a ballerina. The little girl dressed in a pink tutu and tights, and carrying a pink, purple, and fuschia parasol is concentrating to keep her balance. Although the beam is unusually wide, she is maintaining her balance. A proud grandmother looking on probably didn't hurt. That little girl wanted to be--believed that she could be--a ballerina.
At some point in the last ten years, I had to have her in front of me at work each day to remind me that balance was possible. Work seemed hopelessly out of balance with no hope of reconciling the imbalance. The ballerina tiptoed past my forlorn eyes to remind me that if I concentrated, and stayed on course, I would find my way to balance.
Much has changed since 1966. Much has changed since she sat on my desk as a sign of hope. Not that her meaning to me has changed. It has grown. She twirls in front of my imagination, to remind me how far I have come.
Today, my struggles regarding balance are quite different. More basic than in much of my adult life. Physical balance. Two years ago, chemical imbalances co-opted with emotional balances to leave me physically unbalanced. I doubted whether I would regain any of the strength, and balance I had had previously.
Fast forward two years. I knew what needed to be done to work back to physical balance, if it was meant for me to have in my life. Four mornings a week, I return to an activity I did once a week, as a child. As many went to church on Sunday morning, I went swimming.
This morning, something very special happened. To the casual observer, the woman with short, brown hair, who was wearing the blue striped swimsuit, turned to her right side from her left side while doing the side stroke. BUT....far more happened in that moment. For the first time in her life, the woman had the strength in her right arm and leg to propel her forward. Never before had she been able to turn to her right side. There was not enough physical strength present--not enough confidence in any physical strength present in her right arm and leg to try to turn to her right side.
My turn to the right side was not turned on as a light switch. Weeks of concentration....focusing on the strengthening my right arm, and leg.....These preceded this morning's special moment. Yet, as faith-filled, and hope-filled as I am, I did not know whether I would be able to strengthen my arm and leg by sheer exercise, and persistence.
I do not know what is next. Only my body...and my hairdresser....know for sure.
I do know that this morning, I was getting it right.
I am drawn to the picture of me in 1966 dressed as a ballerina. The little girl dressed in a pink tutu and tights, and carrying a pink, purple, and fuschia parasol is concentrating to keep her balance. Although the beam is unusually wide, she is maintaining her balance. A proud grandmother looking on probably didn't hurt. That little girl wanted to be--believed that she could be--a ballerina.
At some point in the last ten years, I had to have her in front of me at work each day to remind me that balance was possible. Work seemed hopelessly out of balance with no hope of reconciling the imbalance. The ballerina tiptoed past my forlorn eyes to remind me that if I concentrated, and stayed on course, I would find my way to balance.
Much has changed since 1966. Much has changed since she sat on my desk as a sign of hope. Not that her meaning to me has changed. It has grown. She twirls in front of my imagination, to remind me how far I have come.
Today, my struggles regarding balance are quite different. More basic than in much of my adult life. Physical balance. Two years ago, chemical imbalances co-opted with emotional balances to leave me physically unbalanced. I doubted whether I would regain any of the strength, and balance I had had previously.
Fast forward two years. I knew what needed to be done to work back to physical balance, if it was meant for me to have in my life. Four mornings a week, I return to an activity I did once a week, as a child. As many went to church on Sunday morning, I went swimming.
This morning, something very special happened. To the casual observer, the woman with short, brown hair, who was wearing the blue striped swimsuit, turned to her right side from her left side while doing the side stroke. BUT....far more happened in that moment. For the first time in her life, the woman had the strength in her right arm and leg to propel her forward. Never before had she been able to turn to her right side. There was not enough physical strength present--not enough confidence in any physical strength present in her right arm and leg to try to turn to her right side.
My turn to the right side was not turned on as a light switch. Weeks of concentration....focusing on the strengthening my right arm, and leg.....These preceded this morning's special moment. Yet, as faith-filled, and hope-filled as I am, I did not know whether I would be able to strengthen my arm and leg by sheer exercise, and persistence.
I do not know what is next. Only my body...and my hairdresser....know for sure.
I do know that this morning, I was getting it right.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Seventy Times Seven
I hear Jesus speaking to Peter more often than I remember at earlier times in my life. Peter asked Jesus how many times he had to forgive someone who had sinned against him. Seven times? Jesus says, "Seventy times seven." Forgiveness worthy of her name needs to be repeated whenever her name is called to serve.
Jesus is not admonishing me to forgive someone, who has sinned me. Rarely do I think in those terms with regard to other people. I listen to The Lord's Prayer to attune myself with how I am abiding by the call to forgive other individuals in my life.
Jesus stands by me, as I whisper, "this isn't fair." What? Quiet, solitary moments in the bathroom, and in bed, my ankle asserts herself. "Don't be quite so proud of your accommodations to me." I want to share my whisper, that she does not rule my spirit
. Cleansing, and restful moments may not be sacrificed. Give me time. Jesus forgive me, as you call me to forgive not a person, but, my intimate--my ankle. It is not an it. My ankle is a she. My ankle is worthy of my love, my care, my respect, my care. My ankle--she--is a partner in my life. I may not neutralize her by reducing her to the state of it--the state of material goods in my possession.
She has rendered a lifetime of service.
I revel in the accommodation to her weakness....
Several days later, I am not as hurt by her pain. We will enjoy traveling the accommodating path together...swimming, discovering a program with a personal trainer to map out the most accommodating path--not a medicinal, but, a forgiving path.
My ankle calls me now, yet, in years to come, my ankle's sisters and brothers will plead with me to stop calling them It, and treat them as my intimates.
Marking--celebrating--51 years of life today, I am evermore aware of the eternal forgiveness that Jesus spoke of. I am called not to be forgiving of my ankle seven days a week. I am called to forgive each member of my body's family.
Am I really that different from anyone else in Jesus call to forgive our intimates--our aging intimates--seventy times seven? Just a thought.
Jesus is not admonishing me to forgive someone, who has sinned me. Rarely do I think in those terms with regard to other people. I listen to The Lord's Prayer to attune myself with how I am abiding by the call to forgive other individuals in my life.
Jesus stands by me, as I whisper, "this isn't fair." What? Quiet, solitary moments in the bathroom, and in bed, my ankle asserts herself. "Don't be quite so proud of your accommodations to me." I want to share my whisper, that she does not rule my spirit
. Cleansing, and restful moments may not be sacrificed. Give me time. Jesus forgive me, as you call me to forgive not a person, but, my intimate--my ankle. It is not an it. My ankle is a she. My ankle is worthy of my love, my care, my respect, my care. My ankle--she--is a partner in my life. I may not neutralize her by reducing her to the state of it--the state of material goods in my possession.
She has rendered a lifetime of service.
I revel in the accommodation to her weakness....
Several days later, I am not as hurt by her pain. We will enjoy traveling the accommodating path together...swimming, discovering a program with a personal trainer to map out the most accommodating path--not a medicinal, but, a forgiving path.
My ankle calls me now, yet, in years to come, my ankle's sisters and brothers will plead with me to stop calling them It, and treat them as my intimates.
Marking--celebrating--51 years of life today, I am evermore aware of the eternal forgiveness that Jesus spoke of. I am called not to be forgiving of my ankle seven days a week. I am called to forgive each member of my body's family.
Am I really that different from anyone else in Jesus call to forgive our intimates--our aging intimates--seventy times seven? Just a thought.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Life Changes...A Changing Life...
On April 26, 2011, I will turn 51. Had you told me two years ago that I would be living as I am now, I would have laughed at you. Yet, in 2011, here I am. This is the life I am called to live.
When I left the paid work world, I was not at all sure what my life was supposed to be, much less than what I wanted it to be. I was not retiring, yet, I did not know what to call my new life stage. Retired, as I had witnessed it in my life, did not describe what I was entering. In closest terms for me to describe, I was on disability. But, what did that mean?
My transition from full-time employment to on disability was abrupt. Most people left their place of employment on a long-anticipated, established date. Coworkers, and supervisors knew the date, and there was time to say thank you, to reconcile any short-term or long-term differences. There were no conversations regarding, "What are you going to do, once you do not have to go to work each day," and "If I were leaving work, I would...." There was no time to prepare for such a drastic change in living. Retirees returned to work, and said, "I don't miss the work, I miss the people." That was inconceivable to me. How could 24 years of my life be erased from my memory? Yet, that is what I would say now. I do not miss all of the people I worked with for more than 24 years. I do miss some of those people. I am in touch with some people. I do not miss the pressures of work. I do miss the treasure hunt for information that I traveled with those who had questions, and needed answers. That treasure hunt was not a daily journey, yet, when I loved that journey, and I am guilty of infecting many.
When I tried to conceive what my life on long-term disability would be, I had no model to consult. I felt guilty. My conception of long-term disability was someone who was completely unable to leave their home. Perhaps, the person's life circumstances were more drastic than that. I had no idea. As much as I told former colleagues that I would be "The next chapter will be to strengthen myself physically as much as is possible....I must discover opportunities that call upon my mind, rather than tax my physical abilities." I had no idea what the words I had been given to express meant. I had no idea.
The physical weakening that led to my exit from the work world defined my life for the next year and a half. I needed to embrace the Serenity Prayer.
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.
I sought the courage to identify what I could not change about my new old self. I needed to learn how to accommodate to my weakening body--my right ankle--and my capacity to stand up from the ground. For a lifetime, I had resisted fiercely anyone who dared to say that I could not do a task that I was undertaking. After all, I had never lived with the capacity to use both hands. From birth, my right leg had been shorter than my life. I did not undertake tasks that required a perfect balance. OK, I dressed up as a little ballerina. But, the balance beam was not narrow, by any stretch of the imagination. I never was a gambler in any casinos. The only challenge I undertook was that of a response to, "Do you think you can do that?" As much as I resented the comment--the lack of faith in me, all I could say was, "Do you want to make a bet?"
Oddly, the suggestion that I consider going on long-term disability was made in Las Vegas. In my mind, it was a long shot--the biggest gamble I had ever made. The stakes were high--my future. What was I getting myself into? This gamble flew in the face of all that I had been taught. "You will learn to live independently."
Courage to change the things I can.
This entailed identifying what, how much, and how I could restore my compromised right ankle, my weakening left hand--I could not lose her strength, I just couldn't--and my capacity to stand up from the ground. Accepting the things I could not change was more elusive for me to identify. Yet, the things of courage were more concrete to identify. Though identified more concretely, the things of courage were much more difficult to change. Bending from my knees to the ground were not a part of my things of courage. I knew better than to squander any courage I might be given on a youth's capacity that I had relinquished to an accommodating life. My things of courage calling for attention were my right ankle--she was on her last leg--and my left hand--she was my sole source by which I could squeeze everything out of my life.
How much?
To what degree could I hope to be restored? Before I could accept my compromised health, I needed to identify what my restored self would look like life--what would she feel like. What was I praying to be restored was essential. What was I not praying to be restored in my body?
What did a resurrected body look like to me? Others' conceptions--even those closest to me mattered little, if I did not have a strong sense of it in my own life. I am not saying that my vision would be perfect, or what a resurrected body would look like--would be in my life. But, if I was to have any hope than I better change resurrected body from a it--a thing--to an intimate in my life.
I could not jump to the step of addressing the how before I understood the how much. Though not fully understood by some who loved, and love me, by the grace of God, I knew that the answer to how could change on the basis of how much, my right ankle could be restored to her younger self. My right ankle, my left hand, my left hip, each and every body part of my body is not an it. They are my intimates. They are she, they are her. Only when I call them by their given names am I worthy to make decisions in their best interests--decisions in our best interests for a full life together.
My vehicle to understanding how much was ankle surgery. That action would reveal to me an answer to how much.
How?
This question frightened me. To some, the concrete form of how--a scooter, or a wheelchair--seemed clear. Yet, I had not arrived at the concrete foundation I needed in order to wheel forward. Others' attitudes, physical boundaries--navigating those physical boundaries--and my perceptions of individuals I had seen in my life were my biggest obstacles.
Wisdom to know the difference.
Before I could find solace, and embrace any wisdom, I needed to return to the matter of courage. What of courage was I not addressing? Now that I knew answers to today's things of courage was I not acting upon? Only after I answered and acted upon those questions could I hope to be granted any wisdom.
The Serenity Prayer is not a prayer to be navigated, and lived once and for all. That might be nice, but, life doesn't work that way.
On April 14, 2011, I was given a gift that I would never have imagined to be a gift--a wheelchair. With the accommodations of recent years, I need to discover where I want to go outside of my home that I put out of my mind as unrealistic destinations. With compromised stamina now restored, I may look at the outside world again, and try to get back into circulation once again.
Had you told me two years ago that I would be living the life I am, I would have laughed at you. Yet, this is the life I am called to live. Yikes!
What did a resurrected body look like to me? Others' conceptions--even those closest to me mattered little, if I did not have a strong sense of it in my own life. I am not saying that my vision would be perfect, or what a resurrected body would look like--would be in my life. But, if I was to have any hope than I better change resurrected body from an it--a thing--to an intimate in my life.
My vision is far from perfect. Intimate though my resurrected body may be, if there is any hope of my intimate being perfected--fulfilled--such intimacy must be shared--respected, and embraced.
Yikes!
When I left the paid work world, I was not at all sure what my life was supposed to be, much less than what I wanted it to be. I was not retiring, yet, I did not know what to call my new life stage. Retired, as I had witnessed it in my life, did not describe what I was entering. In closest terms for me to describe, I was on disability. But, what did that mean?
My transition from full-time employment to on disability was abrupt. Most people left their place of employment on a long-anticipated, established date. Coworkers, and supervisors knew the date, and there was time to say thank you, to reconcile any short-term or long-term differences. There were no conversations regarding, "What are you going to do, once you do not have to go to work each day," and "If I were leaving work, I would...." There was no time to prepare for such a drastic change in living. Retirees returned to work, and said, "I don't miss the work, I miss the people." That was inconceivable to me. How could 24 years of my life be erased from my memory? Yet, that is what I would say now. I do not miss all of the people I worked with for more than 24 years. I do miss some of those people. I am in touch with some people. I do not miss the pressures of work. I do miss the treasure hunt for information that I traveled with those who had questions, and needed answers. That treasure hunt was not a daily journey, yet, when I loved that journey, and I am guilty of infecting many.
When I tried to conceive what my life on long-term disability would be, I had no model to consult. I felt guilty. My conception of long-term disability was someone who was completely unable to leave their home. Perhaps, the person's life circumstances were more drastic than that. I had no idea. As much as I told former colleagues that I would be "The next chapter will be to strengthen myself physically as much as is possible....I must discover opportunities that call upon my mind, rather than tax my physical abilities." I had no idea what the words I had been given to express meant. I had no idea.
The physical weakening that led to my exit from the work world defined my life for the next year and a half. I needed to embrace the Serenity Prayer.
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.
I sought the courage to identify what I could not change about my new old self. I needed to learn how to accommodate to my weakening body--my right ankle--and my capacity to stand up from the ground. For a lifetime, I had resisted fiercely anyone who dared to say that I could not do a task that I was undertaking. After all, I had never lived with the capacity to use both hands. From birth, my right leg had been shorter than my life. I did not undertake tasks that required a perfect balance. OK, I dressed up as a little ballerina. But, the balance beam was not narrow, by any stretch of the imagination. I never was a gambler in any casinos. The only challenge I undertook was that of a response to, "Do you think you can do that?" As much as I resented the comment--the lack of faith in me, all I could say was, "Do you want to make a bet?"
Oddly, the suggestion that I consider going on long-term disability was made in Las Vegas. In my mind, it was a long shot--the biggest gamble I had ever made. The stakes were high--my future. What was I getting myself into? This gamble flew in the face of all that I had been taught. "You will learn to live independently."
Courage to change the things I can.
This entailed identifying what, how much, and how I could restore my compromised right ankle, my weakening left hand--I could not lose her strength, I just couldn't--and my capacity to stand up from the ground. Accepting the things I could not change was more elusive for me to identify. Yet, the things of courage were more concrete to identify. Though identified more concretely, the things of courage were much more difficult to change. Bending from my knees to the ground were not a part of my things of courage. I knew better than to squander any courage I might be given on a youth's capacity that I had relinquished to an accommodating life. My things of courage calling for attention were my right ankle--she was on her last leg--and my left hand--she was my sole source by which I could squeeze everything out of my life.
How much?
To what degree could I hope to be restored? Before I could accept my compromised health, I needed to identify what my restored self would look like life--what would she feel like. What was I praying to be restored was essential. What was I not praying to be restored in my body?
What did a resurrected body look like to me? Others' conceptions--even those closest to me mattered little, if I did not have a strong sense of it in my own life. I am not saying that my vision would be perfect, or what a resurrected body would look like--would be in my life. But, if I was to have any hope than I better change resurrected body from a it--a thing--to an intimate in my life.
I could not jump to the step of addressing the how before I understood the how much. Though not fully understood by some who loved, and love me, by the grace of God, I knew that the answer to how could change on the basis of how much, my right ankle could be restored to her younger self. My right ankle, my left hand, my left hip, each and every body part of my body is not an it. They are my intimates. They are she, they are her. Only when I call them by their given names am I worthy to make decisions in their best interests--decisions in our best interests for a full life together.
My vehicle to understanding how much was ankle surgery. That action would reveal to me an answer to how much.
How?
This question frightened me. To some, the concrete form of how--a scooter, or a wheelchair--seemed clear. Yet, I had not arrived at the concrete foundation I needed in order to wheel forward. Others' attitudes, physical boundaries--navigating those physical boundaries--and my perceptions of individuals I had seen in my life were my biggest obstacles.
Wisdom to know the difference.
Before I could find solace, and embrace any wisdom, I needed to return to the matter of courage. What of courage was I not addressing? Now that I knew answers to today's things of courage was I not acting upon? Only after I answered and acted upon those questions could I hope to be granted any wisdom.
The Serenity Prayer is not a prayer to be navigated, and lived once and for all. That might be nice, but, life doesn't work that way.
On April 14, 2011, I was given a gift that I would never have imagined to be a gift--a wheelchair. With the accommodations of recent years, I need to discover where I want to go outside of my home that I put out of my mind as unrealistic destinations. With compromised stamina now restored, I may look at the outside world again, and try to get back into circulation once again.
Had you told me two years ago that I would be living the life I am, I would have laughed at you. Yet, this is the life I am called to live. Yikes!
What did a resurrected body look like to me? Others' conceptions--even those closest to me mattered little, if I did not have a strong sense of it in my own life. I am not saying that my vision would be perfect, or what a resurrected body would look like--would be in my life. But, if I was to have any hope than I better change resurrected body from an it--a thing--to an intimate in my life.
My vision is far from perfect. Intimate though my resurrected body may be, if there is any hope of my intimate being perfected--fulfilled--such intimacy must be shared--respected, and embraced.
Yikes!
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.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Left With Fear
I fear little. Not because I am brave, or courageous, not be a long shot. I fear little.
Fear's expenditure lessens my deposits of strength to take on necessary human challenges. My moment's challenges? They are few. Preserve my mind's vitality. Nurture my spirit. Treat my hand gently. Preserve the gifts she gives me--the strength I have taken for granted--abused--for a lifetime.
My vehicle's challenge? There is but one. Preserve the strength of my left hand. Right-handed I am not. Ambidextrous I am not. My mind--my spirit--are conveyed through the strength of my left hand. Friends, family, and a spiritual community revitalize my mind and spirit. With them, my voice sharpens.
Exercise might strengthen the hands of some. Yet, my lifelong abuse of my left hand fertilizes this moment's fear. Osteorthritis attacks with anxious fear.
Writing is my voice. I attend to my ankle--I accommodate her anxiety. Yet, I fear threats to my left hand's grip--the strength she brings to me. I must give her due gentleness, that she not be lost to me--to my mind, to my spirit.
Am I alone in such piercing fear? I don't think so. Yet, I cannot say what for others is the unrealized piercing fear that awaits an honest revelation--a revelation that would bring a much more authentic life. I don't know what my left hand's compromise is--or my compromise to my left hand's honor. If I did know, I would challenge friends, family, and strangers to be open to their body's revelation--an invitation to authenticity.
To sleep I go. Healing--rejuvenation--I seek.
Fear's expenditure lessens my deposits of strength to take on necessary human challenges. My moment's challenges? They are few. Preserve my mind's vitality. Nurture my spirit. Treat my hand gently. Preserve the gifts she gives me--the strength I have taken for granted--abused--for a lifetime.
My vehicle's challenge? There is but one. Preserve the strength of my left hand. Right-handed I am not. Ambidextrous I am not. My mind--my spirit--are conveyed through the strength of my left hand. Friends, family, and a spiritual community revitalize my mind and spirit. With them, my voice sharpens.
Exercise might strengthen the hands of some. Yet, my lifelong abuse of my left hand fertilizes this moment's fear. Osteorthritis attacks with anxious fear.
Writing is my voice. I attend to my ankle--I accommodate her anxiety. Yet, I fear threats to my left hand's grip--the strength she brings to me. I must give her due gentleness, that she not be lost to me--to my mind, to my spirit.
Am I alone in such piercing fear? I don't think so. Yet, I cannot say what for others is the unrealized piercing fear that awaits an honest revelation--a revelation that would bring a much more authentic life. I don't know what my left hand's compromise is--or my compromise to my left hand's honor. If I did know, I would challenge friends, family, and strangers to be open to their body's revelation--an invitation to authenticity.
To sleep I go. Healing--rejuvenation--I seek.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Grieving A Body
For years after I began to have symptoms of MS, I used language to avoid owning them: "The left hand doesn't work anymore," I said. "There's a blurred spot in the right eye." In distancing myself from my ravaged central nervous system, I kept grief at bay, but I also banished any possibility of self-love. Only gradually have I schooled myself to speak of "my" hands, "my" eyes, thereby taking responsibility for them, though loving them ordinarily remains beyond me.
Waist-High in the World, Nancy Mairs, p. 43
I understand what Nancy Mairs is describing. She did not claim to be a spokesperson for all disabled individuals. Permit me to refer to Nancy Mairs by her first name. She invites her readers to share intimate details of her life, in the hopes of nurturing understanding by other individuals. I accept her invitation. I hope you will accompany me. Nancy provides a starting point from which to reflect on the "ravaged central nervous system."
I began to notice symptoms of osteoarthritis ten years ago. Osteorthritis and cerebral palsy joined forces to accelerate my aging process. My approach for my cerebral-palsied right hand, and my unaffected left hand has been to personify their relationship to me, and with one another through writing. When I began to notice that my right hand depended inordinately on my left hand, I conceived of a conversational eavesdropping between my affected body parts. For a lifetime, I have been called to respond to questions regarding my disabilities. Early on, it became clear that the more open I could be about my body--about my disabilities--the deeper my relationships with other people would be. Eavesdropping is frowned upon socially, however, it seemed that writing--writing a dialogue between body parts--could be an effective vehicle to transport questions into answers and understanding.
I am intrigued by Nancy's comments about grieving, "In distancing myself from my ravaged central nervous system, I kept grief at bay, but I also banished any possibility of self-love." I think I have taken a different approach than she describes. Neither one is better than the other. When I was fitted for my first ankle-foot-orthotic, or leg brace, I knew that I would face a psychological adjustment. I talked about my brace--about my fears--with my coworkers. In so doing, I invited them in for two purposes. Quite selfishly, I needed their help to adjust to the new appendage to my body. But, I hoped that they could understand what they had within themselves--what their "braces" were--that joined us.
"Ravaged central nervous system," is a marvelous description. I am not thrilled by the fact that my right ankle is on her last leg. I am not thrilled by the fact that I understand the meaning of "homebound." I have joked that, as I have been trying to secure a wheelchair, I have forgotten what it is that I am trying to get out to do. Yet, it is not a joke. It is true. It is pathetic. I am driven to distance myself from the pathetic aspect of me--that pathetic aspect.
Waist-High in the World, Nancy Mairs, p. 43
I understand what Nancy Mairs is describing. She did not claim to be a spokesperson for all disabled individuals. Permit me to refer to Nancy Mairs by her first name. She invites her readers to share intimate details of her life, in the hopes of nurturing understanding by other individuals. I accept her invitation. I hope you will accompany me. Nancy provides a starting point from which to reflect on the "ravaged central nervous system."
I began to notice symptoms of osteoarthritis ten years ago. Osteorthritis and cerebral palsy joined forces to accelerate my aging process. My approach for my cerebral-palsied right hand, and my unaffected left hand has been to personify their relationship to me, and with one another through writing. When I began to notice that my right hand depended inordinately on my left hand, I conceived of a conversational eavesdropping between my affected body parts. For a lifetime, I have been called to respond to questions regarding my disabilities. Early on, it became clear that the more open I could be about my body--about my disabilities--the deeper my relationships with other people would be. Eavesdropping is frowned upon socially, however, it seemed that writing--writing a dialogue between body parts--could be an effective vehicle to transport questions into answers and understanding.
I am intrigued by Nancy's comments about grieving, "In distancing myself from my ravaged central nervous system, I kept grief at bay, but I also banished any possibility of self-love." I think I have taken a different approach than she describes. Neither one is better than the other. When I was fitted for my first ankle-foot-orthotic, or leg brace, I knew that I would face a psychological adjustment. I talked about my brace--about my fears--with my coworkers. In so doing, I invited them in for two purposes. Quite selfishly, I needed their help to adjust to the new appendage to my body. But, I hoped that they could understand what they had within themselves--what their "braces" were--that joined us.
"Ravaged central nervous system," is a marvelous description. I am not thrilled by the fact that my right ankle is on her last leg. I am not thrilled by the fact that I understand the meaning of "homebound." I have joked that, as I have been trying to secure a wheelchair, I have forgotten what it is that I am trying to get out to do. Yet, it is not a joke. It is true. It is pathetic. I am driven to distance myself from the pathetic aspect of me--that pathetic aspect.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Strength...Weakness...A Strong Will
We must learn to pray out of our weaknesses so that God can become our strength." - Joan Chitister
I found this passage tonight. It was posted in Sojourners' Verse and Voice. Joan Chitister calls us to do much more than dig ourselves--individually, and collectively--out of a hole--a hole of bravado. We shudder at--we deny--the very presence of weakness in our lives.
Weakness. "Not in my backyard."
Weakness. We don't know how to live with it--in our lives, much less in our selves.
Strength. We cannot live without it in our lives--in our world.
Weakness. What does it mean? Strength. What does that mean?
We are at a defining moment in our lives--in our world. Why? What is so special about this moment? Is it just because Joan Chittister's passage was selected by Sojourners today? I think not.
In my personal life, surgery prompted me to confront bodily strength and weakness. Realizing that now I may walk without pain raises the question, "How long has it been?" Last spring, perhaps? If not, when? I do not know. I denied my weakness.
My surgery was designed to treat my "weak" ankle---my weak foot. In four to six weeks, I thought should be at full strength.
A cure is resignation's salvation--pain's hope. Yet, a cure is more elusive than salvation's promise to us. A cure is a dangerous temptation. His return on investment is shallow, at best. Pain's hope must be deeper than a cure. Pain's hope is far from easy. Yet, openly willed each day, it is far more fulfilling than any cure could ever be.
May we meet this day with a strong will--
A conscious choice to embrace what is life-giving.
May our strong will be a declarative act of living,
Rather than a defiant part of speech.
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