setting the record straight

I've taken the week off, more or less. My aerial fabrics session ended last week and my vaulting class was cancelled this week. This, and the fact that this weekend is shaping up to be the Bermuda Triangle of activity, I took to be a sign that I need to lay low for a while.

And my body really needed a rest. Sometimes I forget how much I am actually asking of it on a weekly, or even daily, basis. The last four or five weeks, I've been struggling just to get by without ending up in a clump by Friday afternoon. To be fair, I've been under a heightened level of emotional stress lately and for whatever reason, one tends not to plan naps to forestall mental exhaustion. But I really should.

I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I readily admit that I enjoy most of what I do, and more than that, I find a greater sense of purpose in my current occupations, which is more than a lot of people can say. But still, good things can get the best of you.

And for me, they usually do. It's not hard to remember a time when being the best was more obligation than suggestion for me. Growing up with one arm, over-achievement was the norm. It seemed the only way to prove my value. The army's "Be All That You Can Be" motto might as well have been mine.

But these days, I love myself a little more, and I have less and less to prove. So, when a siesta comes knocking, I gladly open the door. Relaxation has proved a greater friend than achievement ever was. Rest accepts me just as I am.

But I've been irked out of my peaceful resting, and by the most unlikely of reasons. While perusing the blogs that I've forgotten that I follow, I came across a disability post on a young woman born with no legs and only one arm with three fingers. The headline read: "13 year-old Kayla Wheeler skis, swims, bowls and that's not all."

And that was all I read. It was all I had to read. I already knew the whole story. But it was still bothering me today, so I clicked on the video...

The friendly local news anchor introduced us to Kayla's story thusly: "If you're feeling lazy or tired tonight, perk up and pay attention; there are no more excuses."

Enter Miss Wheeler, a true poster child of disability, who, in addition to the above mentioned sports, plays the piano, coaches swimming, and played baseball and took ballet before hitting puberty. She is currently the U.S. record holder of her class in the 50 meter butterfly, and hopes to compete in this year's Paralympic Games in London. A mass of metals hangs on her bedroom wall.

So much for my restful week off.

Kayla is certainly a very talented and driven individual. Undoubtedly inspirational. There was a time when she might have been my hero, but I'm having a different reaction this week.

I'm frustrated. Kayla's story reminds me of a growing resentment I've been feeling toward disability publicity. If you only knew disability through media, you might come to believe that all people with handicaps are excessively active over-achievers, climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro on all-fours like Kyle Maynard (if he had all fours, that is).

More than overcoming the odds, these handicapped celebs are leaving the odds in their dust. No wonder, as a child, I believed I needed to go above and beyond to be even noticed. Only the exceptional get press. Considering how many people with disabilities are over-achievers, clearly I'm in good company.

But my journey took an unexpected turn in early adulthood. I had to face my limits, accept them, and more than that, learn to love them. And a funny thing happened--I stopped needing to summit mountains.

Don't get me wrong, I think Kayla and Kyle, and even my Limbless Nemesis, are noteworthy individuals. But do you have to be outstanding to be worthy? And why do I still find myself sometimes believing I do?

Just last week I was stewing over all the things I want to be doing while I am still young--write, ride, teach, join the circus--and realizing that it would take more than one lifetime to appease my ambition. It quickly becomes the perfect storm for disappointment.

In praising those with handicaps for outsmarting disability, are we not actually reinforcing the old exaltation of physical or mental prowess.

These ponderings have actually caused me to question my own desire to attend the Paralympic Games this year as a spectator. Have I bought into the belief that the handicapped are only admirable when running fast on steel legs? What ever happened to walking?

I took a walk this evening with my friend Opie. We joked about planning our stroll like an old married couple. But it was lovely, making our way down sidewalks of pink-blossomed trees in the momentary light of dusk.

"This has been a great day," Opie remarked.

"Mmm," I agreed, though I'd actually spent most of the day fretting over what was not being accomplished.

"The most important thing we accomplished today was enjoying it," he concluded. And he was probably right.

Sometimes when I want to do everything, the best thing to do is nothing at all. Maybe I'll be the first handicapped person to go on achievement strike.

Do you think there's a record for that?

OneArmGirl

underwater wheelchairing

Now in my thirties, I decided it was time to visit a health professional to see what my body might need that it is not producing for itself. Yawn, I know. But I've decided aging gracefully is really my best option considering aging is not an option at all.

My mother can attest to the fact that I am no fan of vitamins, since she's been trying to get a handful of horse pills down me since I was a kid. But I'm an adult now, and therefore responsible for my own nutrition. Looking at my new list of supplements, I quickly realized this was already a lost cause if I couldn't get excited about it. I had to get motivated.

So, after a bit of internet searching, I found and bought this fun little pill container...

You can find this and some other fun pill-popping incentives here. And that's my shameless pill box plug.

I'm just not sure all my pills are actually going to fit into this wee box. I suppose I was hoping I'd just find that I have a huge vitamin D deficit and leave with a prescription for more sunshine. But it's more serious than that. I haven't even had my blood test, and I'm already taking three new pills. Turns out our human bodies have stopped producing vitamin C altogether. Some animals, like goats, still produce it. So now I am supposed to pop 6,000 milligrams of C every day.

I think this nutritional boost may require taking out a loan.

But I'm going to need all the support I can get my hands on to get through the mountain of reading material that I've waded into. I honestly don't know how it came to this. No, that's not true. I know it was a combination of bookstore visiting, walking by sale racks, and recommendations of friends. It's my environment, one could argue. But before I knew what was happening, I'm treading water in the bibliophilic deep end.

And that's why I really should not have purchased an anthology of poetry by writers with disabilities called Beauty is a Verb, which I happened upon on display at a local bookstore. But look at the cover––it's irresistible.

I've been so busy climbing on ribbons and nursing under-the-weather emotions this week, that I've only skimmed through, but this book is already lifting my mood.

If that woman can scuba dive at the bottom of a pool in a wheelchair, I think I can pick myself up off the floor and open a book. If I remember to take my vitamins, that is.

And at the same time, it's reminding me to be kind to myself; to celebrate who I am and not who I could be. I am not alone. We are not alone. In sorrow and in triumph, we are the human community, the living poetry of disability. None of us can produce vitamin C. I propose a glass of goat's milk toast...
 
After all, being normal is, indeed, so overrated.

OneArmGirl

ponytails and fairy endings

The OneArmGirl Facebook page got a facelift this week which, I think, added some panache. What's that? You didn't know we had a Facebook page? Check it out here.

In other news, the wind has arrived. If you are not from the southwest region just above Mexico, in a state with so little imagination as to be named after that country, you may not know to what I am referring. But to anyone from around these parts, the wind signals the arrival of spring.

And it has been much warmer, but I don't pretend to enjoy the gusts that signal the turning of the season, sending dirt swirling into the air and one hapless plastic bag into the tree outside my window. The bag has been in the tree for at least three days now.

It wouldn't be so bad if I were bald, but I happen to have a full head of already prone to be unruly hair. There's just something unnerving and generally unprofessional about the way wind picks it up, swirling it one direction and then the other, in a seemingly intentional anarchic revolution against any attempt at style. It flusters my brain.

This reminds me of my currently dire need for a ponytail. My contact at the Ponytail Project headquarters emailed this week to inform me that though progress has been slow, research and engineering go forth...the one-handed ponytail cannot be stopped. Apparently, none too soon if I'm supposed to make it through Spring.

But that is my goal, to make it through Spring. The year certainly did not start off as I'd expected. I never expected to spend New Year's Eve in a snowcat with a Mountain Guy. I certainly never expected to find myself dating him, doing laundry at his house, picking up his daughter at the bus stop, and staying up until 4am in his arms. Coming from such different backgrounds, we wanted so much in common. He played baseball and I like baseball guys. I loved his strong tattooed forearms. He loved my butt.

But seriously, we both valued sincerity and simplicity and service...and apparently the letter 'S'. My hand fit into his, fingers laced, almost like they'd been made to do so. I imagined drinking coffee with him in our country house before heading out to work, each using our respective skills to serve the community.

Then, last Sunday, we broke it off.

And why am I announcing this in the middle of a post, after such superfluities as Facebook and ponytails? I suppose because I couldn't think of a good way to announce it, and when I don't know what to say, I generally say something silly. Breakups can be a number of things, but they are rarely silly. 

Silliness aside, I've spent the last few days cleaning and crying, in no particular order. It's not a bad break, but I would argue sometimes it's the nicest splits that hurt the worst; kinda leaves you wondering how things could have been different. But there isn't really an answer. There was conflict, sure. His Italian passion ruffled my German stoicism, the sociologist could argue. But history tells us that didn't keep them from getting into bed together.

Perhaps a recent trip to the zoo should have tipped me off. After befriending a particularly sociable bird named Velcro (for obvious reasons), we thought it would be fun to get a picture of him nibbling on Finneas. So, while one girl frantically tried to get the shot, and I hoped Velcro didn't get too hungry, another bird somehow managed to poop on MG's T-shirt.

The conversation went something like this:

Me: "Hurry, just take the picture!"

MG: "But I just got pooped on!"

When we first met, MG said he "knew we'd be doing time together." I laughed when he told me this, asking if he meant "like Bonnie and Clyde?"

He was right, I reflected this week. But it's almost like we wanted it too much. Perhaps we just missed the mark on the sort of time we'd be doing. I think we'd make solid friends, and as allies, I doubt anyone could stand against us. I can't help but muse that if we'd stayed together, we may have ended up criminals on the lamb. Then again, this is post breakup by three days, so it could be the beer talking.

It's rough. What can I tell you that you don't already know. We love, we laugh, we cry...and then we do the dishes, because unlike love, washing is fairly straightforward.

And washing the dishes actually feels really good just now. And cleaning the toilet. And making my bed. These are the things of life that go on. I feel at peace––maybe because I know the dishes have to be clean before they can serve another meal. How nice and secure in purpose to be a dish.

So, check out the Facebook page and like it. Put your hair in a ponytail if you feel so inclined. Try to love the people in your life the best you can, and I'll see you here next week...

OneArmGirl

life of crime and climb

You may recall several posts ago, I wrote about a particularly trying day. Well, I've decided this post is a sequel to that, which we shall call 'Ever have one of those days...part 2: The Week.'

It started with me getting four traffic tickets in one day. How...gasp...what...gasp....did you do that? Well, I'll tell you. I was on my way to the mountains to see Mountain Guy and Co., when I apparently paused at a stop sign rather than coming to a full stop. OK, there was no getting around that one. But then the officer who kindly pulled me over issued me a written warning because I could not find my insurance card right away. Now, was that necessary? I ask you.

What happened later that day was even less necessary. I was on my way home from Wing Stop with some sort of hot meat pieces, sometimes known as hot wings, but this particular variety looked more like something vaguely resembling meat, masquerading as hot wings. But I digress.

I had just turned onto a new road and was aware of a car tailgating me. Then I saw a person in the middle of the road ahead, but did not realize this person was a police officer until I was passing her and she yelled at me to stop. Stop I did, and then the car behind me stopped in my bumper.

Twenty minutes later, I left the scene with less-than-hot wings and citations for speeding and careless driving. Thankfully my car only suffered minor scuff marks on the bumper. My morale, however, was nearly totaled.

But the next day brought renewed resolve and a taste of imminent victory. I drove to my aerial fabrics class in the morning (very cautiously). This alone was a victory because I'd missed the week before when I was sick. I nearly passed out during the warm up, but as the class progressed, so did I.

Interestingly, my instructor had developed tendinitis in her left elbow, and was forced to baby that arm, putting the greater workload on her right arm. After I struggled through pull ups on the fabric, holding on with only one arm, I was delighted to see her struggle to do the same with her good arm.

"Wow, that's hard," she said breathlessly. I tried not to beam. Actually, it was unexpectedly encouraging to be reminded how challenging it was for me, when I am used to watching more bilaterally gifted individuals accomplish in a few lessons what I struggle with for months.

Then yesterday, what started as an innocent trip to the salon for MG to get his wooly hair tamed into a new do, ended with an emotionally charged discussion of challenges to the harmony of our attachment. For the third time this week, I found myself pulled to the side of the road. My black-eyed ego was starting to feel nauseous.

Did I not get the memo about a shift in the cosmos?

I decided to walk to the courthouse today. I don't know if this was because I'm feeling strapped for cash or because I didn't feel like looking for a parking spot, or just to stick it to the man in whatever small way I could.

There is little more demoralizing than traffic court. I sat in a room of benches with other lawless ragamuffins, called up to speak to the judge one at a time in front of everyone.

"You can plead guilty or not guilty," the administrative assistant explained. "Or, you can plead no contest, but that could lead to jail time."

Jail time! I tried to imagine myself behind bars. It was a strange few seconds. I decided to plead not guilty, though I did consider how jail time for the one-armed girl might make for a good blog post. I'm not above anything, law included, when it comes to getting good material. I did want a chance to tell my side of the story, but the judge would have to do for an audience.

When I returned home and opened up my email, I found a message from the agent I had queried for representation of my memoir at the beginning of the year. She "regretted to inform me..." You know the rest. So I opened a new folder on my desktop called "Rejections" and plunked it in.

The highlight of aerial fabrics came at the end of class, when my instructor found a way for me to climb more than my previous record six inches off the ground. With a classmate sitting as a base on the fabric, I was able to hook each foot in one ribbon and work my way up like a lizard scaling a wall. Finding myself a few feet from the ceiling, I was elated. Several people took photos; helps to be a freak.

But having that photo as proof of just one obstacle overcome is getting me through this week.

It might even get me through my upcoming trial. Or maybe I could get it tattooed for cheap in jail.

OneArmGirl  

colorado triangle

It takes approximately seven hours to drive from my home to Denver, on a good day, within the speed limit. That being said, I have spent between five and twelve hours on the road getting to Denver.

Little Gen making lemonade.

One of my earliest memories is making the trip with my best friend and amateur private eye, Agent A. We left on a Friday night at rush hour. Two hours later, we left our city limit. Ah, the folly of youth.

Somewhere around Antonito, nearly into Colorado, I was complaining about the constrictive nature of my jeans.

"Why don't you take off your pants," Agent A advised.

"Uh, that's OK," I said, eying her strangely. I spent the next several hours wondering why my best friend would suggest that I drive in my underwear before it was clarified that she had actually meant, "take off your pants and put on another pair." Well, why didn't she say so? I'd thought we were in the middle of a poorly budgeted...not to mention dangerous...lesbian porno. Obviously, I've never watched lesbian porn.

On the road, again.

We were ten minutes from our contact in Buena Vista, who was waiting in her truck on a snowy night at the post office, when we unwittingly went left at the split when we were supposed to go right, and ended up driving an hour out of the way into the snowy moonlit mountains. At one turn, I swear there was a huge antlered deer looking straight into the driver's side window.

But last summer was, by far, the worst blunder in the history of driving to Denver escapades, for which I take full responsibility. As you may know, there is one freeway which goes the entire way from Albuquerque to Denver; all one must do is stay on that freeway for the quickest route. Little Gen, her boyfriend Asif, and I were on that freeway. Then for some inexplicable reason, aside from a previously set pattern of detour, an hour into our drive, I took us off said freeway.

And thus began a twelve hour tour through northern New Mexico into southern Colorado. To add insult to injury, Little Gen's SUV was in the habit of bucking violently back and forth when it became overheated, so we had to stop and let it rest every half hour, making for some scenic photo ops, but very tired and frustrated travelers.

OneArmGirl making lemonade.

We did, however, get to see a black bear and her cub cross the road in front of our car, which I consider to be well worth the additional five hours of driving time.

This past weekend, Little Gen, Mountain Guy, and I headed north once again. We actually managed to stay on the freeway this time which, combined with LG's average 93mph, put us in Denver about five hours after we left, brief stop at the outlet mall for underwear notwithstanding. Unfortunately, we drove into the city just at rush hour.

But we did eventually arrive at our final destination, the home of the aforementioned long-suffering contact who was then a rafting guide living in her truck. Now, she and her husband have a lovely old wood-floored abode in the Denver suburbs. It's a stones throw away from a coffee shop from which MG carried fresh brews each morning to his late-rising traveling companions.

When we left on Sunday morning, MG almost immediately started us down the wrong road and, after a bit of shopping downtown, it was discovered that I had left my pillow at our weekend hosts' house, necessitating a twenty minute back track. LG was unnaturally quiet in the backseat.

Denver, I love you, really. If it's not you, it must be me.

OneArmGirl     

a woman's issues

I had a doctor's appointment today. I was also feeling unwell, but there was no direct correlation. I'd actually made the appointment in November, so it was a small miracle that I remembered to go at all.

This particular doctor, who is actually a nurse practitioner, specializes in women's health issues, of which, if you are a woman, you know there are many.

When she said, "In a nutshell, tell me why you are here," I almost laughed in her face. I had, in fact, spent the previous day and a half worrying about whether or not I could remember all the issues I have to tell her. When I schedule an appointment with a doctor, I feel I should fax over a health memoir ahead of time.

Examination room

Sitting in the examination room waiting, I had time to recollect the countless times previous that I've waited on doctors, often clothed scantily in an over-sized medical frock. I think we don't use the word "frock" nearly enough. It sure is more fun than wearing one, anyway.

You know the drill: first they take your blood pressure which, incidentally, they seem to prefer doing on your left arm, which always creates a humorously awkward musical chairs episode whenever I'm in the hot seat. I once had a nurse insist on taking blood from my left forearm before she finally actually looked up from her clipboard at me and saw that I didn't have a left forearm.

I've learned to extend grace to medical professionals (they have to work all day under those fluorescent lights, after all), but my limb deformity is just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to comprehending my medical situation. These days I walk into hospitals with the excitement of a jaded doctor looking forward to another day of babysitting interns.

This time, I was frock-less and fully clothed, thankfully. But the room was still sterile, both in decoration and instruments. There is something decidedly unfriendly about hazardous waste bins and tongue depressors keeping you company while you wait.

Examination room with intrigue.

It's not the first time being trapped in an examination room has inspired some goofiness. There is something about awaiting a health professional to size me up that puts me over the top, and I'm suddenly spewing sarcastic observations like I have one-liner turrets. Since I was alone this time, Finneas got top billing. An examination room is an examination room, but an examination room with a tiny deformed arm appearing like King Kong's finger poking in––now that's an Alfred Hitchcock.

But when she finally did arrive, it was surprisingly refreshing to learn that this particular physician was already surfing on my wave length. Our consultation felt more like a gossip session at the local beauty salon. I'd even brought coffee with me, for moral support. We giggled and talked about ignorant endocrinologists like a couple of nerdy med school students. She obviously had a huge crush on vitamin D. And she told me it was more healthy to drink heavy cream with coffee than half and half. I would now trust her with my life.

I came out with a scroll of a blood test order. But I am confident that I will learn everything a 30-something woman needs to know about her body...just as soon as I find a lab that accepts blood by the half gallon.

Yesterday, Mountain Guy gave me a Natalie Merchant album for Valentine's Day. When track two started to play, he said, "This is a song about you..."

'Doctors have come
from distant cities,
just to see me.
Stand over my bed,
disbelieving...
what they're seeing.

They say I must be one of the wonders;
God's own creation.
And as far as they see, they can offer
no explanation.'

Well, if the shoe fits...

OneArmGirl 

 

cent-e-postal

As you are most likely unaware, today's post happens to be the 100th post here at OneArmGirl.

[Pause for rambunctious clapping, kazoo blowing, and the release of a hundred white pigeons]

I make this bold assumption because I, the OneArmGirl, have been neurotically checking my post count for the past month to make sure I didn't bypass this auspicious week. I freaked out two weeks ago because I thought I'd missed it.


I am calling it my Centepostal Anniversary. 'Cent' for one hundred; 'postal' to commemorate the fact that I haven't gone postal with the upkeep of this blog and my weekly commitment to posting.

I do realize one hundred posts is no big deal to you post-crazies out there who publish something on your blog every ten seconds on average. I, however, am not a real blogger. I'm not even a real blog follower. Most blogs barely hold my attention––not because they aren't brilliant––but because I'm allergic to computer screens. Celebrating my own blog's centepostal is really more miracle than accomplishment.

I have a migraine. No, not because of blogging; no relation––I just happened to wake up with one today, on my centepostal. Though, come to think of it, it's been my habit since youth to get sick on birthdays, holidays, and other special occasions. Guess I don't deal well with excitement.

But since when did we let our disabilities ruin the party around here? Happy Centepostal to me and happy Centepostal to you!

I love you all.

Now I'm going to bed.

OneArmGirl

PS. Just kidding about the pigeons...and the kazoos...and as you may presume, not a lot of clapping going on around here, either.