Since getting my cast off on October 24th, I've been dragging my ass. I've been mopey and dopey instead of celebrating the fact that I'm actually recovering from what was a difficult accident for me and my family. I've done the work: taken the meds, worked the gym, talked to the lawyers, confronted the machine that is the Insurance Industry. I've been my own best cheerleader yet I find that I'm cranky and blue, generally getting in the way of my own ordinary happiness.
I did what I would normally do when I find myself in another such foul mood, I went for a walk. This time I walked in my local library while E was happily absorbed in a pile of Clifford books. The floor of the library is carpeted which cushions the impact for my left leg and ankle. I couldn't help but notice that since I've been wearing that god awful 'old lady' support stocking, the pain in my foot has greatly diminished, and bearing weight in my castless leg wasn't half bad, really. So, taking a deep breath I shuffled along keeping my grunts to a minimum so as not to disturb my fellow readers at the library. After a while, I became aware of the rhythm of my own footsteps, moving one crutch and one foot forward slowly and simultaneously, first the left, then and the right, left and right and so on.
And then, in midstep it dawned on me. I hate moving slowly. I hate it. When I move one leg after another with way bipeds do, my navigation feels self-concious and utterly, interminably slow, as if I'll never get to where I want to go. Walking like a biped, I feel CRIPPLED in the worst sense, deflecting the sypathetic glances of well meaning bipeds. I huff and puff and inch along. Fact is, since my accident, my legs have been too weak to carry the weight of my tried and tru swing-thru walk. That is, I move two crutches forward at the same time and swing both my legs forward in a kind of hopping mini pole vaulting move. It's my walk. It's my CRIP walk. It's the way I cover twice as much ground in half the time. It's the walk that compels stranger bipeds to tell me to slow down. It's the walk that makes my mother sigh and my physical therapist cringe. It looks crooked and dangerous but it works for me When I walk like the quadruped that I am I feel autonomous and strong and in control of my body. Walking like a biped makes me feel like I trying to measure up to a standard that doesn't make sense. I am NOT one of crowd. I like my loud, happy, hear- it- for- miles gallop.
There I was on the top floor of the library and I thought what the hell, let me give it a try. It hasn't happened in a long time but maybe today will be different. I readied my crutches and moved them forward. I tranferred my weight and what do you know, my legs swung! No big deal, no huge struggle, no wobble or fall or 'oh no' moment. Before I knew it I was relaying around the circumference of the library giggling like a kid in a playground. Yay! I'm a Quadruped! I AM a Quadruped! I motored over to E, laughing, gasping, feeling younger than I have in years.
"Hi E!" I waved a crutch at him talking louder than I should've but what the hell.
"Hi Mommy," he said calmly. "I'm reading about Clifford the Big Red Dog," he said.
"That's good, Boo." E went back to his book. And I spun around to give my legs another chance to swing.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Small Acts of Independence
I expected a feeling of elation, a big moment, a revelation, an ephiphany when I finally got the cast off. I was nervous about standing up my own two feet once again, but I did it anyway; slipped the foam slipper I'd worn for months back on my newly naked left foot and walked out of the Orthopedic surgeon's office under my my own power. There were no bugles sounding no fireworks--only an intense feeling of relief. I had finally made it to the last leg, in a manner of speaking, of my recovery. My leg didn't even look that different, (my leg muscles are atrophied anyway). Somehow the muscle tone around my knee seemed a little, I don't know, deflated but nothing shocking considering 4 months of hibernation.
For all of the anticpated excitement for my first shower in eons, I didn't go into the Y as planned but managed to climb into my own shower without to my surprise any assistance. As the water shushed down my back I thanked various higher powers for the opportunity to once again wash all of my body parts AT THE SAME TIME.
Rediscovering a favorite pair of jeans that previously could not make past a thickly casted leg is a simple pleasure not to be underestimated. Dressing by myself in something other than sweat pants goes a long way to restoring a familiar sense of self. Shed the dressings and layers of injury if only to put on a favorite pair of jeans and a clean tee-shirt.
How much of life is made up of these moments, small acts of independence, most of which are private, taken for granted and yearned for when even temporarily absent? More than I expected to be sure but I'm happy to reclaim all of them one by one even if the fanfare is only in my head.
For all of the anticpated excitement for my first shower in eons, I didn't go into the Y as planned but managed to climb into my own shower without to my surprise any assistance. As the water shushed down my back I thanked various higher powers for the opportunity to once again wash all of my body parts AT THE SAME TIME.
Rediscovering a favorite pair of jeans that previously could not make past a thickly casted leg is a simple pleasure not to be underestimated. Dressing by myself in something other than sweat pants goes a long way to restoring a familiar sense of self. Shed the dressings and layers of injury if only to put on a favorite pair of jeans and a clean tee-shirt.
How much of life is made up of these moments, small acts of independence, most of which are private, taken for granted and yearned for when even temporarily absent? More than I expected to be sure but I'm happy to reclaim all of them one by one even if the fanfare is only in my head.
What?What!
The other night, while I was cooking dinner, I got a call from my Durable Medical Equipment (DME) vendor.
"Hi," said the voice on the other end of the line, "DME Company will be coming by tomorrow morning to pick up your bed and wheelchair."
(A stunned silence on my part.)
"What?"
"We'll be picking up one hospital bed and one wheelchair in the morning."
"But I still have my cast on! I got the bed and chair because of my mobility limits with this cast on. You can't take the equipment back yet!" I don't know whether to panic or yell.
"Hmmm, we have an order from the insurance company to--"
"Who wrote the order?
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
The voiced paused. "You better call the insurance company."
"You want ME to call the insurance company?" I didn't panic, I yelled.
"Hmmm," the voice said.
I hung up.
When I called the Insurance Company, another voice told me that my file could not be found.
"Where is it?"
The new voice said, "Let us put you on hold."
I waited.
"Hello, we're sorry to make you wait. We found your file."
Considering that I've had coverage for the past three months, I figured this was a good thing.
"According to your file the person handling your case is Mike B."
Of course I've never spoken to anyone named Mike B.
"Can you transfer me to Mike B?"
"Please hold."
I waited. I listened to Beatles muzak on the line and waited.
"This is Mike B."
I explained the situation to Mike B.
"Yeah," he said, "according to you file, the Insurance Adjustor tried to call you twice."
"She may have tried to call me, but this time I didn't get a message and I didn't talk to anyone."
I learned that in the world of Auto Insurance, the Adjustor is a Supreme Being. She decides if my coverage continues or ends. No debate.
Mike B said, "You should call the Insurance Adjustor."
"YOU WANT ME TO MAKE THE CALL?!"
"Let me call you back," he said.
Mike B called me back a few minutes later to tell me that the coverage for the hospital bed had been extended for another month. Then he said, "The DME vendor will pick up your wheelchair later on today."
WHAT? I pointed out, calmly this time, that if I still needed the hospital bed, would it not follow that I would still require the wheelchair?
"Let call you back," Mike B said.
Mike B never called me back a second time. The only reason I founded out that my coverage was extended for both the bed and the wheelchair was because I called the vendor to give an update on the situation.
"Oh sure," the customer service guy said casually, it says right here on the screen that your coverage has been extended until November 20ieth."
I can only hope that by then, my cast will be off. Just wait until I tell the vendors, reps, adjustors and whatnot that I'M PLANNING ON KEEPING THE WHEELCHAIR.
So there.
"Hi," said the voice on the other end of the line, "DME Company will be coming by tomorrow morning to pick up your bed and wheelchair."
(A stunned silence on my part.)
"What?"
"We'll be picking up one hospital bed and one wheelchair in the morning."
"But I still have my cast on! I got the bed and chair because of my mobility limits with this cast on. You can't take the equipment back yet!" I don't know whether to panic or yell.
"Hmmm, we have an order from the insurance company to--"
"Who wrote the order?
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
The voiced paused. "You better call the insurance company."
"You want ME to call the insurance company?" I didn't panic, I yelled.
"Hmmm," the voice said.
I hung up.
When I called the Insurance Company, another voice told me that my file could not be found.
"Where is it?"
The new voice said, "Let us put you on hold."
I waited.
"Hello, we're sorry to make you wait. We found your file."
Considering that I've had coverage for the past three months, I figured this was a good thing.
"According to your file the person handling your case is Mike B."
Of course I've never spoken to anyone named Mike B.
"Can you transfer me to Mike B?"
"Please hold."
I waited. I listened to Beatles muzak on the line and waited.
"This is Mike B."
I explained the situation to Mike B.
"Yeah," he said, "according to you file, the Insurance Adjustor tried to call you twice."
"She may have tried to call me, but this time I didn't get a message and I didn't talk to anyone."
I learned that in the world of Auto Insurance, the Adjustor is a Supreme Being. She decides if my coverage continues or ends. No debate.
Mike B said, "You should call the Insurance Adjustor."
"YOU WANT ME TO MAKE THE CALL?!"
"Let me call you back," he said.
Mike B called me back a few minutes later to tell me that the coverage for the hospital bed had been extended for another month. Then he said, "The DME vendor will pick up your wheelchair later on today."
WHAT? I pointed out, calmly this time, that if I still needed the hospital bed, would it not follow that I would still require the wheelchair?
"Let call you back," Mike B said.
Mike B never called me back a second time. The only reason I founded out that my coverage was extended for both the bed and the wheelchair was because I called the vendor to give an update on the situation.
"Oh sure," the customer service guy said casually, it says right here on the screen that your coverage has been extended until November 20ieth."
I can only hope that by then, my cast will be off. Just wait until I tell the vendors, reps, adjustors and whatnot that I'M PLANNING ON KEEPING THE WHEELCHAIR.
So there.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Anticipating Water
My next appointment with the orthopedic surgeon is on October 20, and there's a good possibility that after another round of x-rays, I'll go home skinny-legged and castless. If this is true and my leg is finally set free I can take a shower. A real shower, with cascades of hot water and plenty of soap and steam and solitude. And because these days, I'm unable to concentrate on anything anyway, I find myself planning this long awaited ritual down to the smallest detail. There are so many questions: Where will I have it? How long will it be? What will I take with me?
I don't want to think about what my leg looks like under there, but I'm sure it's nothing a sharp razor and more rehab can't fix.
The shower in my house is out of the question, There are good bars in the tub/shower area but the bath always made it difficult to get in and out. Yes I could've probably wrapped my cast in plastic and duct tape but no way in hell, I'm going to risk falling and reinjuring myself. I don't know anyone else in Montclair or New Jersey for that matter that has a private accessible shower so this leaves the Y.
The Y has an area called the "Family Changing Room" which is two large bathrooms both of which have showers. One of the showers is completely accessible. I can lock the door behind me.There's a long bar against a wall, an adjustable showerhead, it's roll-in. There's even a shower chair but I notice that two of the rubber tips on the back legs are missing which makes the legs dangerously uneven. It's the kind of thing bipeds aren't likely to notice, a shower chair screaming LAWSUIT. I'll have to tell the maintenance guy. I'll bring my own shower chair. Have shower chair, will travel. If it seems like I'm rambling well I am, counting the days and choosing fresh towels. I can only hope that the Y has an endless supply of hot water. All I know is, I never want to take another sponge bath again.
I don't want to think about what my leg looks like under there, but I'm sure it's nothing a sharp razor and more rehab can't fix.
The shower in my house is out of the question, There are good bars in the tub/shower area but the bath always made it difficult to get in and out. Yes I could've probably wrapped my cast in plastic and duct tape but no way in hell, I'm going to risk falling and reinjuring myself. I don't know anyone else in Montclair or New Jersey for that matter that has a private accessible shower so this leaves the Y.
The Y has an area called the "Family Changing Room" which is two large bathrooms both of which have showers. One of the showers is completely accessible. I can lock the door behind me.There's a long bar against a wall, an adjustable showerhead, it's roll-in. There's even a shower chair but I notice that two of the rubber tips on the back legs are missing which makes the legs dangerously uneven. It's the kind of thing bipeds aren't likely to notice, a shower chair screaming LAWSUIT. I'll have to tell the maintenance guy. I'll bring my own shower chair. Have shower chair, will travel. If it seems like I'm rambling well I am, counting the days and choosing fresh towels. I can only hope that the Y has an endless supply of hot water. All I know is, I never want to take another sponge bath again.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Jiving to the Thumpa Thumpa
Some days when when Husbandman is finally out of the house, and E is happily on his way to preschool, I steal away at "my office" (usually a local cafe) and commune with an absurdly strong coffee and my computer. Occasionally, the muses are kind to me and half-way decent writing gets up there on the screen.
Some days, even though I'm still laid up with darn broken leg, I gamely search for employment hoping that the wilds of NJ will start to feel less foreign. This doesn't actually work but I do it anyway.
As I get older, (I'm 46) and tighter and less ambulatory and let's face it, crankier, the one activity that always makes me feel better (I'll save sex for a future blog ) is exercise. I'm now an obsessed member of my local Y and the gym therein.
I was already exercising by the time the leg broke but I had no idea if I could continue any kind of routine while I was healing and officially off my feet. I saw my self getting older faster and fatter and God forbid, crankier, sitting on my ass at home watching way too much HGTV--another inexplicable obsession. Unable to contemplate this future vision of myself, I went to the gym in my wheelchair, in the cast. I presented myself to my Maureen my favorite trainer (who rocks) and I asked, what can I do now?
Maureen brought me to the "weight room" a space filled with muscle-bound bipeds who grunted often and sweated even more.The room was cold and vibrated with 'athumpa thumpa' music. She moved lots of equipment out of the way, anchored the wheelchair on the shiny floor. She put weights with long cables into my hands and said, "Pull this."
I pulled. And I pull again. Soon I was pulling cables from every direction, working up a sweat in my unassuming wheelchair, trying to shoulder press large heavy objects that would kill you if they dropped on your head, and realized afterward that I was feeling a whole lot better because I didn't have time to think about anything else. I was jiving to the thumpa thumpa. Every time I came across an exercise I couldn't do, Maureeen and I and other trainers found ways to do the exercise in a universally user-friendly way. Here's a quick pet peeve: I get really sick of the word 'adapt' or 'adaptive' when referencing pwd's. When will equipment and non-crippy people for that matter, adapt to us?
Who knew that cables and weights could offer hours and hours entertainment and education? Well, I did. But there's a huge difference between thinking about something crankily, and actually doing it. In the evening I tell the soft bellied husbandman that "I had a really good work out today." He looks up from his Time Out magazine and nods vaguely in my direction. He has no idea that when my skinny left leg is finally set free I'm taking it and the rest of this body back to the gym. This time we're hitting the pool.
Some days, even though I'm still laid up with darn broken leg, I gamely search for employment hoping that the wilds of NJ will start to feel less foreign. This doesn't actually work but I do it anyway.
As I get older, (I'm 46) and tighter and less ambulatory and let's face it, crankier, the one activity that always makes me feel better (I'll save sex for a future blog ) is exercise. I'm now an obsessed member of my local Y and the gym therein.
I was already exercising by the time the leg broke but I had no idea if I could continue any kind of routine while I was healing and officially off my feet. I saw my self getting older faster and fatter and God forbid, crankier, sitting on my ass at home watching way too much HGTV--another inexplicable obsession. Unable to contemplate this future vision of myself, I went to the gym in my wheelchair, in the cast. I presented myself to my Maureen my favorite trainer (who rocks) and I asked, what can I do now?
Maureen brought me to the "weight room" a space filled with muscle-bound bipeds who grunted often and sweated even more.The room was cold and vibrated with 'athumpa thumpa' music. She moved lots of equipment out of the way, anchored the wheelchair on the shiny floor. She put weights with long cables into my hands and said, "Pull this."
I pulled. And I pull again. Soon I was pulling cables from every direction, working up a sweat in my unassuming wheelchair, trying to shoulder press large heavy objects that would kill you if they dropped on your head, and realized afterward that I was feeling a whole lot better because I didn't have time to think about anything else. I was jiving to the thumpa thumpa. Every time I came across an exercise I couldn't do, Maureeen and I and other trainers found ways to do the exercise in a universally user-friendly way. Here's a quick pet peeve: I get really sick of the word 'adapt' or 'adaptive' when referencing pwd's. When will equipment and non-crippy people for that matter, adapt to us?
Who knew that cables and weights could offer hours and hours entertainment and education? Well, I did. But there's a huge difference between thinking about something crankily, and actually doing it. In the evening I tell the soft bellied husbandman that "I had a really good work out today." He looks up from his Time Out magazine and nods vaguely in my direction. He has no idea that when my skinny left leg is finally set free I'm taking it and the rest of this body back to the gym. This time we're hitting the pool.
In Between
I missed myride today--my paratransit ride. I couldn't get out of my house. I mean, I got out my house, I just couldn't close the side door that leads to my fabulous ramp which brings me to the street where the damn bus was waiting. I could n't close the side door because I had the legs rests on the chair and I couldn't lean forward far enough to reach the door knob. I bent down to move the leg rests, but they jammed so I lunged for the door knob, finally reached it and closed the door. Slowly. Slowly enough to give the cat time enough to escape if he'd had his wits about him but luckily cats are nocturnal and for once he was more interested in napping in the basement than in dashing out to the backyard chewing grass and then gamely puking it up.
By the time the door was actually shut and my wheels slid down the ramp the bus was pulling away and I heard myself yelling, "Wait! Wait!" and then Motherf***er! repeatedly to a silent, mostly empty neighbourhood. I heard some construction work going on nearby and I hoped that I 'd yelled loud enough for someone to hear me. There's something oddly satisfying about swearing loudly and with feeling into the suburban miasma.
The paratransit office was hardly interested in my hard luck story and asked if I still wanted my ride back home.
"Yes!" I yelped. Off the phone, I packed my computer and called a cab. I could still get a coupla good hours of writing in before E's return from preschool.
These near misses have been happening a lot lately. I'm moving, but not quite fast enough, my leg is healing but very slowly, I'm writing but it's more of a chore than a joy these days. I have a physical therapist who's telling me to stay off my right leg(the uninjured onme) because of a recent stupid tendon injury, and an orthopedist who's telling me to walk more.
I am whatdoyacallit? Stuck. In "Wait" mode, waiting to get on with things. The mature adult me knows that everything is fine, that I'm lucky for so many reasons, that time will pass quickly whether I want it to or not. Today I'm tired of being in this "In between" stage of my life. Today, I'm impatient, pissed off, restless, would love to get up and get lost in the city, find a lover, a skilled one at that, eat good indian food, surround myself with art and artists and take in the energy of the 8 million heartbeats. That sounds like a good plan for the next several years.
Of course I'd have to come back for Ethan. I can't living without hugging and kissing my boy. I'd take him to the city for his first subway ride. He's been wanting to do that--go on the number 6 train just like the little one he carries in his hand. I'd take him to a museum, stare at some paintings and then we'd go the museum cafe for a snack. My mother and I used to go regularly to museums, stare at some paintings and then take a pastry break. In Ethan's case it would be a chocolate chip cookie break. With cold milk.
If nothing else this "in between" time in my life has givin me time to reflect on where I am in my life and where I want to be. It's no wonder I'm restless With so many people talking at me these days, issuing orders, offering advice I might simply choose to stay perfectly still, not move at all and take the time to read a book today--at least until paratransit comes to bring me home again.
I gotta get out more.
By the time the door was actually shut and my wheels slid down the ramp the bus was pulling away and I heard myself yelling, "Wait! Wait!" and then Motherf***er! repeatedly to a silent, mostly empty neighbourhood. I heard some construction work going on nearby and I hoped that I 'd yelled loud enough for someone to hear me. There's something oddly satisfying about swearing loudly and with feeling into the suburban miasma.
The paratransit office was hardly interested in my hard luck story and asked if I still wanted my ride back home.
"Yes!" I yelped. Off the phone, I packed my computer and called a cab. I could still get a coupla good hours of writing in before E's return from preschool.
These near misses have been happening a lot lately. I'm moving, but not quite fast enough, my leg is healing but very slowly, I'm writing but it's more of a chore than a joy these days. I have a physical therapist who's telling me to stay off my right leg(the uninjured onme) because of a recent stupid tendon injury, and an orthopedist who's telling me to walk more.
I am whatdoyacallit? Stuck. In "Wait" mode, waiting to get on with things. The mature adult me knows that everything is fine, that I'm lucky for so many reasons, that time will pass quickly whether I want it to or not. Today I'm tired of being in this "In between" stage of my life. Today, I'm impatient, pissed off, restless, would love to get up and get lost in the city, find a lover, a skilled one at that, eat good indian food, surround myself with art and artists and take in the energy of the 8 million heartbeats. That sounds like a good plan for the next several years.
Of course I'd have to come back for Ethan. I can't living without hugging and kissing my boy. I'd take him to the city for his first subway ride. He's been wanting to do that--go on the number 6 train just like the little one he carries in his hand. I'd take him to a museum, stare at some paintings and then we'd go the museum cafe for a snack. My mother and I used to go regularly to museums, stare at some paintings and then take a pastry break. In Ethan's case it would be a chocolate chip cookie break. With cold milk.
If nothing else this "in between" time in my life has givin me time to reflect on where I am in my life and where I want to be. It's no wonder I'm restless With so many people talking at me these days, issuing orders, offering advice I might simply choose to stay perfectly still, not move at all and take the time to read a book today--at least until paratransit comes to bring me home again.
I gotta get out more.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
9/11 Union Square
On September 11th, I was on my way to work, in a cab, late, as usual. I was in the Union Square area about a mile and a half away from the towers. I worked at CIDNY an Independent Living Center in Manhattan. The driver and I noticed the smoke in the sky. By the time I got out of the cab the streets were already thick with people. The first plane had hit. By the time I got to my desk, my co-workers had turned on radios, tv's any kind of communication device we could get our hands on. A group of my co-workers went back out to stand on the corner of University Place. The had a clear view of the the towers as they went down. I watched people crying and spinning in circles in Union Square. They were talking to themselves and holding on strangers. All at once, my co-workers, my supervisors and I began to grasp the enormity of what had happened. At that moment, our lives changed, and so did our jobs, We all had the same job: We pulled out our lists of clients, huge lists, and called everyone on those lists. There were and still are many PWD's living in lower Manhattan and Battery Park City, because many of the neighbourhoods are accessible with disability-friendly housing. We made it our business to FIND people. Sometimes it took weeks to track people down and we'd celebrate when they called us. Many were trapped in there apartments because of dust and debris. We made sure they had their meds, their equipment, shelter, food and whatever else they needed to survive and keep going. I always knew I was part of a community of people with disabilities, but nowI felt it and saw it all around me. I lived in Lower Manhattan too--about a mile and half from my office and two miles from the towers. That afternoon the only way I could get home was to walk. I walked slowly with a group of my co-workers. We dealt with the crowds, heat, confusion and that burning smell. For the next couple of days we camped out at my apartment together as we figured out how to get everybody home. I was grateful to be able to offer my home, to take care of people whom I loved and respected. It felt like the only possible response to the chaos. The burning smell lingered for a solid year. With or without a mask it was always there. I'd walk around my beloved New York City visiting people with disabilities in hotels and shelters. I'd think about fire and bone and melting metal and file cabinets, paper clips, suit jackets, and wedding rings. I think about the people with disabilities who were told to stay where they were and wait.I think about the pwd's who chose not to wait. I think about three thousand souls rising.
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