For the twenty years that I lived in New York City, I managed to live ‘outside the system.’ Some part of me was proud that I didn’t avail myself of services, vocational and medical offered specifically to people with disabilities. Not using the system somehow was proof of my unshakable independence. As a Canadian citizen living in the States, I was not always eligible for services and found that I was often turned down services even if I was eligible-- like Para-transit for example. I’d go for my Para-transit interview, ready to answer any and all questions and quickly realized that I would have to lie about my level of functioning—play down my abilities in order to be found eligible. This pissed me off. My interviewers would commended me on my mobility and then NOT give me what I needed to get to work every day.
Years later, now that I’m in NJ things have changed. I realized that if I wanted to get anywhere on my own without a car, Para-transit was not just an option but a necessity. Since the birth of my son, several years ago, like many people with mobility disabilities, I lost a measure of my ability to walk during the pregnancy and have been slowly rebuilding my strength to pre-pregnancy levels. This means that I use a scooter (which I treat like a motorcycle)much more than ever before.
I went in for my New Jersey Para-transit interview with my scooter. I think that in the eyes of my biped interviewer this clearly sent a message that I was disabled person in need of transportation assistance. This time, I didn’t have to lie because most people agree the transit system in NJ sucks. Buses rarely come more than once an hour and, in my area, there are few safe curbs upon which a pwd can make use of the lift at the back of the bus.
For the first time in my life I was quickly granted services and was finally part of a ‘system’ albeit in New Jersey and not New York.
After using the NJ Para-transit system, called AccessLink, I finally had to admit that maybe getting a drivers license was a good idea. This meant that I would like millions of pwd’s, have to use hand controls.
Let me state now that I have always been terrified of driving, convinced that I would ‘spaz out’ behind the wheel, lose control of the car, and kill myself or someone else. Although everyone complains about Access-a-Ride in New York City, the actual city buses work well for pwd’s and with a little practice I could get around pretty efficiently. After all, pedestrians rule in NYC. Few people I knew actually drove or even owned cars.
In New Jersey, EVERYBODY drives. Buses I notice are close to empty much of the time.
In order to learn to drive in an adapted car, I needed to go further into the ‘NJ system’ and go for an evaluation at the Department of Vocational Resources in Newark. I would be assigned a real live Rehab counselor. I couldn’t help but smile at this prospect because as someone who has worked in social services for many years I’m accustomed to being on the other side of the table working with and for pwd’s. Would I look at myself differently being on the receiving end of services? Yep, we with big egos admit to having these ambivalent feelings. Wait, I thought I could turn this eval into an interview opportunity since I’d been looking for a job anyway…
I revamped my resume and dusted off my interview suit.
On the day of the appointment, I followed my assigned rehab counselor, Miss Rose, past a long row of office cubicles and into an office that was empty but for a table and chair. I didn’t take my scooter this time; I decided to walk with my crutches. Miss Rose wore a well-pressed cream colored suit and had the unhurried walk of someone who knew she was a part of a huge bureaucracy and there was, therefore no reason to rush. She smiled easily. Maybe this wasn’t going to be a paperwork horror show after all.
I sat as she examined my file silently for what seemed like forever.
“Katinka…” She pronounced my name slowly and carefully. She turned over my application and seemed to read it with deliberation that was almost painful.
“You have a Master’s degree?” It was more of a statement than a question.
I produced the original piece of sheepskin. She reviewed it wordlessly, and set it aside.
“You’re married?” I produced proof of my husband’s income which I knew would likely knock me out of the running for having any driving lessons paid for by the state.
“You have a child,” she said.
“Yes,” I said, unable to hide the pride in my voice. “He’s about to turn four. He’s healthy and extremely active.” I added that last bit because many bipeds automatically assume my child must be disabled because I am.
She nodded. Slowly.
“Why do you want to learn to drive?”
I explained that even in this rotten economy I’d been searching for work and in NJ unlike NY must jobs required some travel and a valid driver’s license. “Besides, I feel isolated often having to rely on other people to go where I want…”
Miss Rose nodded again.
“I brought my resume,” I said, and put it on the table between us. She started reading and I saw her smile again.
So I told her everything, my work history, my disability my reluctant move to the suburbs.
Miss Rose listened, took notes, smiled, nodded and didn’t say very much. I had to admit it was almost fun switching sides of the table.
At one point, she leaned forward and said,” there’s a bunch of people retiring from this office in a couple of months. Do you want to work here?”
“A state job? I said, “Sign me up!” We both chuckled.
I left the Department of Vocational Resources feeling as if I had gained an ally—which was not what I had expected. I found out a couple of weeks ago, that despite my husband’s income, the state is willing to pay for my driving eval which I’ve already scheduled for late July.
I knew that I had come prepared for my interview with Miss Rose, that I had done my homework, gathered my paperwork and pitched my strengths at her to the best of my ability. This made me wonder about all the pwd’s who may not have the same self-advocacy skills, or whose disabilities may make communication more difficult. Do their rehab counselors welcome them with the same unflappable openness as Miss Rose? How many of us are sitting at home isolated through no fault of our own?
I’m still terrified of driving but that doesn’t mean I won’t give it a shot. And when Miss Rose calls to check in, I can’t help but smile when she says in her unhurried drawl “honey, I think I found the perfect job for you. Go get a pencil, I’ll wait.”
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Empathy
I fall often. When I fall, I can’t get up by myself. As a life-long swing-through quadruped, I’ve always relied on the assistance of biped strangers to help me up. Over the years, I’ve been both grateful for and amused by the swift actions of the bipeds around me. I’ve fallen off subway platforms, in the midst of oncoming traffic (scream as loud as you can if this happens to you). I’ve slipped on ice, polished marble, on piss, on banana peels, yes banana peels and on the grease dripping from garbage bags left in front of fast food joints. I’ve been knocked down by passing shopping bags, ploughed down by bipeds who don’t see me and strange people who do. I’ve tripped on leashes, on other people’s canes, lost my balance during standing hugs, tripped up and down the stairs. During a fall, I’ve lost my shoes, countless bags of groceries, several pda’s, my underwear and my shirt. While on the ground I’ve been blessed, in both in English and Spanish, spit on, yelled at, sung to, photographed and kissed. Rarely, and I do mean rarely, I’ve been ignored, stepped over and passed by. From the sidewalk, I’ve admired a blue cloudless sky, nights full of stars, the undersides of birds, faces of dear friends and the gleaming edges of skyscrapers.
To get me to my feet requires two strong, fearless bipeds or one firefighter whoever comes first. Firefighters are premium because they are both experienced in such matters and strong, which makes getting back on my feet a quick and marvelously efficient experience. The optimum firefighter will get me up in one easy heave, only lets go of me when my crutches are properly planted and dusts me off before moving on. He or she usually has more pressing things to do, so they don’t stop to chat.
The inexperienced biped has been known to panic in my horizontal presence. I’ve watched them scream, cry and faint at my feet. I’ve comforted and calmed many a biped from my lower vantage point. “Here’s the rule, I say, “If I fall and I’m talking by the time I hit the ground, I’m fine.”
The nubie will try in vain to grab me by the arm and tug, or worse self-injure in an effort to help. Two inexperienced bipeds will pull me up only to let me teeter between them in some twisted trust exercise. They will flag down too many people for the task and the place where I’ve fallen instantly becomes a mosh pit, as I am passed along many pairs of well-meaning hands.
What works best with the inexperienced bipeds is to offer clear, specific step by step instructions:
“First, you’re going to give my crutches. Then, you’ll get me up to a sitting position. Each of you will grab me from the under the arm and on the count of three…” If I remain calm they become calm and getting back on my feet is a straight-forward experience for everyone involved. On several occasions, bipeds have come running up to me breathlessly, “Hi! I helped you up five years ago on the corner of 8th Street and avenue C.” Do you remember me?”
I’ve fallen with such regularity over the years, that I like to imagine myself to be something of crip stunt woman.I’ve learned to relax my muscles as much as possible during a fall to lessen the impact. Usually before the inevitable sequence begins a warning bell goes off in my head, maybe it’s more like a flash but in that split second I’m able to prepare myself or find ways to break the fall. That instant of preparation is key to keeping my injuries to a minimum.
When my trusty inner-alarm fails to go off, I get hurt. There’s no time to anticipate anything which usually means I won’t be talking by the time I hit the ground, or as was the case recently, I passed out.
While walking with my husband and son in alphabet city, on the way to my favorite Mexican restaurant my crutches jammed into a slightly raised incline in the sidewalk and I fell forward. I didn’t have time to relax or roll or even break the fall. My chin took the impact. In that moment it felt as if the entire front of my body turned to glass and shattered. I remember prompting myself to breathe and when I couldn’t breathe, I fainted.
I was ‘out’ for about 30 seconds if not less. I remember dreaming but I don’t remember the images. I heard many voices and then one voice. A woman repeated, “you’re gonna be okay, you’re gonna be okay.” My eyes opened and I saw a woman kneeling over me. She held my hand, and kept saying, “you’re gonna be okay.”
She was maybe in her mid thirties; her brown hair grazed my face.
“What happened?” I asked. My jaws were aflame.
“You fell,” she said. ‘You passed out.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. I could feel blood dripping on my face and from my mouth.
“You’re gonna be okay,” she said still holding my hand. My husband was sitting on the sidewalk opposite her. My son was standing nearby, up against a wall. Over the shoulder of the woman, I saw a ring of bipeds, about twenty of them, standing around me.
“She’s bleeding,” one of them said.
“Don’t move her,” said another. Another said, “Get something for her head.” I heard the click of half a dozen cell-phones opening.
I caught my son’s eye as he walked toward me. He’s four years old. He said, “Red stuff coming out of your mouth, mommy”
“Yeth,” I said, my face felt as thick as cement thick. The bipeds were talking to 911.
“What’s your name?” I asked the woman who was still holding my hand. She told me her name, but I don’t remember it now.
“I heard you, I said to her.” When I was out, I heard you talking.”
She nodded.
“Thank you for bringing me back, I said.
“Oh,” she said slightly flustered, you’re welcome.”
I had time to take in the gathering of bipeds. I was surprised, considering the urgent energy of New Yorkers that nobody walked away. This posse of protection waited with me. I had no view to the evening sky. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t quickly recruit two innocent bipeds to haul me up and get on my way. Decades of dedicated falling and this was the first time I couldn’t take control. No teacherly directions, no “up on the count of three.” I lay on curled on my side, my crutches strewn somewhere out of my line of vision. A wave of energy, heat meeting thought, rippled and spread over me.
Empathy. Empathy. This is empathy, I thought.
I could feel as these bipeds looked directly down at me, the active, crowded, singular energy it took to imagine this fall. They were feeling the impact, absorbing the pain, trying to pushwish it away.
“Ambulance is coming, one of them said.
“Should we wipe her face?” The question floated.
“No, no, no…no…” the posse echoed.
Thank you, I thought in return. We waited for the ambulance to arrive.
To get me to my feet requires two strong, fearless bipeds or one firefighter whoever comes first. Firefighters are premium because they are both experienced in such matters and strong, which makes getting back on my feet a quick and marvelously efficient experience. The optimum firefighter will get me up in one easy heave, only lets go of me when my crutches are properly planted and dusts me off before moving on. He or she usually has more pressing things to do, so they don’t stop to chat.
The inexperienced biped has been known to panic in my horizontal presence. I’ve watched them scream, cry and faint at my feet. I’ve comforted and calmed many a biped from my lower vantage point. “Here’s the rule, I say, “If I fall and I’m talking by the time I hit the ground, I’m fine.”
The nubie will try in vain to grab me by the arm and tug, or worse self-injure in an effort to help. Two inexperienced bipeds will pull me up only to let me teeter between them in some twisted trust exercise. They will flag down too many people for the task and the place where I’ve fallen instantly becomes a mosh pit, as I am passed along many pairs of well-meaning hands.
What works best with the inexperienced bipeds is to offer clear, specific step by step instructions:
“First, you’re going to give my crutches. Then, you’ll get me up to a sitting position. Each of you will grab me from the under the arm and on the count of three…” If I remain calm they become calm and getting back on my feet is a straight-forward experience for everyone involved. On several occasions, bipeds have come running up to me breathlessly, “Hi! I helped you up five years ago on the corner of 8th Street and avenue C.” Do you remember me?”
I’ve fallen with such regularity over the years, that I like to imagine myself to be something of crip stunt woman.I’ve learned to relax my muscles as much as possible during a fall to lessen the impact. Usually before the inevitable sequence begins a warning bell goes off in my head, maybe it’s more like a flash but in that split second I’m able to prepare myself or find ways to break the fall. That instant of preparation is key to keeping my injuries to a minimum.
When my trusty inner-alarm fails to go off, I get hurt. There’s no time to anticipate anything which usually means I won’t be talking by the time I hit the ground, or as was the case recently, I passed out.
While walking with my husband and son in alphabet city, on the way to my favorite Mexican restaurant my crutches jammed into a slightly raised incline in the sidewalk and I fell forward. I didn’t have time to relax or roll or even break the fall. My chin took the impact. In that moment it felt as if the entire front of my body turned to glass and shattered. I remember prompting myself to breathe and when I couldn’t breathe, I fainted.
I was ‘out’ for about 30 seconds if not less. I remember dreaming but I don’t remember the images. I heard many voices and then one voice. A woman repeated, “you’re gonna be okay, you’re gonna be okay.” My eyes opened and I saw a woman kneeling over me. She held my hand, and kept saying, “you’re gonna be okay.”
She was maybe in her mid thirties; her brown hair grazed my face.
“What happened?” I asked. My jaws were aflame.
“You fell,” she said. ‘You passed out.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. I could feel blood dripping on my face and from my mouth.
“You’re gonna be okay,” she said still holding my hand. My husband was sitting on the sidewalk opposite her. My son was standing nearby, up against a wall. Over the shoulder of the woman, I saw a ring of bipeds, about twenty of them, standing around me.
“She’s bleeding,” one of them said.
“Don’t move her,” said another. Another said, “Get something for her head.” I heard the click of half a dozen cell-phones opening.
I caught my son’s eye as he walked toward me. He’s four years old. He said, “Red stuff coming out of your mouth, mommy”
“Yeth,” I said, my face felt as thick as cement thick. The bipeds were talking to 911.
“What’s your name?” I asked the woman who was still holding my hand. She told me her name, but I don’t remember it now.
“I heard you, I said to her.” When I was out, I heard you talking.”
She nodded.
“Thank you for bringing me back, I said.
“Oh,” she said slightly flustered, you’re welcome.”
I had time to take in the gathering of bipeds. I was surprised, considering the urgent energy of New Yorkers that nobody walked away. This posse of protection waited with me. I had no view to the evening sky. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t quickly recruit two innocent bipeds to haul me up and get on my way. Decades of dedicated falling and this was the first time I couldn’t take control. No teacherly directions, no “up on the count of three.” I lay on curled on my side, my crutches strewn somewhere out of my line of vision. A wave of energy, heat meeting thought, rippled and spread over me.
Empathy. Empathy. This is empathy, I thought.
I could feel as these bipeds looked directly down at me, the active, crowded, singular energy it took to imagine this fall. They were feeling the impact, absorbing the pain, trying to pushwish it away.
“Ambulance is coming, one of them said.
“Should we wipe her face?” The question floated.
“No, no, no…no…” the posse echoed.
Thank you, I thought in return. We waited for the ambulance to arrive.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Sweating
As of April 1st, I' started the fourth month of my workout. In this short time, I've been to the Y on average, four times a week. The receptionists greet me when I come through the door, they take my coat, check my bag and make a request on the PA system for a trainer to come help me set up for my particular set of exercises. A trainer arrives to make sure that the seat of the upper body ergometer is at the right height, he or she places my crutches in just the right spot against the wall to insure that I can reach them when I'm done on the bike. In the beginning I could barely complete twenty minutes on the ergometer before dragging my excessively sweaty self home to recover with the help of numerous glasses of water and a short nap.
Now it's forty minutes on the ergometer. And then a trainer meets me across the way in the circuit training room, to help me on three of the ten machines. A trainer sets my legs into proper positions, adjusts the weight levels that I can't reach, and repositions my natural crookedness as much as is humanly possible. I sweat and grunt and each time, I can't believe how much it hurts and how much, truly, I hate exercising.
Has my body changed? Haven't lost much weight yet which was, vanity notwithstanding the original goal. But oh, I do feel stronger. For years I yearned for my pre-pregnancy mobility: to regain the sense that I could take on city blocks and now pedestrian-less surburban neighbourhoods without feeling overwhelmed and desperate with exhaustion. 4 months in and once and a while I get a flash of the old upper body strength.
At the Y my fellow patrons hardly look at me, none to this day comment on what I do or how I do it. In the beginning the trainers treated me as a kid glove novelty. I was told to take it easy, to rest between exercises, they apologised while gingerly reaching to lift my leg. Now these months later the staff all make eye contact with me. They wave at me in the hallways, they greet my son by name, sometimes they stop to chat. While the range of what I'm able to do is limited by biped fitness culture, what I can do, I do I hope, with a certain noticeable single-mindedness. There are many senior citizens who transfer from their walkers to the treadmill, yet I've seen no other quadrupeds with permanent disabilities at the gym. I suspect there aren't many of us. This fact that makes me at once proud and sad. More of us should be there alongside our biped counterparts doing what we can in our way to make our bodies strong.
The other day after a particularly rigorous tour on the ergometer, I caught the eye of a passing trainer.
"Six miles!" I announced as he crossed my path. I expected a "Hey, that's great! Maybe spy a glint of surprise in his eye. Instead, he paused and looked me up and down.
"Six miles?" he said.
I grinned back at him. It was my best distance to date.
"Well," he said, looking me up and down "You're not sweating enough."
What? Where was the good for you! The praise that I expected tinged with that's amazing considering your disability...
The trainer said, "You need to worker hard. Sweat more." He turned and walked away.
I reached for my crutches and headed for the circuit training room.Ouch! I thought. And then it came to me To him, I wasn't the novelty Y geek with a disability. To him I was just another client. He was doing his job and I was doing my work out. Figuring he was right, I added an extra five pounds to the dreaded Ab machine.
Now it's forty minutes on the ergometer. And then a trainer meets me across the way in the circuit training room, to help me on three of the ten machines. A trainer sets my legs into proper positions, adjusts the weight levels that I can't reach, and repositions my natural crookedness as much as is humanly possible. I sweat and grunt and each time, I can't believe how much it hurts and how much, truly, I hate exercising.
Has my body changed? Haven't lost much weight yet which was, vanity notwithstanding the original goal. But oh, I do feel stronger. For years I yearned for my pre-pregnancy mobility: to regain the sense that I could take on city blocks and now pedestrian-less surburban neighbourhoods without feeling overwhelmed and desperate with exhaustion. 4 months in and once and a while I get a flash of the old upper body strength.
At the Y my fellow patrons hardly look at me, none to this day comment on what I do or how I do it. In the beginning the trainers treated me as a kid glove novelty. I was told to take it easy, to rest between exercises, they apologised while gingerly reaching to lift my leg. Now these months later the staff all make eye contact with me. They wave at me in the hallways, they greet my son by name, sometimes they stop to chat. While the range of what I'm able to do is limited by biped fitness culture, what I can do, I do I hope, with a certain noticeable single-mindedness. There are many senior citizens who transfer from their walkers to the treadmill, yet I've seen no other quadrupeds with permanent disabilities at the gym. I suspect there aren't many of us. This fact that makes me at once proud and sad. More of us should be there alongside our biped counterparts doing what we can in our way to make our bodies strong.
The other day after a particularly rigorous tour on the ergometer, I caught the eye of a passing trainer.
"Six miles!" I announced as he crossed my path. I expected a "Hey, that's great! Maybe spy a glint of surprise in his eye. Instead, he paused and looked me up and down.
"Six miles?" he said.
I grinned back at him. It was my best distance to date.
"Well," he said, looking me up and down "You're not sweating enough."
What? Where was the good for you! The praise that I expected tinged with that's amazing considering your disability...
The trainer said, "You need to worker hard. Sweat more." He turned and walked away.
I reached for my crutches and headed for the circuit training room.Ouch! I thought. And then it came to me To him, I wasn't the novelty Y geek with a disability. To him I was just another client. He was doing his job and I was doing my work out. Figuring he was right, I added an extra five pounds to the dreaded Ab machine.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Samson revisted
Ola called to tell me that John, my father, is in the hospital. This news was not entirely surprising since his diagnosis of congestive heart failure. This time round, my brother Vidar called Ola because he was worried about John--- he couldn't leave work. Vidar asked Ola to check up on him.
She went. She found him weak, dehydrated, barely able to breathe. She called 911. He's been there for a couple of days now, slowly regaining his strength. The doctors told him that he has emphysema along with the other diagnosis. "But I don't smoke!" He kept insisting. The doctors were confused. Why would a man who claimed not to smoke have such an advanced case of emphysema? They were about to do a battery of tests when Vidar, ever the advocate, pulled a doctor aside and explained that in fact my father smoked dope. A lot of it. Every day. Dope in a pipe, to be precise. Never cigarettes of any kind. Talking on the phone to Vidar the other day, he estimated that John smoked the equivalent of a pack of cigarettes every day for forty years.
Here's the real surprise in this situation: Ola continues to visit him in the hospital. This man who beat her, terrorized her, threatened her children, stood 6ft 1 and 250 pounds to her 130 pounds, verbally abused her for years and from whom she ran away, calls to give me updates.
"I cut his hair today"
"You what?"
"I cut his hair."
"Why?"
"Because he asked me to."
I didn't quite know what to say. In my mind I have this picture of him sitting in a hospital gown, in a room he shares with with three other people. He sits on on one of those bland institutional chairs, not moving while Ola combs through what's left of his blond hair, measuring how much to cut with his comb and her fingers. My father never goes anywhere without a comb. She tells me that he's skinny, that his muscled bulk of which he was once proud, that hardly contained his rage is completely gone. He wheezes and doesn't talk much.
She tells me that she put an extra hospital gown on him to keep the hair from going down his back.
"Why are you doing this?"I can't help but ask this again. She gives me a different answer: "I'm doing it for Vidar." Vidar she says, is very worried about him, and she felt that her son needed her support.
"Where are Natasha and Toshi?"
"They visit too." She says. "They're really good kids." Natasha and Tosh, are my much younger half brother and sister. Tasha the eldest was born when I was 18.
Ola and I sit in silence on the phone.
She says, "I take care of him, like I would any sick person" It feels," she searches for a word, "distant?"
She recounts with a certain amount of glee, "I walked with him down the hall, and his ass was sticking out of his hospital gown. He was embarrassed when I told him so I made him put on another hospital gown backwards to keep him covered."
Again, a picture: John shuffling down a florescent lit hall, Ola clutching the gowns and walking patiently next to him. She has, at various times in my life walked me down a hospital ward in exactly the same way. There must be some satisfaction for my mother, to be the one a lifetime later, that has the physical power. Only two years younger than he, at 74, she's limber and fit, and despite the occasional ache assuaged by her yoga practise, is at ease in her own skin. My father is no longer a threat. Now he's compliant, grateful, even.
In her most recent update I noted a shift in her tone. "I kept suggesting he take a shower you know because he stank. And finally he did. Vidar brought him some clothes and I said I would wash the ones he came in with,
"That's nice of you."
"He doesn't wear underwear." She said with disgust. "He never did." She mutters something. I can hear her remembering. "And he said something awful to the orderly. Who was Polish. Something about Polish people and Jews and I said to him in Dutch, 'You better shut up.' He's bitter to everyone," she says.
We're quiet on the phone again.
"I don't think I want to go back again, she says. Not as often anyway."
"No", I say, "not as often."
Ola will call again when he leaves the hospital to give me another update. And I get off the phone, thinking about my expired passport and how I should give the Canadian Consulate a call in the morning. It's my turn to visit.
I see Ola standing behind John, his head bowed, the sound of scissors at his neck. They talk in Dutch. His shoulders slump slightly as the hair collects by her feet.
She went. She found him weak, dehydrated, barely able to breathe. She called 911. He's been there for a couple of days now, slowly regaining his strength. The doctors told him that he has emphysema along with the other diagnosis. "But I don't smoke!" He kept insisting. The doctors were confused. Why would a man who claimed not to smoke have such an advanced case of emphysema? They were about to do a battery of tests when Vidar, ever the advocate, pulled a doctor aside and explained that in fact my father smoked dope. A lot of it. Every day. Dope in a pipe, to be precise. Never cigarettes of any kind. Talking on the phone to Vidar the other day, he estimated that John smoked the equivalent of a pack of cigarettes every day for forty years.
Here's the real surprise in this situation: Ola continues to visit him in the hospital. This man who beat her, terrorized her, threatened her children, stood 6ft 1 and 250 pounds to her 130 pounds, verbally abused her for years and from whom she ran away, calls to give me updates.
"I cut his hair today"
"You what?"
"I cut his hair."
"Why?"
"Because he asked me to."
I didn't quite know what to say. In my mind I have this picture of him sitting in a hospital gown, in a room he shares with with three other people. He sits on on one of those bland institutional chairs, not moving while Ola combs through what's left of his blond hair, measuring how much to cut with his comb and her fingers. My father never goes anywhere without a comb. She tells me that he's skinny, that his muscled bulk of which he was once proud, that hardly contained his rage is completely gone. He wheezes and doesn't talk much.
She tells me that she put an extra hospital gown on him to keep the hair from going down his back.
"Why are you doing this?"I can't help but ask this again. She gives me a different answer: "I'm doing it for Vidar." Vidar she says, is very worried about him, and she felt that her son needed her support.
"Where are Natasha and Toshi?"
"They visit too." She says. "They're really good kids." Natasha and Tosh, are my much younger half brother and sister. Tasha the eldest was born when I was 18.
Ola and I sit in silence on the phone.
She says, "I take care of him, like I would any sick person" It feels," she searches for a word, "distant?"
She recounts with a certain amount of glee, "I walked with him down the hall, and his ass was sticking out of his hospital gown. He was embarrassed when I told him so I made him put on another hospital gown backwards to keep him covered."
Again, a picture: John shuffling down a florescent lit hall, Ola clutching the gowns and walking patiently next to him. She has, at various times in my life walked me down a hospital ward in exactly the same way. There must be some satisfaction for my mother, to be the one a lifetime later, that has the physical power. Only two years younger than he, at 74, she's limber and fit, and despite the occasional ache assuaged by her yoga practise, is at ease in her own skin. My father is no longer a threat. Now he's compliant, grateful, even.
In her most recent update I noted a shift in her tone. "I kept suggesting he take a shower you know because he stank. And finally he did. Vidar brought him some clothes and I said I would wash the ones he came in with,
"That's nice of you."
"He doesn't wear underwear." She said with disgust. "He never did." She mutters something. I can hear her remembering. "And he said something awful to the orderly. Who was Polish. Something about Polish people and Jews and I said to him in Dutch, 'You better shut up.' He's bitter to everyone," she says.
We're quiet on the phone again.
"I don't think I want to go back again, she says. Not as often anyway."
"No", I say, "not as often."
Ola will call again when he leaves the hospital to give me another update. And I get off the phone, thinking about my expired passport and how I should give the Canadian Consulate a call in the morning. It's my turn to visit.
I see Ola standing behind John, his head bowed, the sound of scissors at his neck. They talk in Dutch. His shoulders slump slightly as the hair collects by her feet.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Ruminations on Charlie
I've been thinking about the strong urge I felt these days to adopt a new cat. It would be me easy to say that I've lived with multiple cats for twenty years and now that they're both dead, it's only natural to want to fill the 'cat gap.' But that's not the whole story. Truth is, lately, I've felt lonely.Don't get me wrong, I'm busy with Ethan and the daily ordinariness of things, the jobs searches and rewrites and attempts to come up with yet another draft of this stage of my life, my 'busy list" is endless. I'm bed-lonely: the simple pleasure of sharing a bed, waking up with someone. It's the marital bed, I miss: knowing that I'll wake up with the same person. Since our 'NO PORN IN FRONT OF ETHAN' confrontation the tension between M and me has eased. Last night he went into the city by himself (something he NEVER would have previously done.) He's taken E to a kid's concert today (also a new activity) and lately I see him eye the 'for rent' signs that are cropping up all over Montclair. He's coming to realize that life separate from me may not be calamitous, that he can create a strong bond with Ethan and still have a life that includes the time for all of the interests that we never shared. All of the cats are named or renamed was they arrive at the shelter.I saw Charlie within the first five minutes of walking in.Apparently, he's their newest addition, a grey polydactal tabby who was dumped into and then rescued from a pack of feral cats. Most of the shelter's occupants(all cats) were out of their crates, playing like wild things, bunting me and wandering away. Charlie, being the new guy was looking on from his crate, alert but not anxious. The staff figuring that I would relate, presented to me their hardest cases, the cat with the feline equivalent of Bell's palsy, the black female who cooed constantly like a pigeon the fat white house cat with no tail. I walked around the small room a couple of times and kept stopping in front of Charlie. Other people walked in, talking baby babble to the kittens, cuddling them. Charlie and I simply regarded each other. He is, my instincts tell me, a mellow fellow. The adoption process is weirdly complex. I filled out the paperwork, and apparently wrote an answer that red flagged me as a liability. I was grilled about my cat history, fur from all sides of the room, falling on me like snow. One woman questioned me to the extent that I finally said to her, 'Listen, do you want to give me a new application to fill out? I'd be happy to change that answer." "Oh no, she said, "I'll pass on to our board of directors." They'll get back you." If I'm deemed fit to be a custodial parent to one homeless cat, I must then bring Mand Ethan to the shelter so that they can be approved.Dear God, you'd think they be grateful I expressed an interest in their four-legged tenants. If they refuse me, I may be forced to flash my recently sharpened claws and point out to this staff that this shelter is woefully inaccessible--I had to be carried in order to exit the building--- and that they are in fact, breaking the law. Do you hear me hissing? In a few days, I'll drag M to the shelter and Charlie or maybe some other cat will come home with us. Soon, I'll have another, faster heartbeat pumping at my feet. That's what I'm looking for: a warm presence to take up just a little bit of space on the cold side of the bed.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Welcome to "My Fabulous Adventures"
Fellow Adventurers:
I've been working on a memoir for a long time now. It's called, The Fabulous Adventures of a Four-Legged Woman. As I'm nearing the end of my rewrites, I find that I have material I like but that doesn't belong in this particular book. My goal with this blog is to collect the extra material, and new work and put it on there for people to read, comment on and generate discussion. I suspect that the stories on this blog will make up much of the content of the next book. No matter what I write the same themes seem to come up again and again: I write about sexuality, body image, mobility, and motherhood, (among other things) all in the context of the disability experience.
Warning: The content of many of these blogs will be raw, deeply personal and unfinished. Perfection is not my concern right now. I won't be giving much background on these pieces but I suspect that when enough of them are posted you'll get a clear picture of what's going on.
I've been working on a memoir for a long time now. It's called, The Fabulous Adventures of a Four-Legged Woman. As I'm nearing the end of my rewrites, I find that I have material I like but that doesn't belong in this particular book. My goal with this blog is to collect the extra material, and new work and put it on there for people to read, comment on and generate discussion. I suspect that the stories on this blog will make up much of the content of the next book. No matter what I write the same themes seem to come up again and again: I write about sexuality, body image, mobility, and motherhood, (among other things) all in the context of the disability experience.
Warning: The content of many of these blogs will be raw, deeply personal and unfinished. Perfection is not my concern right now. I won't be giving much background on these pieces but I suspect that when enough of them are posted you'll get a clear picture of what's going on.
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