Hey Nobel committee, you got it wrong
I volunteered for his campaign, I believed in his message of hope and change, I voted for him, swelled with pride when he was elected, and felt proud when I recently saw him deliver a speech in person. But Nobel committee, you’ve been blinded by his aura, the very cult of personality conservatives love to mock. You’ve reaffirmed your liberal leanings in the eyes of the right and dealt a blow to your own credibility by awarding Obama the Nobel Peace Prize. What, you couldn’t wait for year two to see if he is an actual agent of change or just talks of it? I’m not going to pretend I know who the other candidates were, but am certain they have spent years meaningfully pushing for peace in the world and you overlooked them when you nominated Obama just 2 months into his presidency. Shame on you.
The flap of a butterfly’s wings
Sometimes the smallest of things can trigger much larger events resulting in much larger consequences. I broke my neck August 6, 2004 on a bike track in Burlington, North Carolina, but strangely, the event that triggered this occurred on a bike track in Pennsylvania just the few days after September 11, 2001.
2001 was the year that I returned to bike racing. I had taken four years off midway through college and after. I had raced professionally prior to that layoff and was returning to the sport as an amateur - a sport that had become much faster and four years younger than I had remembered. I was now 26 years old, racing in the 19-27-year-old category. It was very competitive, but I managed. What I lacked in strength I had trained for when I was younger, I made up for with a smooth pedal stroke and efficient technique over the jumps and through the turns. By midway through the summer, I was regularly winning local races and my starts out of the starting gate were better than they had ever been.
In my long racing career up to that point, I had won state titles and championships, a national race of champions, and a national top 10 in my age group. The one, relatively minor, title I have yet to attempt to win was a Gold Cup championship. That summer I set my mind to doing so. I rode and trained and managed to stay healthy throughout the summer. I arrived in Pennsylvania to find a track to my liking, wide and downhill with perfect turns and smooth jumps. I won the pre-race on Friday night. I dominated the Saturday national from qualifying though to the main event. Sunday was the Gold Cup event. I was a bit stiff and sluggish, given a 9:30 AM start. I still managed to qualify for the main event with a second place in the first round. The main event was several hours later and I was not the least bit anxious. I was awake and loose and couldn’t wait to take the start.
On the starting gate, I was focused and not the least bit nervous, and when the gate dropped, I cranked out with perfect timing and had everyone beat after the first two pedals. But as I pushed down for a third stroke, my foot slipped off of my pedal and everyone jumped ahead of me two bike lengths by the time I was back on. Despite this, I managed to work my way back to the front only to lose by half a bike length in the end.
It hurt, and I got over it, but I insisted that I would come back the following year and do it again. Midway through the following summer my season ended when I crashed headfirst, extended my arms and dislocated my shoulder. This event, too, would also play a significant role in breaking my neck two years later.
The following year, I was all set to get ready for that event and went down to the track in Charlotte, North Carolina to practice a week before the Gold Cup was to be held there. I ended up crashing, breaking my hand and bruising my ribs.
2004 was to be the year. I had been riding well, and I wasn’t specifically training for the event and not quite taking it as seriously as I had previous years. I was just enjoying racing. I had taken a month off, but got back on the bike as the event drew closer. August 6th was a beautiful night and I had arrived at my local track following a race that had just finished. I was there with the sole purpose of training to win the title that had eluded me with the slip of a pedal three years earlier. I lost control down a third straight away, over a rhythm section of jumps and began to loop out backwards. At that moment, my instinct was to let go of my handlebars and put my arms out to break my fall. But then, in the time it takes a butterfly to flap its wings, I thought about the crash that dislocated my shoulder. I had extended my arms to break my fall and ended up needing surgery. With that in mind I decided it would be best for me to hold on to my bike, tuck my head down, and just brace for impact. This resulted in exposing my spine to take the brunt of the impact, which it did.
Following a spinal cord injury, everyone thinks about what could’ve been. “What if I didn’t drive while drunk?”
“What if I didn’t dive into the shallow end of the pool?”
“What if I didn’t instigate that fight?”
For me, I don’t think about it much anymore, but when I do, I think not only of the accident itself, but of the events leading up to it. I think about how single-mindedly I pursued a relatively minor title. I just needed to prove to myself that I still had it in me. The accidents and the surgery likely would have convinced me to retire if only I had just attained that one elusive thing. If only my foot had just stayed on that pedal.
Latent Anger
You know how there are certain things everyone says they wouldn’t wish upon their worst enemy? That’s often true until latent anger sets in following a catastrophic loss. After I broke my neck, I felt the same way… for a while. The suffering and hallucinations I experienced in intensive care felt like torture, but it was at the hands of doctors who were ostensibly doing what’s best for me. I became sympathetic to people who had undergone actual torture, in war or domestically, at the hands of a sadist rather than in ICU. As I would lie in bed in recovery, I had high hopes of a full recovery. I could feel and move my feet, and I had an amazing woman who swore she’d stay with me through it all.
Six months later, she was gone, I wasn’t get much more function back, and was living in a nursing home. At first the anger took a seemingly benign form - I’d see someone else in rehab with an injury worse than mine and was glad it wasn’t me. Then I’d meet people with injuries not as bad as mine and I’d get jealous, maybe even a bit angry inside, when I’d learn they were doing something careless like driving drunk or diving into shallow water.
As time passed and hopelessness set in I began to think dark thoughts. Surrounded by suffering old folks at the nursing home, I’d think that I’d be willing to put any one of them out of their misery with my bare hands if it would get me my body back. I would see an injury on a football field or see a news report of an accident and hope the worst, that maybe there would be one more person in the world who would lose everything like I had. Out in the world, I’d see happy couples and wonder how happy they’d be if this had happened to them. I’d see kids doing tricks on skateboards and bikes without helmets and think about how I wore a helmet and didn’t rode over my head (although I always did as a kid).
But time passes, and the anger fades. Four years later, I was telling my therapist that I still sort of hoped to see a spinal cord injury when a pro football player was injured on the field for a while. Part of it is latent anger, but part of it has to do with wanting the world to be exposed to spinal cord injuries, wanting a second coming of Christopher Reeves, wanting the world to see that most times, a full physical recovery isn’t in the cards.
One of the things that has helped me resolve some of these issues is an 18 year old named Ricky. He worked in a bike shop I go to for wheelchair adjustments, and was everything I’d been looking for in a catastrophe candidate - he was young, attractive, reckless, had a beautiful girlfriend, and was taking a year off to goof around before college. A year ago, he was doing a rail grind down the railing of a flight of stairs on his bike. He wasn’t wearing a helmet, but that ultimately didn’t matter given the fact that, when he came down head-first, the crushing of his cervical vertebrae absorbed all the impact, protecting his brain, but leaving him a C4-C5 quadriplegic only able to move one arm, but not the hand. He’ll never feed himself, bathe, drive a car, proficiently use a computer, spend a day alone, or do many other things again.
I now think of him every day. Whenever I struggle to do anything, he comes to mind. It’s interesting, because I’ve never been able to embrace religion, never felt a daily presence of God in my life - I’ve wanted to, but have never felt it. But recently, the one thing that seems to get me though my struggles or appreciate what I have is thoughts of that poor kid. I’m for once able to step outside of my own circumstance and mourn and genuinely hope for someone else. So while I still, admittedly, have some issues, I consider myself a recovering quadriplegic - my heart and my mind continue to heal.
Let’s get the band back together
As I’ve been starting to feel less depressed lately (hopefully this Celexa is the answer), I’ve been having the urge to try and pick up my career in film and video, a career that I left on the ground of a bike track in NC 5 years ago.
But how? I have no contacts in the industry anymore and I’m in the DC area now. The other day, I was lamenting all the amazing things that had emerged in the industry while I’ve been away, specifically in Apple’s Final Cut Pro, the editing app that had allowed me to build a business in 2000 when it was only at version 1.
So I was reading about what’s new in version 7 (I currently use ver. 6 for all my silly dog’s videos) and I came across a link for becoming a Certified Trainer for Final Cut Pro. At first I thought it was probably just some techno geek thing that anyone who attends a seminar can get, until I read the application prerequisites:
- minimum 3 years of professional experience using Final Cut Pro
- minimum 1 year of teaching/training
Pretty steep! But I more than meet those requirements, as I’ve not only run a business around the software, I TAUGHT Final Cut Pro to community college students for 3 years. So I submitted an application and was accepted and invited to take the entrance exam.
So here’s my ultimate plan:
- Get certified, which now requires me to pass an entrance exam, then take a 4-day class and a final exam in NYC. The tricky part is being ready for the class in 3 weeks, as it is the only one on the east coast for many months to come.
- Work as a trainer, which hopefully puts me in contact with bunches of other creative pros, editors, and production houses.
- Then go wherever the wind takes me.
So, I now feel like I have a goal, which is something I feel like I’ve been missing for a while. Now I must study!
If you voted for Obama and believe in better healthcare and affordable healthcare, please call your local Democratic representative and reblog this/pass it along.
This appeal is not just some BS request. I literally mean it. The Democrats are losing the health care debate right now. The Republicans and the insurance companies have stirred up lies and fear and are succeeding.
The main issue centers around the idea of a “public option”, which would be a government owned and operated health insurance company. The reason for this is to create a company that will compete with existing insurance companies, forcing them to provide better care and lower their costs. Such an entity already exists for seniors, Medicare, and it works really well.
Republicans are claiming that this entity will put private insurance companies out of business and will put the government in charge of health decisions - for example deciding whether someone gets a treatment or not. Currently, that happens to be how it is with all insurance companies, including Medicare.
As for putting insurance companies out of business, the US government and state governments currently have organizations that compete with private industry. State universities have not put private universities out of business and have allowed many more people the opportunity to get an education. The U.S. Postal Service competes with FedEx and UPS.
Right now, Republicans are trying to kill the public option. They claim that that is their only objective, that they would be open to health care reform if only the public option was removed. The truth is that their goal is to reject as much health care reform as possible because they want to hobble the president and win back seats in the Congress.
You are not going to change the mind of any Republican representatives, which is okay, because health care reform can be passed without most of them onboard. Unfortunately, there are fiscally conservative Democrats and weak kneed Democrats who are resisting the public option. Many of these people are up for reelection next year.
So, I’m begging all of you to please call your local representatives or state senator’s offices, and tell them not to back down and that you support the public option and believe that it is the only way that health care costs will be brought down, as there is currently no mechanism in the health care system to incentivize it to do so.
Find your congressman using this website:
Please take a few minutes to call and briefly tell whoever answers that the public option is essential.
And please, reblog this, don’t just “like” it. Thanks.
“So, what the hell happened to nonlinearmind?”
By now you’ve probably heard that I clocked my head pretty hard Friday night. It was probably around 2:30 in the morning and a group of us were in search of pizza. About 15 minutes into our trek, I fell backwards in my wheelchair and cracked my head against the asphalt, splitting it open. I wasn’t even drunk. Here’s how it happened:
There are lots of obstacles that a wheelchair can’t get over without doing a wheelie. It’s one of the first things you figure out when you’re out in public. I learned pretty early Friday night that New York has a gutter at the bottom of its curb cuts that, if not careful, could have thrown me forward out of my chair. So, I was taking the precaution of doing a wheelie at the bottom of each. My chair has safety wheels in the back that prevent me from falling all the way backward to the ground.
When we got to the bar, there was a step to get in, and it’s usually easiest to push the safety wheels out of the way so that someone can tip me way back to get me up the stair. While I was at the club, I was most nervous about being carried up and down the three flights of stairs, and was quite relieved when we got to the bottom. I explained to the bouncer how to go about repositioning the safety wheels, but he did not lock them properly. If I had known that I didn’t have them, I probably would not have done any wheelies and instead opted to go really slowly down each curb cut.
After several blocks, I happened to do a wheelie down one that had a smooth transition at the bottom, rather than a gutter, and my wheels went right out from under me and I hit the ground before I could even try to lean forward or stop myself. I hit my head harder than any time that I can remember. The sensation was bizarre, because I think the metal plates that I have in my neck reverberated briefly like a tuning fork. For about the first 10 seconds, I could not move either of my arms and was in sheer terror that I had broken my neck again above where my plates were. It was a flashback in my mind to when I was originally injured and unable to move, but it faded pretty quickly. I slammed my right funnybone on the pavement and my right hand went numb. Sensation has still not returned fully, but I heard that it will in a couple weeks or months. It is starting to already.
Once I was back up and wiped away the cobwebs, I tried to joke around a bit, because I didn’t want anyone to worry. I’ve seen people fall out of wheelchairs before, so I know how scary it looks to people. But I’m not made of glass, and if it hadn’t been for the blood, I probably would’ve continued on.
When I got to the hospital, that is when the muscles in my neck started to get sore. I had given myself whiplash, which I recognized from falls I had taken on my bike in the past. At the hospital, despite the late hour, @emzbulletproof, @dexter_colt, and @tj were nice enough to stay for a couple of hours. @tj Still had blood on his arms from helping me back into my wheelchair and applying pressure to my head with somebody’s T-shirt (sorry to whoever’s T-shirt that was).
I gave everybody permission to leave. I didn’t want anyone to feel like they needed to stay with me all night. I’ve been in a few hospitals before. It meant a lot to me that they were willing to.
As part of the routine, the nurse put an IV into my arm in case I would need any heavy drugs. After drinking as much as I did, I was feeling very dehydrated. I called the nurse over and explained as much.
“Do you think that you might be able to give me an IV of fluids?”
“Sure, we’ll go ahead and get you some.”
So, if you ever want to prevent a bad hangover, request IV fluids. It beats the hell out of drinking water all night.
Later I asked for pain medication for my neck and she told me that I cannot swallow any pills until they x-ray my neck.
“Is there anything that you can give me through the IV?”
“Would you like a little bit of morphine?”
I marveled, for a split second, at how quickly a bad situation can be turned around with just those few simple words. They may be even more powerful than “I love you”.
“Sure,” I said while trying to hide my giddiness, “sounds good.”
She came back later and gave me 4 cc of morphine into my shoulder. It wasn’t enough to make me hallucinate or anything like I had experienced the last time I was on morphine, but of all things, when I closed my eyes, the random beeps and noises of the ER all came into perfect sync to, and I shit you not, the musical theme from the original Legend of Zelda Nintendo game.
It made the pain go away instantly, and the video game music drowned out the restless drunk a couple of beds over that had become my Gannon.
I managed to sleep here and there and in between I thought about how amazing the night was. I told @poeks the next day that it was probably the most fun I’ve had since I was injured five years ago this week and right up there with parties from college. You all are an amazing bunch of people and it was amazing how I did not feel disabled while I was around you.
The next morning, I awoke to hospital food and was asked how my pain was doing. Guess how I answered?
About six hours later, after the second performance of Zelda music had returned to beeps and hissing and intercom announcements, I figured that I would call Emz & Dexter to come and meet me. We left the hospital and then went off to have lunch with her sister and friends.
All in all, an amazing weekend. Thank you to everyone for being a part of it!
Portorock got me thinking of a couple of things that have been on my mind
Everybody is expendable and replaceable. The degree to which has to do with the effort that you put into the relationship and vice versa. For most of you, I don’t think I’ve put much effort into forming genuine relationships, just as most of you have not with me. And that is okay. It’s just the way it is and there’s no reason to feel guilty about it.
But the thing that we should think about is what it means to be valuable within any community, whether it is filled with physical pavement and buildings or inhabited by imaginary unicorns. I prefer original user-generated content on tumblr, just as I do on twitter. That says so much more about a person than just posting silly pictures you happen to find funny. That stuff is junk food; cheap and easy to get, but not nearly as valuable as a home-cooked meal. Sure, sometimes it can be damn funny, but if your posting ratio is 9 to 1 junk food/original content, what do I really know about you?
Sorry to say, you’re expendable. If you quit posting tomorrow, I probably wouldn’t notice.
One thing that bothered me a while back after JamieID died, was how people would, a few weeks after, post a picture of their follows with her name listed, with a trite “I miss Jamie”. Really? Then why not tell us why, what you feel, what hurts, what is missing. Memorialize your “friend”. Otherwise, it just feels exploitative and a far cry from the genuine feelings and essays that people took the time to express in the days following her death.
I’m going to the New York City tweetup this weekend, and to be honest, I don’t know most of the people going. But I hope to know everyone better by the time I leave. I know that I will because everyone there is expending effort, investing in friendships in ways that you just can’t easily do online.
But, if online is where you want to stay with your relationships, you need to put in the effort, just as you would with any friendship in the physical world. Post pictures of yourself. Write about yourself or about your interests. Leave tumblr for a few minutes to chat on IM or Skype with a follower. Otherwise you’re just recycling junk food. You’re just the Web 2.0 version of my mom forwarding around e-mails.
- nonlinearmind is an opinionated Individual, publisher of an imaginary magazine and tfQ’s Person of the Year®.
The living room project
I’ve spent the past 10 years as a creative professional, first in the film and video field, and then in the web and graphic design area. Throughout, I’ve paid little attention to my surroundings - and very rarely do I look at my walls, which is why I’ve never really had anything interesting on them. I’ve become bored with my career and have sought new creative outlets. Besides launching a moderately successful magazine along with eight upscale stores in major cities, I’ve decided to tackle my living room.
My favorite restaurant has this vintage, French ad from the 30s hanging on a wall that I’ve always wanted. Of course, I’ve never wanted to spend the money on large prints, so I figured out ways to do it on the cheap. I found the print, as well as another, that has the look of the same Art Deco era, at a poster shop online. Of course, they were only poster-sized, so I scanned them in at a really high resolution and took them to Kinkos to be printed in 4’ x 4’ and 3’ X 5’ dimensions. Kinko’s accidentally charged me only $30 for one of them (rather than $120). They enlarged perfectly and I will be spraying them with a lacquer to protect them from fading.
My dad is a home carpentry genius, and he is building a couple of custom frames for them out of oak, and I’ve designed them to have a pair of Metropolis-style overhanging picture frame lights that I picked up from Lowes.
I plan on painting the far wall of my living room and Orange-ish yellow, along the same lines as in the pictures.
One of the ugliest things that I have in my living room is my dog’s giant cage. I’ve been giving a lot of thought, and finally came upon the idea of getting a large upright radio from the 30s and extending the back of it so that it conceals the cage. I plan on having a little iPod dock built into the front.
Once I have all that done, I’ll figure out what to do with lamps and shades and furniture. Right now, I’ve managed to do all of this under $1000:
Posters: $50
Enlargements: $130
Oak beveled frame wood $350
Lights: $80
Radio $200
Right now, my dad is finishing up the frames. Hopefully the pictures will be up in the next couple of weeks. I’ll upload photos as we progress.
Pictured below are the pictures, frame in progress, radio, and one of the lamps.
Why Michael Jackson is our Citizen Kane
I have long been a big fan of the film Citizen Kane. Over the past month, I’ve not been able to help but think of the strange comparisons between the life of the fictional Charles Foster Kane and the life of Michael Jackson. Here are a few interesting parallels that I’ve come up with.
Both were born of humble beginnings.
Both had physically abusive fathers.
In the film Citizen Kane, a gold mine was discovered on the Kane’s property. Wealthy Mr. Thatcher offered to raise the young child in an affluent environment, away from the abusive father, and purchase mining rights from the Kane family. Quincy Jones recognized the gold mine that was Michael Jackson the soloist and freed him from his family.
Both became wealthy media moguls and famous and powerful beyond their wildest dreams.
Citizen Kane married both a woman who bore him a child and an untalented woman who wanted to be a singer. Michael Jackson married an untalented woman who wanted to be a singer, followed by a woman who bore him children.
A sex scandal ruined Charles Foster Kane’s chances for political office and greater acclaim. A sex scandal ruined Michael Jackson’s image and chance for greater acclaim.
Both lived out the rest of their lives in recluse, on wildly extravagant estates - Citizen Kane on Xanadu and Michael Jackson on Neverland Ranch. Both collected material things and exotic animals.
By the end, both had become nearly unrecognizable from the sweet, innocent children they had started as. Both died with medical staff present in their homes.
The death of each shocked the world. Both had extravagant memorial services.
When it was all over, news reporters gathered in an attempt to try to better understand the lives of both.
I’m just going to put this out there…
I’m not the least bit racist, and should you need proof, I shall provide you with Document 033025 (pdf), which outlines my racial-harmony bonafides.
But let me say this; I cringe when a perfectly-english-speaking Latino, throws out some serious accente when pronouncing anything hispanic. Not saying I want to impinge upon your rights - in fact I would die to defend your right to pronounce words any way you like (which would be a lame thing to be known for dying for). In fact, I’d be willing to accept all of one or the other - perfect english or speaking with a Spanish accent (especially if you’re Penelope Cruzish-looking). But none of this ‘suprise-our-built-in-lexicon-by-pronouncing-a-word-in-a-foreign-way-in-the-middle-of-a-perfectly-spoken-english-sentence’ shit.
Know this, and I’m talking to you Ms. Sonyamayor, it bugs this gringo.
Just trying to open a dialogue.
GPOFSFTLTW (Gratuitous picture of yourself standing for the last time Wednesday)
This photograph was taken about two weeks before my accident in July 2004. That was the love of my life, Lynn, and me standing in front of the statue of my favorite president, Franklin Roosevelt.
Often times I’ve thought of the coincidences surrounding my accident that have lead me to believe that things happen as intended. For example, 15 minutes before my crash, I made a joke to a friend about people being paralyzed racing BMX. Then I was. I had never made such a joke before that day.
The last person that I spoke to, seconds prior to my crash, was a kid named Brian Brown. When I came to in the hospital and was fully clearheaded, a couple of weeks after my accident, one of the first people I looked forward to seeing in the morning was a lively, wonderful volunteer who helped feed me breakfast. His name was also Brian Brown.
So when I look at this picture, it really doesn’t make me that sad. It just makes me think. The last picture of me ever standing was next to a man forever seated in a wheelchair… with his dog.
I guess I’ve looked particularly helpless lately
Well, it happened again. I’ve gone three years with my van and no one has ever asked me for help without me soliciting it, until a week ago. It happened again today. On both occasions, I simply had my door open with my ramp down. I had yet to move from my driver seat before someone asked me if I needed help. I wrote two posts about why it bothers me, and the general consensus was that I should always be grateful for someone willing to help.
Today I realized a second reason (or was it a third reason) that I’m bothered by people asking if I need help when I’m not struggling or not asked for it. It is a reason that I can never expect anyone to just know.
On August 6, 2004, I fell off my bike, hit the ground, and instantly felt nothing below my chest. I could barely move my arms. I’ve gone from that moment, to losing nearly everything in my life, but my life. I went through months of rehab, years of disappointment and depression, weeks of sitting in more shit and piss than any adult should ever have to, over a year in a nursing home, loneliness, uncertainty, and fear; to be where I am today - able to spend days independently, work, drive wherever I want, being mentally and physically stronger than I’ve been since that moment five years ago.
So, do I need help getting myself out of the car that I somehow got myself into? FUCK NO. But I guess you didn’t see that in me when my van ramp lowered.
“No, I’m fine. But thanks anyway.”
I injured my shoulder the other day…
I injured my right shoulder the other day when I fell out of my wheelchair (down a slight grass embankment). I think I tore my deltoid a little bit. I know this because, A. when you have very few muscles working to begin with, and you go through rehab, you learn to know what muscles you have, and B. I destroyed my left shoulder seven years ago in a bicycle crash where I tore my deltoid, shoulder capsule, rotator cuff, bicep tendon and broke a little piece of bone. Crashing hands-first is a good way to hyper-extend and/or dislocate your shoulder. I think I hyper-extended my right shoulder when I fell the other day.
So I’m taking it a little bit easier, not using my right arm as much and not pushing around with the dog as far. Today I began thinking about how a minor shoulder surgery would affect my life today, versus the extensive one seven years ago. Here is how I think the experiences would be different:
Seven years ago - Left shoulder - able-bodied
I had severely dislocated my shoulder, but was able to function every day for four months before I finally had surgery on it. Basically I was limited in what I could do overhead and in physical activities. Otherwise, I was able to lug around video equipment and do my job without limitation. My surgery lasted five hours, and after an hour of observation, I hopped in my mom’s car and she drove me home. Once I was at home, I sat on the couch fighting nausea while mom cooked me meals and watched movies with me. I went back to work the next day and was able to drive and work as a video editor using my right, predominant, hand. After a month, I was able to take my arm out of the sling, and went through three weeks of rehab, followed by another month of home exercises. During that month, my arm was weak, but I was able to work 100%. It took another three months before the shoulder felt good as new.
Hypothetical surgery today - left shoulder - quadriplegic
If I had even a minor dislocation that still needed surgery, I would not be able to push my wheelchair and would have to dust off my old power chair to use instead. Prior to surgery, I would still be able to use my computer with my left hand (which, after my spinal cord injury, is now my predominant hand). I would not be able to do transfers to and from my wheelchair, and would need somebody to help me with that. That also means I would not be able to drive. If I went in for surgery, I probably would spend the day in the hospital, just as a precaution. I would probably be brought home in a medical transport, to avoid the need to get me in and out of the car. Once at home, I would probably spend a week in bed to avoid too much movement. Once out of bed and in my power chair, I would have a hard time doing things with just my right hand. As it stands right now, I don’t use it for much. I would probably be able to use my computer once I get used to it, but I don’t think I would be able to prepare meals and do much without the aid of my left hand. I would definitely have to have an aide on duty all day. After a few weeks, my arm would come out of the sling, and I would go and do rehab. I would need to have someone else drive my van while I rode in the back. It would take a few weeks just to have full range and a moderate amount of strength back in the arm, not to mention the fact that I would be weak in my right arm from being in the power chair and not pushing around. After a few weeks of rehab, it would probably take months and months of strengthening and pushing my chair, and relearning how to transfer before I was back to 100%.
So, as I was walking my dog today, and feeling the sting in my shoulder, I thought of this scenario, and then thought “maybe I should take it easy for a couple of days”.
Regarding my previous post, I’d like to hear from some guys.
I think the situation would be completely different for a women as they, in general, grow up being offered unsolicited help from men more often than boys do. It’s just how our society is. So where a newly-disabled woman may see it as friendly - an extension of the familiar kindness offered to her for years, as a man, I feel it emasculating to be offered help every single day for the simplest of things. Sometimes I’ll be just pushing along, when I suddenly feel a push from behind from someone who thinks I need the help without even asking. I generally grin and bear it - politely ask them not to or that I don’t need help. But it wears on me day after day for the past five years and realizing it will always be this way. When do I get to be a man that helps you one of these days?
I was just mean to a well-intentioned stranger and my inner Jiminy Cricket is kicking me
I was just transferring from my driver seat to my wheelchair in my apartment complex, and a stranger came up and asked if I needed help with anything, completely unsolicited.
I smiled and politely responded, “help with what?”
He stumbled around a bit, sort of mimed pushing a wheelchair, “help with…”Once he was completely uncomfortable, I said, “No, I’m fine. Thanks though.”
And then he walked away and now I feel a little bit guilty.
On the one hand, I hate being looked at as if I need taking care of and can’t do things for myself, or that, if I needed help, I would somehow be unable to ask for it myself.
On the other hand, he was eager to help. The question is, was he doing it for me or for the righteous feelings of self-worth he would gain for taking initiative and helping a disabled person? Let’s face it, many of the things that we do are to achieve that feeling.
Either way, he must’ve caught me at a bad time, as I usually just say, “I’m fine, but thank you.” I think it was the fact that he volunteered to help without even assessing my needs; I wasn’t really struggling with anything at the time.
What I have likely managed to do is leave the impression that disabled people must be bitter and don’t like to be helped. He would probably be less likely to offer to help someone in the future. That’s why I tried to track them down once I got out of my car, to apologize, but he was nowhere to be found. And now Jiminy Cricket is making me write this.
Your thoughts?
