Katnu4

Setting Aside the Jobless Blues

2010-02-28T20:13:00Z

Chalk it up to cabin fever, absurd amounts of snowfall or a solid month of shared family viruses but lately my search for employment tipped toward that uncomfortable feeling called an obsession. I'm not sure what it is, but the more my resume goes unnoticed, the more single-minded I become, the more determined, the more, well, pissed off. Yesterday, as I was combing my email for resume/job match alerts to which I'm linked, it dawned on me that maybe I should give it a rest. There are, after all, other non-familial tasks for me finish. Take for example, the gym. I haven't been there since the end of December when my orthopedic rehab ended abruptly.Yes, I have truly been snowed in, unable to get out of my house, but a girl's gotta exorcise her pissed offness somehow. So I'm going back. Tomorrow. Even if I have to take Ethan kicking and screaming to the daycare they have set up at the Y--he hates it--the promise of pizza afterward isn't enough to appease him.

Then of course there's the writing. But I'm always working on my writing. I mean, haven't I been finishing my book for years?

Maybe getting off the horsepill antibiotics for the Sinus Infection From Hell has just made me crabby.Those lovely shade of pink gigantoid missile-shaped medical miracles cleared up my skin and I lost some weight too so hey, that ain't bad.

Maybe it's time for me to think outside the proverbial box when it comes to a paycheck. I've been meaning to set-up a website to support the freelance work I do as a writing coach but I just haven't gotten around to it. I'm clueless as to how to get started so if anyone out there in disaboomland can recommend one of those push button build- your- own- website sites that you actually believe was worth your time and money please let me know.

And didn't I say I was finally going to learn to drive? I suppose it'll help get over my recently intensified hate/hate relationship with cars. I might have the chance to go out there and whack a tire or two in retaliation for the one that 'bumped' my leg last summer. It' means that I have to call Kessler again and join their'driving rehab' program. I'll call and make an appointment. Tomorrow.

Keeping My Father Company

2010-02-13T23:42:00Z

I talked to my father yesterday. This wouldn't be a big deal except that I haven't talked to him in a couple of years and I knew it would be a shock for him to hear my voice.

First I got a call from my brother who was panicked about the possibility of my father's death. "He's having trouble breathing again. He called me in the middle of the night. He's scared."

"Have you called 911?" Sometimes I could kick myself for my knee-jerk crisis counselor response.

"No," says my brother. "He doesn't want to go. He hates hospitals."

"We all hate hospitals,"I wanted to yell to him, call 911."

But I didn't say that. I let my brother talk about his difficult relationship with our father. How he had mixed feeling about having to take care of him now. How he wished our father had taken better care of himself.

"...And he's still smoking dope."

Several years ago my father was diagnosed with emphysema and congestive heart failure. Smoking of any kind is tantamount to a suicide attempt. I didn't say that either.

"I understand that it's his choice to smoke," said my brother.

"It's the choice of an addict," I countered. My brother cleared his throat. He didn't like how I framed our father's life in the context of his various addictions.

"...So I'm calling to tell you that I don't know how much time he has left."

There was a pause.

"Okay," I said.

He was waiting me to say something more and when I didn't he started talking fast. He talked about his responsibilities about his mixed feelings about taking care of him, about not wanting to pass judgement on my relationship with our father--

"Are you saying you want me to call him?"[

My brother sounded instantly relieved. "Would you?"

"I'll call him, I said.

Shortly afterward, I got a call from my mother. She was worried about my brother's agitation over his father. She told me she would go over to my father place to see how he was doing.

"I'll get him to the hospital," she said."

"Are you sure you wanna do this?"

You're brother has to work. I'll do it."

My parents have lived apart for decades. She viewed him completely differently now. He was ill, physically weak, a shrunken version of his former brawny self He was no longer the big, loud overwhelming abuser she once had been forced to escape.If anyone could get him to go to the hospital, I knew she could. She was heading over there once she off the phone with me.

I'll call him and keep him company 'til you get there," I said.

"Good, she said.

My heart beat a little faster at the thought of talking to my father after such a long silence between us. Would I run out of things to say? Should I do this? A five second debate flashed through my head. Should I do this? Would I run out of things to say I made sure I was comfortably seated, and dialed.

"Hello? He answered the phone almost immediately. I imagined lying down in his apartment, his phone right by his hand,My father's deep voiced quavered. He was breathless, gasping. The low timbre of his voice washed over me and I wasn't nervous anymore. This was the voice of my childhood.

J?" I said, It's Katinka"

"Oh!" he said. 'Oh!"

"I'm breathless, he said.

"I know," I said. People have been telling me that you're going through a hard time."

"I have a cold and it makes the breathing even worse."

"Mom is on the way to help you. I'll stay on the phone with you til she get's there."

Yah? He said. The thought of someone coming over, even my mother was already making him feel better. He was trying to catch his breath but couldn't do it.

"Please pardon me, he said, "I can't talk much."

"I'll talk, " I said.

We stayed on the phone for about forty minutes, until I heard my mother take the phone from him and tell me she'd arrived. I talked about anything I could think of, about Ethan, about my cat who was sitting on my chest, about my recovery from my accident, about lovely New Jersey. During the call my father did ease his breath. He seemed less nervous. Considering our family history, the danger, the domestic violence I could've easily hung up on him or yelled at him or ignored him altogether.For me, this call was a small example of 'staying in the moment' of letting go of painful history to help my father feel better in the present. It occured to me that even the most estranged, exploded family like mine no doubt is, sometimes has the rare chance to come together and support one another. At least while we're all still breathing.

The Halo Effect

2010-01-29T20:02:00Z

It's been three weeks since that remarkable interview at the independent living center where I hoped for a case management job. During the interview I felt that interviewer and had truly connected. The flow of our conversation was both relaxed and tinged with the excitement of this job being such a good fit with my social service experience. We talked about the second interview where I would meet the director of the organization. I asked as I was leaving whether I should call in several weeks 'just to see where we are" in terms of scheduling a second interview.

"No," my interviewer said, "we'll call you."

That call never came. So I didn't even make it to the second interview.

I can't help but ask myself--is it something I said? Is it my resume? Am I too old? Did I come on too strong or not strong enough?

Maybe.

We had such as vibrant conversation, I thought. At one point during our exchange, my interviewer said, "It's such a pleasure to meet someone and not have to explain the meaning of the Independent Living Philosophy."

"I am the Independent Living Philosophy," I said and we laughed. From the beginning my interviewer said repeatedly how much she admired the things I had done. She wanted to know all about my work as a Writing Coach, a business I had started that is commensurate to my interests (and my degree) and a way to bring in some extra money as I look for a job While the interview flowed easily, a little alarm went off when she started admiring me aloud and veering away from my qualifications for the specific job.

She showered me with praise. I'll admit it felt good. but somehow it also created some distance between us. She put me on some kind of pedestal because I wasn't looking for assistance like the usual client with a disability. I was actually putting myself out there for a job, like anyone would do.

It would be easy to find fault with my interviewer. Too easy. I liked her intelligence, her frankness. She would have made a great boss. When someone sees me as a functional independent person, I tell them stories, give them work-related examples, evidence of that functionality. Is that too much information?

Maybe. If it is, I feel like it shouldn't be.

As we were talking I felt a halo appear above my head. I saw it there as clear as the bullet points on my resume. Did she create the halo or did I conjure it for myself ?Don't tell me how fantastic I am, I wanted to say to her. Give me a job. Halos are lovely because they make everything seem golden. Halo's don't help pay the bills.

The other tactic of Not giving information about my accomplishments feels like it dumbs me down, plays into a streotypical a narrow image of disability which hardly feels appropriate.

The answer must be to find the balance between "Disability fabulousness" and the reality of my day to day life as a person, a woman, a mother, a writer, a social service professional with a disability.

It's slightly ironic considering that by definition, with my cp, I have no balance. Literally. The crutches are there to keep me from falling down. My crutches create the balance I need to live my life from day to day. Still it felt good to put myself out there. To know that I'm actively looking for a job and not sitting on my ass waiting for something to happen.Some friends are saying that I should call my interviewer back anyway, just to check in. Jog her memory. Keep it casual. All I can say to that is: maybe.

Poster Children Unite!

2010-01-14T02:37:00Z

Today I was doing some research for a piece I'm working on, and I googled the words, "lyrics, jerry lewis telethon."It's old news to most of us that back in the day, kids with cp and lots of other mobility disabilities would be put on display as a means of raising money on the annual telethon. For the life of me I couldn't remember the words of the song the kids sang year after year.

I found the lyrics online. The song goes like this:

Look at us, we're walking,
Look at us, we're talking,
We who never walked or talked before.
Look at us, we're laughing,
We're happy and we're laughing,
Thank you from our hearts forevermore.
But there are so many other children
Who only speak with a silent prayer
For those of us who haven't been so lucky
We hope and pray you will always care.
And someday they'll be walking
Someday they'll be talking.
Imagine walking to the candy store!
But the fight has just begun
Get behind us everyone
The hope will make our dreams come true-
Thanks to you, thanks to you.

I was a poster child too--for a disability organization in Montreal where I grew up. I was eight years old and begged for money in English and French. I was a professional .I wore a pretty dress and crown and smiled until my face hurt. It got to the point where I simply expected bipeds to give me money when I asked for it. Years later, at various jobs I've had to do some work in "Development' as it is politely called. Anything to do with fundraising now makes me break out in a sweat, I 'numb out' and am always surprised at how furious it makes me.

Anyone out there with poster child memories to share?

Keep Your Crutches Crossed!

2010-01-04T21:38:00Z

My new year just got a jumpstart because I got a call today asking me to come in for a job interview! Yay! Hurrah and Woohoo! It's my first interview in a year and a half. I've been sending out my resume out faithfully and getting ABSOLUTELY NO RESPONSE. Not even an acknowlegement that my resume was received. I chalked it up to a tanking economy, to the fact that I have no true work contacts in New Jersey, to the fact that I'm not twenty-five anymore. I came up with all sorts of reasonable excuses while continuing to launch my little resume into the big abyss.

My heart stopped when I heard the message. Could you please call us back to schedule an interview? Oh yes I can. I called, scheduled a date and time and joked that I would bring in a big box of chocolates for the office. Okay, so I probably shouldn't have joked but the woman on the phone laughed when I said that so I think I got away with it...

The interview is at an Independent Living Center in New Jersey. I love independent living centers and believe in their philsophy so I'm excited. Yes, I believe that every person with a disability has the right to make his or her own choices about how to live his or her life I mean, don't we?

Of course, some panic started to creep into my brain---Wait! I haven't "worked" in years--having a baby is such is soooo inconvenient when it comes to punching a clock, My legs aren't as strong as yet as they were pre-stupid car accident, and I can't lose ten pounds by thursday at 3:30 which is the appointed interview time.

I'm good at excuses.

So here I go pushing back the panic and making a to do list for the interview:

1. Cut my hair.

2.Take my interview suit to the dry cleaners.

3. Pack a copy of resume in my bag.

4. Mapquest the address and make sure I have a contact number on me in case my paratransit driver gets lost.

5. I already tried to book my trip but paratransit wasn't picking up the phone so I have to get up very early tomorrow morning and try again. (sigh)

6. Make up a list of interview questions and do a mock interview.

7. Try putting on some make up again. I've been living in the mommybox for so long that I have to practice putting on eye liner and learning how to form words while wearing lipstick. Maybe I should go out and buy some lipstick first....

Stay tuned to find out how the interview goes. Did I mention that I'm excited?

Some Difficult, Corny, Silly and Real Lessons I Learned in 2009.

2009-12-30T18:55:00Z

1. Watch out for cars! They don't see very well and have big, big teeth.

2. Pain management is a good thing, even if it comes in the form of bracing cups of tea and chocolate chip cookies.

3. Play with your kid during unexpected moments. Makes both of you feel really good. I played hide and seek with E while shopping at a holiday sale at the Gap. Made E happy, made the sales manager sad.

4.When your kid says "I have something to tell you," put down the cell phone tear yourself away from the computer, and listen. At least until your next email notification.

5. When dealing with a souless organization stay calm. If that doesn't work, write many letters and make many phone calls. If that doesn't work yell. If that doesn't work do all of the previously mentioned at the same time. If that doesn't work start your own soul-full organization.

6. When you need help ask for it. Really.

7. Never underestimate the power of uninterrupted sleep. And good books and friends and that funny OT contraption that helps you pull your socks on.

8. Get outside when you can. There will be lots of days and nights when you might not be able to go outside.If you don't go outside when you can all the days and nights will run in together until all you notice is the greyness of things and then people will want to give you drugs to turn the lights on inside your head. Believe me, going outside is easier.

9. Remember: You are not alone. You are not alone. You are not alone. This is especially evident when you leave your house.

10. Life is equal parts difficult and beautiful. I don't know, I'm still thinking about that one but I do know that when Your Life Truly Sucks it will soon pass into another moment that may suck less. Try to hold on for that suck less moment. It'll happen.

11. Add your own lesson here: ______________________________________

Happy New Year Disaboomers!

The Hug Schedule

2009-12-16T20:31:00Z

As as I was tucking Ethan into bed the other night, stuffing every free space on the mattress with stuffed animals, turning on the nightlight and generally performing the nightly before bed rituals, Ethan said to me with absolute certainty, "Mommy, I need a schedule."

"Schedule? What kind of schedule?" I had no idea what he was talking about. It surprised me that this gleefully rambunctious four year old could come up with the word, let alone the meaning of it. Let's get real: I would love to be one of these supermothers that keeps their kid on an activity schedule, sets up recurring playdates and is organized in that soccer mom kind of way. I count myself lucky that my son likes to go to bed at the same time every night and takes bathes voluntarily.

"Nooooo Mommy," he said in that exagerated, exasperated way of little kiddom "This, is my schedule. This pillow." He picked a small pillow decorated with painted lobsters. He listed numbers out loud : ..."50, 72, 12, 41....." Ethan waited for me to understand.

"You want to make a schedule of numbers?"

"Schedule for hugs!" he said and let himself fall back on his captain's bed for added drama.

"Ohhh! I said, you want to make 'Hug Schedule.'

"Yes, Mommy! Yes!" Excitement ejected him into the air.

Let me explain: When I got home from Kessler, Ethan was certain that I would, suddenly and without warning, go away again. To give him extra reassurance, I started a new routine at bed time. No matter who puts him to bed, I visit him without fail, five minutes after lights off. The 'Five Minute Check' as we call it, usually entails a hug. I sit in my wheelchair and he scrambles up on my lap. After he chooses a number from 1 to 100, the hug must last the number of seconds he dictates. Every night, he giggles as I squeeze him for all he's worth. I whisper and count in his ear. He let's his body go slack in a swoon and completely relaxes. This little ritual is just enough for him to pop happily back into bed without a worry of where I'll be when he wakes.

The next day at the kitchen table we made a grid of the days of the week and we filled in the squares with numbers. Ethan scribbled a bit on the page and pronounced it perfect. He took the stickers from a bag of apples and used them to stick the Hug schedule to his bedroom door. That night he checked the grid and declared that tonight being a Thursday was a 49 second hug. According to the first row of schedule.

"Okay," I said as he hopped up on my lap. He stared at the grid from his higher vantage point.

"What happens when the we use up all these numbers?"

"We'll make another hug schedule."

"Good," said Ethan.

I gave him a good squeeze and start counting.

Our Mothers, Our Christmas's

2009-12-12T19:45:00Z

Every once and a while I was growing up, my mother would recount stories of the Christmas's of her childhood. She grew up in a wealthy home in Holland where her Christmas went for days and involved plenty of food and song, lavish presents and celebrations from house to house that carried over from night to night for a full week. I'd watch her eyes widen at the clarity of these memories as she described in detail the pleasure of eating chestnuts that were roasted in one of the many fireplaces in her childhood home.

When I was growing up my mother always chose to make Christmas a low key affair. As a child I had a hard time understanding why she didn't always want a tree, why she preferred a quiet Christmas breakfast to a big Christmas party. Money was always a concern; my brother and I were raised in apartments, and she was a single parent raising two kids with no help from her family in Holland and no support from my father. I realize now that it must've been hard to reconcile the Christmas memories of her childhood with the reality of her life so many years later.

When I married and started Christmas traditions of my own she would call me and apologize for the Christmas's my brother and I didn't have.

"Instead of apologizing why don't you just come here and spend a couple of days? We're putting up a small tree here and going for Christmas dinner at the in-laws."

One year, to my surprise she actually came. My father in law loves Christmas and his house is full of decorations inside and out and Bing Crosby singing too loudly and a kitchen too hot to sit in for all of the food being prepared.

My mother hated it.

"This house," she'd gasp, "It's full of....things!" And she run outside in the snow gulping for air.

I learned to let my mother decide if she wanted to spend Christmas with us.

With the arrival of Ethan she loosened up a little. She liked to imagine what he might enjoy as a gift and sent him something small and beautiful like a manificently illustrated book. To this day he loves to get gifts presents from Oma. (Grandmother in Dutch). He anticipates a gift from her every winter.

She called recently to discuss what Ethan might like this year.

"Something with maps."

I could hear her thinking.

"Trust me. Maps are where he's at."( Ethan told me recently that he wanted to be a whetherman when he grew up and meet Al Roker.)

"Okay," she said, "I'll find something good."

I know she'll find something perfect because she always does. Part of me wishes that she could've been here when my husband and Ethan decorated our tree this year. Ethan was so excited he ran up and down the length of the house screaming and jumping. He helped put ornaments on our four foot tree and sat back in wonder when the red chili lights blinked on for first time.

"Come and see the wreath, Mommy." He pulled the front door open to show off the simple pine wreath with a red velvet ribbon on it. We both buried our faces in the circle of pine and breathed deeply.

"Ahh," said E. My sentiments exactly. Christmas I've learned doesn't have to be big, or full of presents, only a way to take time out to happily and gratefully mark the passing of one year to the next with people we love.

I suspect that this Christmas, my mother will cook herself a delicious meal and bring home a pile of DVD's to catch up on this year's movies. I hope she makes plans with a friend to toast the future. What ever she decides to do she knows I'll be thinking of her and wish for her a celebration without the pressure of other people expectations or her own.

But If I could I'd send her a bag of hot roasted chestnuts, special delivery.

Trains, Planes and the Garden State Parkway.

2009-11-29T17:55:00Z

While I take a few hours of writing for myself, my son is on an adventure today. Like most four year old boys, Ethan has a rabid, unerring, constant passion for trains. Well, he loves vehicles of all sizes but trains are by far his favorite. Oh and did I say he loves maps too? Especially New Jersey and New York maps dotted with local highways and turnpikes and skyways.Cabbies around here become a little freaked out when they strap my son into his seat and then he gives them precise directions home. When we go to our neighbourhood Krauzer's for a quart of milk unlike most kids who'll beg for a lollipop, E will beg for a lollipop AND a map of Hudson County.

Today, Ethan is driving with his daddy to Jersey City and from there, they're taking a the path train into the city. In one fell swoop all of his major interests will come rushing up to meet him: trains, maps and handing money to grown-ups. He and daddy will have an indepth conversation about what route to take to Jersey City, and then--this part his a surprise--go down into the train for the first time. E may well be wide eyed with excitement! The noise! The people! Daddy will let him pay the fare and they'll hold hands as they step onto the car. E will rivited by the rumble, maybe a little frightened by the flashing lights and the darkness of the tunnel.

And if that isn't enough, once they re-emerge into the city it's just a quick walk to Dinosaur Hill a small but spectacular toy store on the Lower East Side where I'm sure E will avail himself of a tiny fire engine or a garbage truck, some four wheeled thing that fits in the pocket of his jeans. Then, after a well deserved snack, chocolate milk and a cookie I wager, they get to do it all again back to the car in Jersey City.

Don't misunderstand, I'm grateful to have this small window of time to write without interruption. It's a beautiful day in the neighbourhood and I plan to enjoy it. But I also look forward to that new knowing look in Ethan's eye, that look of actually having been inside a passenger car of speeding train.Later, When I ask him how his day was, he'll look at me only say, "Good." And then he'll go back to the business of constructing a garage on the living-room floor.

The Ghost of Kessler Past

2009-11-22T19:27:00Z

I finally went back to Kessler to start the 'last leg' of my rehab.Nothing holding me back this time--Insurance granted me twelve sessions-- which of course, I'll fight to extend--and I met with the therapist--Bob--who asked a gratifying number of questions and promises to work me hard. This time, paratransit drops me off at the entrance of the outpatient wing. It's the 'old' section of Kessler on the opposite side of where the patients live. I sit there having been dropped off absurdly early with my diet coke from the vending machine, my idle cell phone and the latest badly written thriller for my local library. I wait there, sometimes making small talk with a fellow outpatient' until Bob is ready for me.

I'll admit the first time I went back, I was pretty excited. Hard to understand,why I'd be happy to go back to a place generally associated with pain and drugs and how people cope--or not--when disaster hits them right between the eyes. Honestly, I felt safe there. People were there to help me. I could work as hard as I needed to without interruption. I could chart my progress without necessarily worrying about the future.

So what did I do when I got there?I went for a very long walk all around the building. I went back to the floor where I stayed to the room, and yes to the bed. It all looked exactly the same. It smelled the same.I ran into a few of the rehab assistants, and a couple of the RN's who worked with me. I could tell that they remembered my face but not my name--which all told was fine with me. Mostly I got quizzicallooks from people that seemed to say, not--"What are you doing here," but why would you want to be here--again? If I had had the opportunity I might have explained that I'm a memoirist, it's what I do--I look back, I remember the details so that I can take that information and imagine or re-imagine my future.

Bed

2009-11-18T04:49:00Z

Hospital bed gone. Old bed back. Hospital bed was essential to recovery but never have I been so happy for this bit of comfort returned.

Quadrupedalism!

2009-11-11T18:27:00Z

Since getting my cast off on October 24th, I've been dragging my ass. I've been mopey and dopey instead of celebrating the fact that I'm actually recovering from what was a difficult accident for me and my family. I've done the work: taken the meds, worked the gym, talked to the lawyers, confronted the machine that is the Insurance Industry. I've been my own best cheerleader yet I find that I'm cranky and blue, generally getting in the way of my own ordinary happiness.

I did what I would normally do when I find myself in another such foul mood, I went for a walk. This time I walked in my local library while E was happily absorbed in a pile of Clifford books. The floor of the library is carpeted which cushions the impact for my left leg and ankle. I couldn't help but notice that since I've been wearing that god awful 'old lady' support stocking, the pain in my foot has greatly diminished, and bearing weight in my castless leg wasn't half bad, really. So, taking a deep breath I shuffled along keeping my grunts to a minimum so as not to disturb my fellow readers at the library. After a while, I became aware of the rhythm of my own footsteps, moving one crutch and one foot forward slowly and simultaneously, first the left, then and the right, left and right and so on.

And then, in midstep it dawned on me. I hate moving slowly. I hate it. When I move one leg after another with way bipeds do, my navigation feels self-concious and utterly, interminably slow, as if I'll never get to where I want to go. Walking like a biped, I feel CRIPPLED in the worst sense, deflecting the sypathetic glances of well meaning bipeds. I huff and puff and inch along. Fact is, since my accident, my legs have been too weak to carry the weight of my tried and tru swing-thru walk. That is, I move two crutches forward at the same time and swing both my legs forward in a kind of hopping mini pole vaulting move. It's my walk. It's my CRIP walk. It's the way I cover twice as much ground in half the time. It's the walk that compels stranger bipeds to tell me to slow down. It's the walk that makes my mother sigh and my physical therapist cringe. It looks crooked and dangerous but it works for me When I walk like the quadruped that I am I feel autonomous and strong and in control of my body. Walking like a biped makes me feel like I trying to measure up to a standard that doesn't make sense. I am NOT one of crowd. I like my loud, happy, hear- it- for- miles gallop.

There I was on the top floor of the library and I thought what the hell, let me give it a try. It hasn't happened in a long time but maybe today will be different. I readied my crutches and moved them forward. I tranferred my weight and what do you know, my legs swung! No big deal, no huge struggle, no wobble or fall or 'oh no' moment. Before I knew it I was relaying around the circumference of the library giggling like a kid in a playground. Yay! I'm a Quadruped! I AM a Quadruped! I motored over to E, laughing, gasping, feeling younger than I have in years.

"Hi E!" I waved a crutch at him talking louder than I should've but what the hell.

"Hi Mommy," he said calmly. "I'm reading about Clifford the Big Red Dog," he said.

"That's good, Boo." E went back to his book. And I spun around to give my legs another chance to swing.

Small Acts of Independence

2009-11-09T01:03:00Z

I expected a feeling of elation, a big moment, a revelation, an ephiphany when I finally got the cast off. I was nervous about standing up my own two feet once again, but I did it anyway; slipped the foam slipper I'd worn for months back on my newly naked left foot and walked out of the Orthopedic surgeon's office under my my own power. There were no bugles sounding no fireworks--only an intense feeling of relief. I had finally made it to the last leg, in a manner of speaking, of my recovery. My leg didn't even look that different, (my leg muscles are atrophied anyway). Somehow the muscle tone around my knee seemed a little, I don't know, deflated but nothing shocking considering 4 months of hibernation.

For all of the anticpated excitement for my first shower in eons, I didn't go into the Y as planned but managed to climb into my own shower without to my surprise any assistance. As the water shushed down my back I thanked various higher powers for the opportunity to once again wash all of my body parts AT THE SAME TIME.

Rediscovering a favorite pair of jeans that previously could not make past a thickly casted leg is a simple pleasure not to be underestimated. Dressing by myself in something other than sweat pants goes a long way to restoring a familiar sense of self. Shed the dressings and layers of injury if only to put on a favorite pair of jeans and a clean tee-shirt.

How much of life is made up of these moments, small acts of independence, most of which are private, taken for granted and yearned for when even temporarily absent? More than I expected to be sure but I'm happy to reclaim all of them one by one even if the fanfare is only in my head.

"What? WHAT!"

2009-10-17T18:53:00Z

The other night, while I was cooking dinner, I got a call from my Durable Medical Equipment (DME) vendor.

"Hi," said the voice on the other end of the line, "DME Company will be coming by tomorrow morning to pick up your bed and wheelchair."

(A stunned silence on my part.)

"What?"

"We'll be picking up one hospital bed and one wheelchair in the morning."

"But I still have my cast on! I got the bed and chair because of my mobility limits with this cast on. You can't take the equipment back yet!" I don't know whether to panic or yell.

"Hmmm, we have an order from the insurance company to--"

"Who wrote the order?

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

The voiced paused. "You better call the insurance company."

"You want ME to call the insurance company?" I didn't panic, I yelled.

"Hmmm," the voice said.

I hung up.

When I called the Insurance Company, another voice told me that my file could not be found.

"Where is it?"

The new voice said, "Let us put you on hold."

I waited.

"Hello, we're sorry to make you wait. We found your file."

Considering that I've had coverage for the past three months, I figured this was a good thing.

"According to your file the person handling your case is Mike B."

Of course I've never spoken to anyone named Mike B.

"Can you transfer me to Mike B?"

"Please hold."

I waited. I listened to Beatles muzak on the line and waited.

"This is Mike B."

I explained the situation to Mike B.

"Yeah," he said, "according to you file, the Insurance Adjustor tried to call you twice."

"She may have tried to call me, but this time I didn't get a message and I didn't talk to anyone."

I learned that in the world of Auto Insurance, the Adjustor is a Supreme Being. She decides if my coverage continues or ends. No debate.

Mike B said, "You should call the Insurance Adjustor."

"YOU WANT ME TO MAKE THE CALL?!"

"Let me call you back," he said.

Mike B called me back a few minutes later to tell me that the coverage for the hospital bed had been extended for another month. Then he said, "The DME vendor will pick up your wheelchair later on today."

WHAT? I pointed out, calmly this time, that if I still needed the hospital bed, would it not follow that I would still require the wheelchair?

"Let call you back," Mike B said.

Mike B never called me back a second time. The only reason I founded out that my coverage was extended for both the bed and the wheelchair was because I called the vendor to give an update on the situation.

"Oh sure," the customer service guy said casually, it says right here on the screen that your coverage has been extended until November 20ieth."

I can only hope that by then, my cast will be off. Just wait until I tell the vendors, reps, adjustors and whatnot that I'M PLANNING ON KEEPING THE WHEELCHAIR.

So there.

Anticipating Water

2009-10-09T18:45:00Z

My next appointment with the orthopedic surgeon is on October 20, and there's a good possibility that after another round of x-rays, I'll go home skinny-legged and castless. If this is true and my leg is finally set free I can take a shower. A real shower, with cascades of hot water and plenty of soap and steam and solitude. And because these days, I'm unable to concentrate on anything anyway, I find myself planning this long awaited ritual down to the smallest detail. There are so many questions: Where will I have it? How long will it be? What will I take with me?

I don't want to think about what my leg looks like under there, but I'm sure it's nothing a sharp razor and more rehab can't fix.

The shower in my house is out of the question, There are good bars in the tub/shower area but the bath always made it difficult to get in and out. Yes I could've probably wrapped my cast in plastic and duct tape but no way in hell, I'm going to risk falling and reinjuring myself. I don't know anyone else in Montclair or New Jersey for that matter that has a private accessible shower so this leaves the Y.

The Y has an area called the "Family Changing Room" which is two large bathrooms both of which have showers. One of the showers is completely accessible. I can lock the door behind me.There's a long bar against a wall, an adjustable showerhead, it's roll-in. There's even a shower chair but I notice that two of the rubber tips on the back legs are missing which makes the legs dangerously uneven. It's the kind of thing bipeds aren't likely to notice, a shower chair screaming LAWSUIT. I'll have to tell the maintenance guy. I'll bring my own shower chair. Have shower chair, will travel. If it seems like I'm rambling well I am, counting the days and choosing fresh towels. I can only hope that the Y has an endless supply of hot water. All I know is, I never want to take another sponge bath again.