goodnight moon

I’ve been wondering now for a while if my posts have been too peppy or superficial (adjectives I’ve never been accused of in my entire life); and if, maybe, in wanting to be entertaining and world-changing, I’ve forgotten that most real change comes on the heels of pain.

As you may have guessed, making people laugh is not only pure pleasure to me, it’s how I cope. I’m scared to let the laughter stop, to reveal the crying parts; worried I’m one post away from becoming the sappy OneArmGirl downer, losing all my readership.

But the real tragedy would be somehow leaving you under the impression that I popped out of the womb, thought to myself ‘Who needs two arms, anyway?’, and have been downhill skiing with lollypops since then. Those who really know me, know better. So I’ve been wondering how and when to go deeper and, unexpectedly, today happened.

I’ve been nursing a sick horse that, today, I watched get put down. Luna (‘moon’ in Spanish) was donated to the farm about a month ago. She wasn’t in great shape when she came to us, but easily won goodwill with her maternal patience and delicate grace. I decided to call her my ‘little deer’ from her disproportionately large ears, long legs and head-bobbing jaunt. It was nice to have a mare in the barn for a change. But we soon discovered a serious ulcer on her tongue, and after working with her for a month, still couldn’t get her to swallow enough food to gain weight.

I started calling Elsie, who I’d never met, but is reportedly the woman vets call when they get stumped. She sounds wise and grounded on the phone, and I decide I want to be her friend. Because of a recent shoulder injury, she explains she can’t use one arm very much, but still wants to come see Luna. I wonder if I should mention our additional handicap, but decide not to discourage her. We’ve got two good arms between us, right?

I meet Elsie at the farm the next day. She’s shorter than I expected with gray pigtails, but I’m probably not what she expected either. She laughs later at her apologies for only having one good arm. It’s decided that Luna should go to Elsie’s place for more attentive care. This morning I went out to visit and waited at the gate with a sign reading, Old dogs, young dogs, and some stupid dogs: please drive slowly. Inside, we discover Luna’s taken a turn for the worse, the vet is called, and less than two hours later, a beautiful animal living for over 30 years, lies on the ground. We’ve done everything we could. I tell myself to emotionally disconnect and become the get-the-job-done farmer my relatives have been for generations, but the tears come anyway because the fight is over, and the loss is palpable. Luna’s heart stops, but the last to leave are several heaving breaths.

Weeping down the highway, I decide I need a Dr. Pepper despite recent stern words to myself about quitting. But pulling into the gas station, I discern a foundational peace, identifying my tears with the reminder of our universal shitty situation. I’m not the kind to run from death, but still I know something is wrong, and despite how much better it may be on the other side, life really is beautiful. I feel a quiet, but strong gratitude coming in...for Elsie, for my vet, for another chance to be out in the barn, and for Luna and everything she’s shared with me, even in her dying...for life. The Hebrew scriptures wisely say, ‘Let everything that has breath, praise the Lord.’* Confronted with death, I've remembered, no matter what your handicap, even if it seems all quality has gone out of life, if you’re still breathing, you have reason to celebrate. If nothing else, I hear it’s International Beer Day.

Welcome to my serious side.


OneArmGirl





*From Psalm 150

thursday

A local news story recently reported that Thursday is the worst day of the week. This, according to statistics gathered from Twitter, was the finding deduced from a rise in negative tweets on that day.

While it’s comforting to know that Twitter is now the standard for sociological research, I was shocked to learn that Thursdays are getting such a bad rap. In recent conversations with friends (also for statistical research data), I decided that Thursday is actually my favorite day of the week. There may be nothing special about Thursday, but that’s just it, it’s non-intrusive and unassuming. Monday is the first work day, Tuesday is almost worse, Wednesday means you have just as much yet to do...and the weekend always has way too much going on. Thursday is quiet, but not too early to go out and celebrate the upcoming weekend without a band that makes you have to yell, “I’m just going to the restroom, but then let’s continue our discussion of ethics in the Yuan Dynasty, back in a sec,” or when that fails, even louder, “I HAVE TO PEE!”

I really shouldn’t care since I don’t work a normal work week anyway, but I only believe in watching the news if you can actually make a difference, take an action besides going to bed angry. And so, we here at OneArmGirl would like to announce that new posts to this blog will be published on Thursday each week (except when they aren't given my critical need for rest and play time). In so doing, we hope to raise the ratings on Thursday, and give it the place of honor it deserves. And when you get the Thursday Blues, just think, ‘Oh yeah, OneArmGirl post today!‘ I’m sure it will get you through.

Wishing you had just drawn one of those ‘skip two spaces’ cards and today was Thursday? Good. My PR campaign is already working, but alas, it is merely Tuesday.

Now, excuse me, but I have to go tweet...

OneArmGirl


Note of Clarification: Lest last week’s post seem harsh or coldhearted, I very much appreciate the protection of friends and the reticence of strangers to make fun of disability. I do not enjoy the teasing of strangers, nor do I support that kind of disrespect. Contrarily, I believe having fun in the right context only builds true acknowledgement and respect for all people. Thanks, Mikey Man, for reigning me in. =]

"...and all i have to do is, act naa-tra-ly"

In one of my dream lives, I am an independent filmmaker. So going to a premier of the 48 Hour Film Project made me nervous and a little jealous, but felt right, like existing in the midst of the grass roots kind of moviemaking I so love, even for just an hour.

Ostensibly, we were there to support Kristen, who appeared in the last, and best, short film as a disillusioned debutant in what turned out to be her last game of cards. Chamber #6 debuted in obvious superiority to an appreciative crowd who had just sat through half a dozen shorts ranging from not good to should have been axed in pre-production.

But, it so happens that Davy, the praised, but reticent, director of Chamber #6 is also half the brains behind another project of great interest to me. Several months back, Kristen mentioned to two of her coworkers that she had a friend with one arm. These coworkers were, apparently, very bored, because they became intrigued and proceeded to barrage her with questions about me...how do I shave, put on a bra, etc. Being the creatives they are, the guys then turned their curiosity into a song, with lyrics like ‘how do you feed a giraffe with a short arm?’ I imagine something akin to The Lonely Island parodies.

Walking into Davy’s house for the premier after-party, Kristen casually mentions the song guys are excited to meet me and one of them will be at the party. I’m introduced to Davy, wondering if I should reveal my identity with “So, I’m that girl with one arm who inspired your song,” but I think I might just be stating the obvious. How many one-armed friends could Kristen have? But after witnessing a game of beer pong for the first time and realizing I have no regrets about missing out on Greek life, I can’t help myself, and blurt out within Davy’s hearing, “I just want to know when the music video comes out.” He doesn’t hear me, so Kristen repeats. Davy looks up to meet my eye with a knowing look of being caught in something mischievous, trying to discern my reaction, a shy smile wanting to come out and play. I grin. I want to play, too.

Standing close by, Christian, up-to-now life of the party and beer pong champion, perks up, not wanting to be on the outside of the joke. Davy turns to give a hushed explanation, of which, I can only hear, “how”, and “one arm.” In an almost instant turnabout, Christian is sobered, almost offended. “Ah, no man, I don’t make fun of stuff like that, stuff that people are born with.” He can barely look at me. “That’s just not cool.”

I’m hooked. I almost can’t help myself from jumping across the kitchen counter in excitement at the prospect of a new convert. “Why not?,” I press, “Is it OK for me to make fun of myself? Don’t you think we have to be able to laugh at ourselves?” I think I’ve got him cornered, but though he’s now able to look at me, he refuses to board the disability train. “I just don’t do that.” What kind of topsy turvy politically correct universe have I stumbled into, I don’t know. Minutes before we were all laughing about how East Indian Swedish American, Christian, looks like a Mexican with his mustache. I feel myself in a moment of irony, so twisted, I don’t even know how to proceed. But I start to feel guilty about the teasing, ending the conversation with the only thing I know for sure: “I respect that you feel that way.”

But the rest of the night, when I speak, I notice Christian watching me more boldly, curious, studying.

I think something might be changing after all.

OneArmGirl

*Postscript: In textations with Kristen this week, I was made aware that production of the above mentioned song was brought to a sudden halt, its writers believing it had gotten "out of control." No! The Evil Empire of Political Correctness is gaining ground. If you have feelings about this, please leave a comment, and I will forward them to the people who can make a difference.

smaller things

Around the time my little big sister moved in, a poorly organized gang of ants took up residence on our kitchen counter. I’m not suggesting a relationship between these two events, merely stating the facts.

No matter how rigorous our determination to keep food particles off the counter, one dirty dish left for five minutes brings a new battalion of scavengers from an undisclosed location. They don’t seem to be coming from or going anywhere specifically, just moving about at will. I wonder if they might be an excommunicated band of rebels, having refused to stay in line, tired of working for the man (or woman, in this case), outcasted now in a poorly planned reconnaissance mission.

I’m not bothered by ants as a species. I actually quite admire their seemingly oblivious determination to succeed in a world where most everything is bigger than themselves. They strike me as possibly the only beings with a greater work ethic than my Germanic relatives.

Washing up dishes, I splash a small wave of sudsy water onto the counter, inadvertently swamping one ant near the sink edge. Watching him struggle through what must seem like an ocean, I find myself quietly cheering him to the dry counter. Though it looks promising, when I check back after finishing the silverware, he’s curled in a ball, still surrounded by water. I feel responsible for his misfortune and wonder what might be done to save him. While shaking my head in disbelief at my own weakness toward the intruders, I grab a paper towel. I lay it over the ocean, which soaks up in a couple of seconds. Removing the towel, I am delighted to see the ant unfurl himself, seemingly unharmed. Later I see him paused by the edge of the sink, passing his minute antennas through his front legs, removing the remnants of his watery ordeal. I hear one Christmas during World War I, German and ally soldiers left their trenches to celebrate together on the field over which, hours before, they’d exchanged bullets.

But before you jump to any conclusions about my altruism, I should confess that I mercilessly pounded a cockroach to death in the sink this morning, then turned toward my sister in a WWF wrestler stance, growling my victory.

All in a day’s work.

OneArmGirl

mystery solved...sort of

My mom and her four brothers have been stoically wading through the contents of my grandparents’ house as neither my grandma nor my grandpa now live there. Up to now, this has only affected me in my inbox with conspicuous subjects like “desk,” “bedside table,” and “mountain goat leg lamp.” For reasons I can’t get into right now, I am seriously interested in the last.

But recently I received an email attached with pictures of this stuffed rabbit...yes, with a prosthetic hook arm. I have vague memories of it from childhood time spent in my grandparents’ basement rumpus room, but until it showed up again a few weeks ago, I never really considered its existence at all.

Many questions come to mind... Why? How did this happen? Where did it come from? Why does it give me the creeps? What happened to his legs?! And mostly, What is the likelihood that a rabbit would ever be fitted with a prosthetic arm? I was highly suspicious until Kristen sent me this timely link. Apparently more likely than I thought.

But perhaps most importantly, How did this prosthetic-wearing rabbit come to be in my grandparents’ basement? It would seem that, at some point in time, my dear grandma acquired not one, but two, stuffed rabbits with prosthetic arms for her toy collection. Now, there are one of two options...a)My grandma had a hook-arm rabbit fetish, or b)She had a granddaughter with a prosthetic arm and, wanting me not to feel strange or abnormal, added those rabbits to her collection. How she found them without the internet is inconceivable.
But the thought that those rabbits had existed in her basement for as long as I can remember, primarily for my benefit, had never before occurred to me; Until now, eleven years after my grandma left this world, when my mother uncovered them, and I unearthed another deepening of my grandmother’s love. And why did she buy two rabbits with fake arms? That is still a mystery.

But what should become of the rabbits now? Send them to me stat, I tell my mother by phone, they have a new career awaiting on my blog. But it was decided that only one rabbit should be sent and his brother should remain with my parents, as two might be a bit much for one apartment (don’t want to get the neighbors talking). I think they could use some time apart anyway.
Only one thing remains. My unexpectedly inherited one-armed rabbit needs a name. Any ideas?

I love you, Grandma, very very very much.

OneArmGirl

And now this...

I'm gonna let you contemplate it for a while. Consider it strange. Consider it avant-guarde. Consider it till you question all that is right and good in this world. If you come away wrinkly browed, blinking in consternation, don't worry, you are not alone. Consider it a teaser to my next post.

OneArmGirl

little gen

My sister Genevi comes to live with me this week, driving two thousand miles of North American highway with my dad, a trailer full of East Indian wares and, most importantly, my bicycle. In honor of this and for love of my sister, I am posting excerpts of an essay I wrote several years ago...

Genevi is my little sister. Or, she was my little sister; now she’s 5’ 11’’ and goes by Gen because no one knows how to pronounce or spell Genevi. She used to be smaller than me, but she’s always had bigger opinions. She cried when she was five because she didn’t like Mom’s new brown shoes. Then there was the jean skirt period, when she refused to wear anything but jean skirts, even outside playing in the desert dirt. She recently reminded me that she also wore jellies. So, in jean skirts and jellies, she took to the great outdoors of the Southwest on her bike, up and down the chronically potholed road to our house.

I mostly remember trying to make Genevi be the little sister that we wanted, someone who needed us and did whatever we said. She loved the name Sarah and whenever we played anything, that’s what she wanted to be called. But we knew that, and so demanded that she not be called Sarah, but a name that she hated: Alice. “If you aren’t Alice,” we said, “you can’t play with us.” Genevi, tortured by the ultimatum, usually ended up in tears.

It wasn’t until I had to move back home as an adult, that my relationship with my littlest sister began to look like a friendship. She was a teenager then, with a life and friends, but she still wanted to talk to me, to be with me, creating an opportunity I didn’t deserve. And I discovered, though separated by eight years, we were standing on common ground.

I was explaining one day how I felt my disabilities were closing in on me, that they were keeping me from being who I wanted to be and doing what I wanted to do; and then, when I thought I might get some real pity, Genevi looked at me and said she felt the same way. She had trouble reading. She told me how this inability to accomplish something that so many of us take for granted made so much of her life difficult. She got nervous in classes when everyone took turns to read, and was always having to think of excuses for getting skipped over. Street signs went by too fast to decipher; comprehending written directions akin to remembering names in a Russian novel. Above all, she didn’t want to look stupid, and remained on alert for an ambush at every turn.

I jumped in big sister style to tell her all the things I felt a ‘seasoned’ handicapped person knows, like that you have to learn to not be afraid to tell other people the truth about who you are, that everyone has things to hide, that your disability can be an advantage...but in the middle my eloquent dismissal, I stopped, and for the first time, I was really seeing how hard it is to do that. What would it be like to have so much trouble doing something that comes so easily to most? How much would that have affected my life, to walk into a classroom afraid every day that I couldn’t keep up with my peers? How would I have dealt?

And so Genevi became my ‘little big sister.’ We joke about being a walking freak show, me a mere 5’3’’ with my one arm, and she nearly six feet with the kind of body that makes men stop on the street to ask if she has a boyfriend.

“I think my boobs are my biggest disability,” Genevi tells me, laying across my bed in a usual interruption of whatever I was doing. I smile because it sounds funny and also true. She wears a triple D bra, which she often points out, but still means very little to me except I know she can never find any that fit except next to the girdles in the grandma section. She said she found a website that sells bras for women “whose cup runneth over.” We both laugh. What used to be a rare moment is increasingly more common with us, laughing about our various disabilities.

A while ago, Genevi wanted a breast reduction surgery, so my parents agreed to the possibility if she first lost some weight. She signed up with a weight loss program that cost a lot of money and got no results. She changed her diet, weighed her food on a little scales in the kitchen, ate only ten nuts at a sitting, and went to the gym religiously. But nothing happened. Weeks passed, months, and she would just gain or lose a pound here and there. She’s finally off the plan. She’s lost more weight just being happy and living life and she’s not talking about breast reductions anymore. She’s even started showing a little more cleavage, much to Mom’s chagrin. The girls are coming out of hiding and so is Genevi’s insecurity.

“They’re just so much a part of who I am,” she says.