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-four 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 spirituality of the human body. Show all posts
Showing posts with label spirituality of the human body. Show all posts
Friday, June 3, 2016
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Getting My Head Around It
I have come a long way in two years when it comes to wheelchairs--my being in a wheelchair. Maneuvering it. After all, though in my 50s, I have never driven a car before now. But, more to the point, I have come a long way in terms of surmounting fear. "People are going to treat me differently. Once again, I will need to be on the defensive to protect myself from misunderstanding."
As far as I have come, I have yet to get my head around one aspect of wheelchairs. Headrims.
They are for other people. Other people need them. Not me.."
I resisted the insurance representative, as sweet as she was, when she asked me to consider purchasing a headrim.
"Think of your long-term needs. Not now. Not a year from now. Think about your needs five years down the road." she said to me.
I do not dwell on it, or I would never get out of bed in the morning. But, someday, I may lose the capacity to use my left hand---the only hand available to me for meaningful use, since my right hand is affected significantly by cerebral palsy.
Just now, surfing the web for information about wheelchair accessories, I came upon a picture of a boy in a wheelchair using a headrim. Intellectually, I know, it is magnificent that headrims exist to provide mobility, and opportunities to stay actively engaged in this life we have been given.
Yet, my intellect does not assuage the pit in my stomach. Someday I may find myself in need of a headrim in order to remain mobile, and active. What will that day--that life--look like? Will I be able to talk? Will people be able to understand me?
I remember the most difficult time of my life. I was in the hospital for nine days. I had a toxic level of anticonvulsants in my bloodstream. I was hooked up to an EEG for an outrageous nine days--outrageous by any standards of medical practice. But, that was not the most difficult part of my life.
"Just tell me. What am I supposed to do. Go back to work and try to figure out how to cope with my disintegrating body? Stop working? What? Tell me. What am I supposed to do? Just tell me, and I will do it."
I talked to my family incessantly. Several good friends. I had no sense of time. I had no sense of what to do.
That was four years ago. A lifetime ago.
Did I really work full time? Did I really work for a large corporation? Did I really work for the same company for 24 years?
I never thought I would be working at the same company when I turned 65. Yet, I did not know where I would be. I still don't know. I knew that I did not have the courage to seek a job elsewhere. The prospect of being told I did not measure up was too much for me to confront.
Had you told me in the hospital in 2009 that I would live the life I do now, I would not have believed you. Volunteering twice a week doing research at a museum. Being very active in advocating for Catholic Church reform. Preparing to advocate for accessible mass transit in the metropolitan area. Writing blogs. Swimming. My life in 2013 was unimaginable in 2009. Though intellectually civic-minded, "volunteering" was not a word in my vocabulary. I could not define it.
What will my life in 2017 be? Will I need the headrim? Are there other accommodations I will need to make? No doubt there will be some. What will they be?
Right now I use my wheelchair to travel long distances. I am able to walk around my home. Yet, buying a refrigerator last summer opened to me the cold hard facts I needed to confront. What dimensions--what height and depth did my refrigerator need to be to accommodate a Patty Thorsen in the future, who would be constantly bound to her wheelchair?
Move me toward understanding, not what 2017 will be, but, toward what I will need--what inner resources--to live an engaged life. Settle my queasy stomach.
As far as I have come, I have yet to get my head around one aspect of wheelchairs. Headrims.
They are for other people. Other people need them. Not me.."
I resisted the insurance representative, as sweet as she was, when she asked me to consider purchasing a headrim.
"Think of your long-term needs. Not now. Not a year from now. Think about your needs five years down the road." she said to me.
I do not dwell on it, or I would never get out of bed in the morning. But, someday, I may lose the capacity to use my left hand---the only hand available to me for meaningful use, since my right hand is affected significantly by cerebral palsy.
Just now, surfing the web for information about wheelchair accessories, I came upon a picture of a boy in a wheelchair using a headrim. Intellectually, I know, it is magnificent that headrims exist to provide mobility, and opportunities to stay actively engaged in this life we have been given.
Yet, my intellect does not assuage the pit in my stomach. Someday I may find myself in need of a headrim in order to remain mobile, and active. What will that day--that life--look like? Will I be able to talk? Will people be able to understand me?
I remember the most difficult time of my life. I was in the hospital for nine days. I had a toxic level of anticonvulsants in my bloodstream. I was hooked up to an EEG for an outrageous nine days--outrageous by any standards of medical practice. But, that was not the most difficult part of my life.
"Just tell me. What am I supposed to do. Go back to work and try to figure out how to cope with my disintegrating body? Stop working? What? Tell me. What am I supposed to do? Just tell me, and I will do it."
I talked to my family incessantly. Several good friends. I had no sense of time. I had no sense of what to do.
That was four years ago. A lifetime ago.
Did I really work full time? Did I really work for a large corporation? Did I really work for the same company for 24 years?
I never thought I would be working at the same company when I turned 65. Yet, I did not know where I would be. I still don't know. I knew that I did not have the courage to seek a job elsewhere. The prospect of being told I did not measure up was too much for me to confront.
Had you told me in the hospital in 2009 that I would live the life I do now, I would not have believed you. Volunteering twice a week doing research at a museum. Being very active in advocating for Catholic Church reform. Preparing to advocate for accessible mass transit in the metropolitan area. Writing blogs. Swimming. My life in 2013 was unimaginable in 2009. Though intellectually civic-minded, "volunteering" was not a word in my vocabulary. I could not define it.
What will my life in 2017 be? Will I need the headrim? Are there other accommodations I will need to make? No doubt there will be some. What will they be?
Right now I use my wheelchair to travel long distances. I am able to walk around my home. Yet, buying a refrigerator last summer opened to me the cold hard facts I needed to confront. What dimensions--what height and depth did my refrigerator need to be to accommodate a Patty Thorsen in the future, who would be constantly bound to her wheelchair?
Move me toward understanding, not what 2017 will be, but, toward what I will need--what inner resources--to live an engaged life. Settle my queasy stomach.
Saturday, September 29, 2012
My BAD Hand....My GOOD Hand...
"How much can you do with your BAD hand?"
"How much can you do with your GOOD hand?"
These two questions were familiar to my ears. My gut reaction has matured. Underlying facts--realities--have changed. My answers have changed.
"BAD hand" screamed to me, a reference to my right hand. "Your GOOD hand" screamed out--pointed attention to my left hand. Two sides of cerebral palsy in my life.
My bad hand, and my good hand were--are--merely two extremities to my body, not the villain, and the good guy I heard being called when I was a child. An adult, I swallowed the words, I answered the questions. To my best, I lived the answers, or so I tried.
To most, my bad hand and my good hand painted a picture in black and white. The differences were stark, or so they seemed. To me? A partnership. Not equal. Partners nonetheless.
My right hand. "The right hand doesn't know what the left hand is doing." To some cliche. To me, my lived reality. Tight. Limp. One moment, I stare her down--her grasp is unbreakable. The next moment, I look away--she drops the ball. The glass breaks into smithereens. I know better. I trust her with only the unbreakable.
My right hand. My left hand. As much as we both may want, no matter. A small coin. A breakable glass. Too tiny. Too fragile. My right hand cannot grasp. My right hand cannot hold steady.
My right hand. Some may say unfeeling. So I say. Yet, truth be told, in the winter's cold she is numb. Under the summer's sunshine, she sweats. She clenches her fist. Little relief finds its way in. Not always.
My bad hand. My good hand. Partners. Not equal. Partners nonetheless.
We support. We compensate. We protect. We succeed? Not always. We accommodate. We adjust. We must.
Cerebral palsy. My lifetime companion.
My left hand. Her grasp firm. Her strength solid. Her reflexes split-second.
My right hand. Some may say unfeeling. So I say. Yet, in the winter's cold she is numbed. Under the summertime's humid sun, she sweats. Not always. But, in the extreme of Minnesota's weather, she may be numbed, she may be sweaty.
Essential tremors--intentional tremors. My aging body's interloper.
Essential? Well, that is how they define it. Intentional. The harder I intend to steady my hand, the steadier I shall be? Well....No. If only. Intentional tremor--the more I intend to perform a task, the more intense my tremor shall be. Intentional tremor, that is the essence of the essential tremor.
My left hand held the upper hand. She strong-armed my right hand--the hand unable--dependent on my left hand--to carry the full load, to manipulate small objects.
My left hand. Her grasp was firm. Her strength rock solid. Her reflexes split-second.
Now? My left hand. My right hand. What now?
We are called to a new way of living. My left hand. How much can you do with your good hand? Is it my good hand? My right hand. How much can you do with your bad hand? My right hand. Is it my bad hand? Tempting though it may be, I must not engage in such. Name-calling does nothing to help me--help us--in answering our call to a new way of living. The temptation lurks, believe me. Yet, I must not succumb.
Spirituality of the human body. Betrayal. Partnership. Spirituality of the human body.
"How much can you do with your GOOD hand?"
These two questions were familiar to my ears. My gut reaction has matured. Underlying facts--realities--have changed. My answers have changed.
"BAD hand" screamed to me, a reference to my right hand. "Your GOOD hand" screamed out--pointed attention to my left hand. Two sides of cerebral palsy in my life.
My bad hand, and my good hand were--are--merely two extremities to my body, not the villain, and the good guy I heard being called when I was a child. An adult, I swallowed the words, I answered the questions. To my best, I lived the answers, or so I tried.
To most, my bad hand and my good hand painted a picture in black and white. The differences were stark, or so they seemed. To me? A partnership. Not equal. Partners nonetheless.
My right hand. "The right hand doesn't know what the left hand is doing." To some cliche. To me, my lived reality. Tight. Limp. One moment, I stare her down--her grasp is unbreakable. The next moment, I look away--she drops the ball. The glass breaks into smithereens. I know better. I trust her with only the unbreakable.
My right hand. My left hand. As much as we both may want, no matter. A small coin. A breakable glass. Too tiny. Too fragile. My right hand cannot grasp. My right hand cannot hold steady.
My right hand. Some may say unfeeling. So I say. Yet, truth be told, in the winter's cold she is numb. Under the summer's sunshine, she sweats. She clenches her fist. Little relief finds its way in. Not always.
My bad hand. My good hand. Partners. Not equal. Partners nonetheless.
We support. We compensate. We protect. We succeed? Not always. We accommodate. We adjust. We must.
Cerebral palsy. My lifetime companion.
My left hand. Her grasp firm. Her strength solid. Her reflexes split-second.
My right hand. Some may say unfeeling. So I say. Yet, in the winter's cold she is numbed. Under the summertime's humid sun, she sweats. Not always. But, in the extreme of Minnesota's weather, she may be numbed, she may be sweaty.
Essential tremors--intentional tremors. My aging body's interloper.
Essential? Well, that is how they define it. Intentional. The harder I intend to steady my hand, the steadier I shall be? Well....No. If only. Intentional tremor--the more I intend to perform a task, the more intense my tremor shall be. Intentional tremor, that is the essence of the essential tremor.
My left hand held the upper hand. She strong-armed my right hand--the hand unable--dependent on my left hand--to carry the full load, to manipulate small objects.
My left hand. Her grasp was firm. Her strength rock solid. Her reflexes split-second.
Now? My left hand. My right hand. What now?
We are called to a new way of living. My left hand. How much can you do with your good hand? Is it my good hand? My right hand. How much can you do with your bad hand? My right hand. Is it my bad hand? Tempting though it may be, I must not engage in such. Name-calling does nothing to help me--help us--in answering our call to a new way of living. The temptation lurks, believe me. Yet, I must not succumb.
Spirituality of the human body. Betrayal. Partnership. Spirituality of the human body.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
In Control?
Recent tweaking of my anti-tremor medication brings one word to mind--control. Control? Yes, control.
Oxford Dictionaries defines "control" as "[mass noun] the power to influence or direct people's behavior or course of events."
Control. Chemical. Neural. Human. Control.
Control. Seizures. Neurologists. Control. Me--a 52-year-old adult. Control.
Control of seizures seems straightforward. The neurologist identifies an anticonvulsant to control seizures. Based on my weight, among other factors, the neurologist prescribes a specific dosage. Simple. Periodically, blood is drawn. Lab technicians measure the amount of medication in my bloodstream. Simple.
Well...not so fast.
For years, I thought that my neurologist had the final say in the anticonvulsants I took, and in the amount. I respect the training, and clinical experience of neurologists. Yet, prescription of an anticonvulsant that caused me to vomit incessantly for several months was a test of my strength, and an unforgettable lesson.
I am the final arbiter of the medication--the final arbiter of the way I live.
Underdosage had a clear--unmistakable--effect--a convulsion. Underdosage had an incentive to correct--the consequence was too strong to tolerate. The only option I understood was to accept the pronouncements of my neurologist.
Control. Tremors. Neurologist. Me--a 52-year-old adult. Control.
Tremors in my left hand started at least five years ago. Fearful of what it might be, and without the strength to confront it, I denied it. I knew people who loved me noticed--were deeply concerned--about the tremors. But, I could not confront the tremors. I needed control. I needed to control what the diagnosis might be--I needed to control how I confronted it. I needed to steel myself to confront it.
Control. The diagnosis. Intentional tremors--essential-tremors. Control.
In my fearful--prediagnosis--days, the only way I knew to confront my tremors was to intend to be steady in my movement of my left hand, most notably my handwriting. My thinking was that my hand would be steadier--my handwriting would be more legible, if only I concentrated my full attention on being steady. It seemed simple. It makes sense. Well....the harder I tried, the shakier my hand became. The harder I tried the more illegible my writing became. The shakier I became, the more out of control I felt--emotionally.
Control. Intentional tremors. Anti-tremor medication. Control.
Prescription of a medication to eradicate my tremors--to take away my lifelong fear--seemed irresistible. My lifelong fear? Simple. My left hand would be compromised temporarily, or permanently, such that my mental, emotional, and spiritual resources would be trapped in my body.
Control. Take prescribed medication. Control.
Taking one 20 mg. minuscule blue tablet three times a day seemed a benign price to pay. I feel guilty in saying that that pill combined with the anticonvulsants I take left me feeling emotionally overwhelmed--out of control.
Control. Mind. Body. Spirit. Control.
Though an adult of 52 years, I have relinquished control to medical professionals, who know better, or so I have submitted myself to believe. Yet, slowly, ever so slowly, I am learning that I am the final arbiter of how I--how my body--shall live.
Control. Mind. Body. Spirit. Control.
My emotional response to my antitremor medication could not be measured clinically. Thank God, my doctor believed me--honored my response. A different dosage synchronized with my anticonvulsants seemed a reasonable alternative. Somehow, I was overwhelmed by having to ingest medication more times during the day than at the beginning and end of it. Yet, that was how I felt. Interceding events between then and now have not changed how I feel.
Control. Mind. Body. Spirit. Control.
Honoring me--my response--involved an educated--well-informed--tweaking of my dosages. With full-knowledge of adverse effects that might follow, I opted to try a higher dosage of my medication. I did not think my tremors were as well controlled as they could be. I was so overwhelmed emotionally, and lost perspective such that I agreed to try a higher dosage. I confused tremors with loss of stamina. I wanted my tremors eradicated and I wanted my indomitable left hand returned to me. Tremors can be controlled, but I do not have the right to abuse my left hand by stretching it beyond its limits, if I have any desire to live fully engaged.
Control. Mind. Body. Spirit. Control.
I am not without control. Overdosage of my medication. Many people, when faced with medication overdosage issues throw up their hands--they submit to their doctor without proclaiming the limits by which they are willing to live.
Choices between the lesser of two evils are troublesome at best. Such choices should not be "entertained." Such choices should be contemplated with due care.
Control. Mind. Body. Spirit. Control.
My choices?
Have my tremors fully controlled, and live with clouded thoughts, and thoroughly exhausting depression, or make necessary accommodations to what medications cannot control. I am still learning what that control--what that balance--implies on my life. Those are the extremes. I do not live in extremes. I live a full life. Most people I know live fully-engaged lives. Several people I know concern me.
Control. Mind. Body. Spirit. Control.
My tremors are controlled through deliberate means. Medication. Accommodation--reasonable accommodation. Engagement--mental, emotional, and spiritual engagement.
Control. Mind. Body. Spirit. Control.
Some refer to "Minnesota nice." Though I live in Minnesota, I do not engage in "Minnesota nice," I do commit myself fully to passionate, optimistic living. To the degree possible, I surround myself with individuals committed to live so.
Control. Mind. Body. Spirit. Control.
Oxford Dictionaries defines "control" as "[mass noun] the power to influence or direct people's behavior or course of events."
Control. Chemical. Neural. Human. Control.
Control. Seizures. Neurologists. Control. Me--a 52-year-old adult. Control.
Control of seizures seems straightforward. The neurologist identifies an anticonvulsant to control seizures. Based on my weight, among other factors, the neurologist prescribes a specific dosage. Simple. Periodically, blood is drawn. Lab technicians measure the amount of medication in my bloodstream. Simple.
Well...not so fast.
For years, I thought that my neurologist had the final say in the anticonvulsants I took, and in the amount. I respect the training, and clinical experience of neurologists. Yet, prescription of an anticonvulsant that caused me to vomit incessantly for several months was a test of my strength, and an unforgettable lesson.
I am the final arbiter of the medication--the final arbiter of the way I live.
Underdosage had a clear--unmistakable--effect--a convulsion. Underdosage had an incentive to correct--the consequence was too strong to tolerate. The only option I understood was to accept the pronouncements of my neurologist.
Control. Tremors. Neurologist. Me--a 52-year-old adult. Control.
Tremors in my left hand started at least five years ago. Fearful of what it might be, and without the strength to confront it, I denied it. I knew people who loved me noticed--were deeply concerned--about the tremors. But, I could not confront the tremors. I needed control. I needed to control what the diagnosis might be--I needed to control how I confronted it. I needed to steel myself to confront it.
Control. The diagnosis. Intentional tremors--essential-tremors. Control.
In my fearful--prediagnosis--days, the only way I knew to confront my tremors was to intend to be steady in my movement of my left hand, most notably my handwriting. My thinking was that my hand would be steadier--my handwriting would be more legible, if only I concentrated my full attention on being steady. It seemed simple. It makes sense. Well....the harder I tried, the shakier my hand became. The harder I tried the more illegible my writing became. The shakier I became, the more out of control I felt--emotionally.
Control. Intentional tremors. Anti-tremor medication. Control.
Prescription of a medication to eradicate my tremors--to take away my lifelong fear--seemed irresistible. My lifelong fear? Simple. My left hand would be compromised temporarily, or permanently, such that my mental, emotional, and spiritual resources would be trapped in my body.
Control. Take prescribed medication. Control.
Taking one 20 mg. minuscule blue tablet three times a day seemed a benign price to pay. I feel guilty in saying that that pill combined with the anticonvulsants I take left me feeling emotionally overwhelmed--out of control.
Control. Mind. Body. Spirit. Control.
Though an adult of 52 years, I have relinquished control to medical professionals, who know better, or so I have submitted myself to believe. Yet, slowly, ever so slowly, I am learning that I am the final arbiter of how I--how my body--shall live.
Control. Mind. Body. Spirit. Control.
My emotional response to my antitremor medication could not be measured clinically. Thank God, my doctor believed me--honored my response. A different dosage synchronized with my anticonvulsants seemed a reasonable alternative. Somehow, I was overwhelmed by having to ingest medication more times during the day than at the beginning and end of it. Yet, that was how I felt. Interceding events between then and now have not changed how I feel.
Control. Mind. Body. Spirit. Control.
Honoring me--my response--involved an educated--well-informed--tweaking of my dosages. With full-knowledge of adverse effects that might follow, I opted to try a higher dosage of my medication. I did not think my tremors were as well controlled as they could be. I was so overwhelmed emotionally, and lost perspective such that I agreed to try a higher dosage. I confused tremors with loss of stamina. I wanted my tremors eradicated and I wanted my indomitable left hand returned to me. Tremors can be controlled, but I do not have the right to abuse my left hand by stretching it beyond its limits, if I have any desire to live fully engaged.
Control. Mind. Body. Spirit. Control.
I am not without control. Overdosage of my medication. Many people, when faced with medication overdosage issues throw up their hands--they submit to their doctor without proclaiming the limits by which they are willing to live.
Choices between the lesser of two evils are troublesome at best. Such choices should not be "entertained." Such choices should be contemplated with due care.
Control. Mind. Body. Spirit. Control.
My choices?
Have my tremors fully controlled, and live with clouded thoughts, and thoroughly exhausting depression, or make necessary accommodations to what medications cannot control. I am still learning what that control--what that balance--implies on my life. Those are the extremes. I do not live in extremes. I live a full life. Most people I know live fully-engaged lives. Several people I know concern me.
Control. Mind. Body. Spirit. Control.
My tremors are controlled through deliberate means. Medication. Accommodation--reasonable accommodation. Engagement--mental, emotional, and spiritual engagement.
Control. Mind. Body. Spirit. Control.
Some refer to "Minnesota nice." Though I live in Minnesota, I do not engage in "Minnesota nice," I do commit myself fully to passionate, optimistic living. To the degree possible, I surround myself with individuals committed to live so.
Control. Mind. Body. Spirit. Control.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Unwelcome House Guests
With age comes unwelcome house guests. Brain damage accelerates their arrival, or so I was told. In the past ten years, I have learned how to navigate the terrain of the dynamic duo.
Tonight, I fear I am falling into three pitfalls--three deadly pitfalls. I loathe wallowing, self-pity, and bitterness. Negative thinking is a force I try to avoid. Tonight I am fighting that demon.
Since 2002, I have been introduced to osteoarthritis, and essential or intentional tremors. I have opened my home to a power wheelchair--Zoomer is her name.
Before I adopted Zoomer, I was asked to consider my long-term needs. Not then. Not in a year. No, what might my needs be five years down the road? Who knows?
How was I supposed to divine such an answer? Prayer? Yes, but....I was being asked much more than to say, "Amen, I submit. Amen."
Did I want a joystick? Did I want to buy an optional headrim to have stored for the day when I might lose the requisite strength in my left hand to manipulate the joystick?
For a lifetime, I have feared losing capacity in my left hand. The joystick was palatable. It was marvelous that the chair could be fitted with a joystick on the left side.
But....a headrim??? A headrim.
I wanted no part of it. Heck, I wanted no part of a wheelchair. In fact, the day I entered my neighborhood medical supply store, I tried one scooter, and then, a wheelchair. I had such a mental block regarding wheelchairs that I had to be told that I was sitting in a wheelchair. My heart skipped a beat.
I have yet to have the headrim delivered to me. Yet, I did swallow hard, but not until a restless night of contemplation, did I agree to purchase a headrim. I have not seen it. For now, I have no desire to do so. Solace is not what describes my feeling. Satisfied may be the word. While some must buy automobile insurance, I must buy the headrim--I did so. The headrim is my insurance policy to cash in on at the point it becomes necessary.
For now, I am trying to offer a modicum of hospitality to my unwelcome guests. While I await the most unwelcome of guests I know might come, I adjust.
I take pills. I suck straws. I zoom. I research. I write.
I swim.
I listen. To knocks at the door. I listen keenly. To my body. My body rules. My spirit must prevail. My spirit must honor my body.
I listen. To my body. My body rules. My spirit prevails--peace--harmony prevails. It must--I must.
Tonight, I fear I am falling into three pitfalls--three deadly pitfalls. I loathe wallowing, self-pity, and bitterness. Negative thinking is a force I try to avoid. Tonight I am fighting that demon.
Since 2002, I have been introduced to osteoarthritis, and essential or intentional tremors. I have opened my home to a power wheelchair--Zoomer is her name.
Before I adopted Zoomer, I was asked to consider my long-term needs. Not then. Not in a year. No, what might my needs be five years down the road? Who knows?
How was I supposed to divine such an answer? Prayer? Yes, but....I was being asked much more than to say, "Amen, I submit. Amen."
Did I want a joystick? Did I want to buy an optional headrim to have stored for the day when I might lose the requisite strength in my left hand to manipulate the joystick?
For a lifetime, I have feared losing capacity in my left hand. The joystick was palatable. It was marvelous that the chair could be fitted with a joystick on the left side.
But....a headrim??? A headrim.
I wanted no part of it. Heck, I wanted no part of a wheelchair. In fact, the day I entered my neighborhood medical supply store, I tried one scooter, and then, a wheelchair. I had such a mental block regarding wheelchairs that I had to be told that I was sitting in a wheelchair. My heart skipped a beat.
I have yet to have the headrim delivered to me. Yet, I did swallow hard, but not until a restless night of contemplation, did I agree to purchase a headrim. I have not seen it. For now, I have no desire to do so. Solace is not what describes my feeling. Satisfied may be the word. While some must buy automobile insurance, I must buy the headrim--I did so. The headrim is my insurance policy to cash in on at the point it becomes necessary.
For now, I am trying to offer a modicum of hospitality to my unwelcome guests. While I await the most unwelcome of guests I know might come, I adjust.
I take pills. I suck straws. I zoom. I research. I write.
I swim.
I listen. To knocks at the door. I listen keenly. To my body. My body rules. My spirit must prevail. My spirit must honor my body.
I listen. To my body. My body rules. My spirit prevails--peace--harmony prevails. It must--I must.
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