The New York Times reports in the 9 March sports section that a blind skier, Mac Marcoux, skis in competitions by following a partner and the colours of the leader's suit as well as radioed instructions. Rather than a cloying sweet and "inspirational" story of the "brave" cripple overcoming nearly insurmountable odds, the piece explored the relationships between the skiers. Relationship stories better than those kinds of overcoming stories that make me puke.
Oh, give all respect in the world to people who train for a race, competitions, and athletic goals. Give tremendous accolades to others who seek and work to deal with disabilities better themselves and then work further for a purpose to better the world. Not even the most bitter curmudgeon begrudges bettering the world. Nevertheless, most of those stories feature a plucky hero or heroine struggling with a smile to surmount obstacles and everyone lives happily ever after.
Since possibly the last time I walked came last August, I am not a happy camper, yet everyone on earth wants to fit me in the happy phase of coping, judging me, letting me know what I ought to do, and pushing me around with the ponderous weight of their expectations and these happy lives.
Why are you angry? At least you still have all your faculties.
That amounts to a small comfort while rolling my wheelchair through the small halls of Carnegie Gardens--a what, a rest home, a rehab centre, a place in which to stack the refuse of society: the vegetative, the elderly and confused. the elderly and obese, the alzheimer patients who slip in and out of contact with what most of us know as reality, the charming old lady driving her electric scooter and with one of her hands frozen by a stroke with middle finger extended, a place to warehouse those of us who just can't take care of ourselves--with me bereft of friends and with family owning mini vans so they can't get my fat ass out of here for even a few hours.
So my goals rank a little lower than sking and other sports: conquering those primal needs one must master to live independently like bathing, dressing, and wiping my own ass.
So yes, since the rules of Medicare, my Medicare advantage plan, the "pending" Medicaid application, all work together against me learning to regain my independence, this engenders much anger, rage, and righteous indignation and no one has a right to tell me not to feel that way, not even God Hisownself, dammit.
But that burning rage can consume the soul so one must manage it. Manage, not repress for repression foments a whole new sea of mental troubles.
Expressing this seething anger comes better with a cool voice, sarcasm, vitriol and wit, especially when dealing with doctors who have developed a remarkable capacity to endure my pain and insurance lackeys there to explain but not help, especially not to help me learn to walk again.
No one in the damn world cares whether my spinal cord will atrophy further still, robbing me of all ability to move except for feebly at the shoulders and to wag my sharp tongue. Paralysis for the second time in my life. Paralysis and dialysis.
Some life, huh?
So don't expect me to smile.
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