vote now

Yes, we have a presidential election this year, but more importantly, the voting has begun for Albuquerque the Magazine's special Best of the City issue.

Let's start things off right by getting OneArmGirl voted 'Best Local Blogger.'

Click here to place your vote in any or all of the categories listed. Scroll down to the People section and look for "Best Local Blogger," then type 'TheOneArmGirl.com'.

You don't have to have an account or sign up for anything to vote! Just give OAG a shout of support!!

The hook-arm rabbits thank you.

And so do I.

OneArmGirl

sugary suggestion

After a couple of hard-hitters, I figured we could use a good dose of superficial silliness. And thanks to Mountain Guy's interesting choice of breakfast this morning, here it is...

 

Yes, folks, on the back of a Sour Patch Kids candy box, you may note that one of these kids has bitten off the arm of the other kid (so proven by the green dots falling from his mouth). So, not only are we unsure what happened to all the sour patch parents, as one comedian noted, we can also now prove that they are cannibals. Maybe the mystery of missing sour patch parents has been solved...

But cannibalism aside, MG thought it was mighty coincidental that it was Green Patch's left arm that got munched. My man thought of me. How sweet, huh?

I think, though, that we can take several lessons from this:

One, it pays to look a little more closely at the candy we eat; you never know what sort of subversive messages they may be sending. Is there nothing sacred? Now our gummy candies are violating one another? What's next? Massacred Milk Duds? To this I say, "Dude, seriously?!"

And two, there are really so many avenues for spreading disability awareness.

Happy snacking,

OneArmGirl

to wit

I was warmed by the pulling together of family and friends at my uncle's funeral last week, but I can't help but think of the many years of suffering he endured, many of those days, hours, and minutes spent alone.


With all the wonderful remembrances of his life, it's a shame, I thought, that he couldn't be there to hear. I lamented my inevitable absence from my own funeral and felt very sorry to miss it.

I suppose not everyone finds such ego-stroking so tempting, but without witnesses, how do we know who we are, from whence we've come, and to what it all amounts?


My grandfather has, for the past several years, witnessed my grandmother's identity disappear into a mind that no longer recognizes itself.


"Hi, Grandma! It's so good to see you," I greet her at the door.


"Good to see you," she mimics back, carefully repeating verbatim. But there is a sparkle of recognition in her eyes.


The youngest of nine children, my grandmother was a great story teller, but these days she can hardly tell us who she is. Conversely, I've never heard my grandpa talk more in the entire time that I've known him. Sitting on my parents' living room couch, he asks me about my special friend (read: boyfriend) and tells me how he'd like to write letters to all his grandchildren. This is the man who barely spoke to me on the phone my entire life.


"We watched a Shirley Temple the other day," Grandpa informs us alluding to the collection of movies my parents gave them. "And she was focused till the very end," he noted. When I was a little girl, Grandma, who collected Shirley Temple memorabilia in her play room, liked to put my already curly hair into ringlets.


"Here you go, Baby Doll," Grandpa says, pulling a chair out for her at the table. At dinner, he chatters on about the food and good company while Grandma eats deliberately at the salmon, carefully removing the meat from the skin with her fingers.


"She won't let me take her to McDonald's, but she likes to go have a cappuccino," Grandpa informs us. I look at Grandma, who, religiously warned us of the evils of coffee for as long as I can remember, but she only smiles and giggles awkwardly, as if on cue. Then we all dive into our cheesecake.


With the distraction of dessert, Grandpa leans over to Grandma and gives her a reassuring kiss on the cheek.

Ice cream helps

Back in the living room, I sit close to Grandma and put her hand on my knee, the way she always used to. I try to show her pictures on my iPhone, but she looses interest quickly. Suddenly, she appears stressed.


"Let's go," she says to Grandpa.


"You want to go? But these are the people you love," Grandpa replies.


In the past, anxious to get home, Grandpa almost always had to drag Grandma away from family gatherings. But now home is a place where he must care for her alone.


Helping her into the car, my dad gives her one last hug.


"I love you, Mommy," he says.


"I love you, Mommy," she parrots.


"No, I'm not your mommy, you're my mommy," he says.


"You're my mommy," she repeats.


I repress giggles remembering the game my sisters and I used to play to harass each other.


Digging into old boxes this week, I sift through years of written correspondence. I have notes from good friends and friends whose names I no longer know, all bearing their specific witness to my life.


"Make me a witness," Sarah McLachlan sings in one of my favorite songs: "Take me out/Out of darkness/Out of doubt..."


And when we're done
Soul searching
As we carried the weight
And died for the cause
Is misery
Made beautiful
Right before our eyes...?

I think it is.


OneArmGirl    

life's value

In the two and a half years that I have been writing for this blog, I have not once forgotten to post. Delayed, avoided, taken a nap instead, yes, but never completely forgotten...until today.

To be fair, I have been in three different states in the past 48 hours. So that may be why, somewhere around 3pm today, I suddenly sat up and said, "Oh, it's Thursday!" So, here I am, metaphorical tail between my legs, ready to write. Thankfully, we are abysmally unprofessional around here and I have no editor to harass me about missing deadline. I probably should.

I do have a good excuse. I attended my uncle's funeral today. Uncle Wil is the first of my parents' siblings to leave this life for the next, but he too, had a good excuse. Diagnosed with Myotonic Dystrophy, his muscles have for years been slowly atrophying. After a bout with pneumonia and a heart attack this week, his family honored his stipulation to be removed from the ventilator that was helping him breathe. Several hours later, he stopped.

It's a sobering thought that even bringing air into our lungs is work. Sitting in the pews of the church, catching up with cousins, it was easy to forget. But in the last years of his life, Uncle Wil was a constant reminder that life is no given. To the less visibly dying, he was easy to pity, dragging oxygen behind him, struggling to grasp anything with his stiffening hands.

But those who remembered his way of living during the service spoke of a man who humbly took life as it came. He was the only one of his siblings to inherit a genetic sentence of disease, yet he rarely, if ever, complained. He hunted and played ball until he couldn't anymore, and then he enjoyed less active pastimes like gardening and watching Out of Order, an Amish reality television show (yes, this is a real show).

Listening to the story of his life, black mascara tears dripping down my cheeks, I recalled my own ingratitude when faced with illness. Yet, I have never had to carry a tank of air to keep breathing.

I remember a family gathering when I remarked, mostly to myself, "Now where did I put my shoes?" Only halfheartedly attempting to find them, I'd easily given up the search when Uncle Wil approached me, my shoes in his hand. He had overhead me and, without a word, proceeded to look for them.

I've often assumed it takes a highly enlightened Zen master to offer service to another when suffering. But my uncle was a farmer and quiet naturalist. In speech, he tended toward uncomfortable bluntness, but in heart, showed enviable kindness.

After reading countless memoirs, writing a book, and a considerable amount of journaling, I am still coming to terms with my limitations. I only hope to learn the kind of stoic acceptance that seemed to come naturally for my uncle. He seemed born with a certain grace that many of us never achieve. Perhaps that is why he was ready to leave this life after just 60 years.

In the Chicago O'Hare airport, I sat at a table in front of a businessman. He started a call on his cell almost as soon as he sat down, and was still on that call after he'd eaten half a salad. Staring vacantly, his mind appeared to be in a boardroom somewhere. When his main coarse arrived, he was on another handheld device and his second Coke. I had a terrible urge to walk over to his table, lean in to his ear, and ask, "Excuse me, sir, do you know you are alive?"

I needed that reminder this week. I am alive.

OneArmGirl      

about dam time

So, what does a person do when she loses her job and it's the middle of summer? Head to a massive lake on the border of Arizona and Utah, of course.

And that's where I've been these last few days. Imagine getting to the most middle of nowhere place you can think of (actually they filmed parts of the original Planet of the Apes here) and then stumbling onto one of the largest bodies of water you've ever seen. Lake Powell has more shoreline than the west coast of the United States. Mountain Guy spent time here as a young man, cooking up grub for tourists.

"This is the restaurant where I worked," he pointed out on a driving tour. "And that is the dorm where I lived. And here is the ditch I fell into walking home from work, drunk, after dark."

We also took a quick gander at the Glen Canyon Dam, which is how the lake came to be at all. We were gonna take the elevator down to walk across, but we had to wait for the tour.

"I don't need a dam tour," I said, in honor of Chevy Chase. "Now, where are the dam bathrooms."

John Wesley Powell was an early surveyor of the canyon lands. He lost part of his right arm in the Civil War and then decided to captain a tiny boat down the yet unchartered Grand Canyon. Talk about an over-achiever. I can hear the conversation with his wife now:

Wife: "John, you crazy fool! You don't have a right arm anymore; don't you think it's time to retire?"

John: "I think I'll explore the uncharted territory of the greatest canyon in the world."

But I identify.

On the 4th of July, we went out on the lake. Our fearless skipper, Bobby, knew just where to go. A couple hours in, we found ourselves in a quiet cove with shear rock face rising above us. The girls jumped in like little sea horses, paddling around on styrofoam noodles, squealing delightedly every time the wake of a passing boat rolled in. Bobby stuck his beer in the sand and took a cat nap on the beach. Mountain Guy and I whispered sweet nothings in each others' ears...actually, I felt like vomiting, so I laid down on the bed he made for me on the boat.

On our way back, the girls sat on the bow, and Mountain Guy and I watched from the back as they popped up like corn with each pounding wave. Back at the house, Grandpa John cooked a turkey, and we watched fireworks from the front porch. Then, with smiles and sore butts, we went to bed.

May you find yourself in vacation land soon.

OneArmGirl

Today's post has been delayed due to ongoing field research and lack of WIFI internet connection. OK, so I'm on vacation. Stay tuned...

transition

Things have slowed. Summer is here. We're topping off near 100 degrees every day. For those of you operating on Celsius, I don't know how that translates because I am too lazy to remember the equation. Yes, we Americans are very lazy all the time, especially in this heat. It's enough to make one forget the one language that one knows.

But it's true that yesterday I passed out for a three-hour siesta and I'm not sorry. Even though it means I am writing this post after it should have already been published. But I have a good excuse: after my nap, I had to run across town for a foot spa. Oh, never mind.

But for all the slowing down, my life seems to be speeding up. After three years at the farm, teaching women with autism to ride, it appears that I have worked myself out of a job. I introduced the farm to a local therapeutic riding program that needed a home, and the relationship has blossomed. This is a very good thing for both parties, and I think, for me too. But as of Saturday, I will be somewhat less employed. As Mountain Guy says: "I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more." Too early for a Bob Dylan reference?

So, hopefully, I will have more time and energy to put toward other things I care about, like writing about myself and playing on giant hanging ribbons. But seriously–-no, I was serious--I think I'm just gonna take a break and regroup. One can always use a regrouping from time to time.

Maybe I'll go to the upcoming tattoo festival and get inked. Yeah, probably not.

I do have some exciting travel plans in the works, but that will have to wait for next week...

I have to have something to keep you coming back, right?

OneArmGirl