Party Crashers

I read Chewing the Fat whenever Dave updates, which is nearly every day. His post, An Elephant Disappears, told of an incident at an airport that demonstrates an extreme of the ableist mindset. For those of us in the disability blog world, it is astounding, but ultimately believable, because we know Dave and know we can trust him, and we know ableism, both as a word and the concept behind it. We know it, and talk about it, the same as we know and talk about the social model or self-advocacy.

It is something, isn't it, how blogs become little homes, or maybe parlors, where we expect to meet with certain visitors who know us and have a history with us, and we say things in ways that our expected visitors understand and build friendships and kinships. And then, every once in a while, a parlor gets inundated with strangers. Some are come back again as friends, most are just curious but well-meaning one-time guests, and a dread few are home invaders. I see it happen so often to Beth, and now see these party crashers at Dave's. And I wonder about the people who go to other people's personal blogs and act rudely. Do they act like this in real life? If so, they must spend a lot of time "thinking it over" under the custody of their local constabulary.

As someone who is more often a guest making a comment than the other way round, I too find it disorienting when I go make my visits to my friends and find all this noise going on. But not to worry. Friends stay around after the excitement has died down, pick up trash and wash dishes.

Purple Day

March 26 is Purple Day. Various epilepsy societies throughout the world are asking supporters to wear purple. How does wearing purple advance epilepsy awareness? Hopefully, enough people will be wearing purple that other people will get curious and ask what all the purple is about.

What it is about is that 50 million people throughout the world have epilepsy, yet there is very little funding available figure out the many root causes of epilepsy and how to manage the conditions. Even worse, few people know what to do if someone has a seizure, and many people are very fearful of those who have epilepsy. Check out Purple Day to find out more about the origins and goals of this awareness day, and the Epilepsy Foundation for more information about living with epilepsy.

Catching up

First off, go check out Charming BB's really great Disability Blog Carnival. Go on. I'll wait. But be sure to come back here. And be sure to leave me a link to your favorite post this month, because I host right here next month. It will mark my first time ever as a blog carnival host. I don't have a theme I expect others to fit themselves into. I'll see what comes up from the submissions I get. Help me out here, and send me your best stuff!

Second off. Er. Um. To continue. Er, no, to switch topics. Yes, that's it. I went to Staple in Austin last weekend, and got a copy of Usagi Yojimbo, Book 1, "The Ronin," signed and with a little sketch by Stan Sakai. Oh, so cool! And many other neat people also were there, such as Rod Espinosa and Chris Allen, who have both done historically oriented comics for Antarctic Press. I bought a signed copy of Allen's Obama, the only Obama commemorative item I have spent money on. I also bought The Less Than Epic Adventures of TJ and Amal, which is a self-published book by E.K. Weaver. And I got a very nice sketch of Amal tossed in for the price! And also, I bought Phuni Comix, which is more of "Science and Religion", which I bought last year and enjoyed. It's probably a niche taste, but I find the silliness appealing.

And lastly, my right wrist separated Thursday night. Oh, it's fine-ish now, but I'd like to know, why is it that I can never find my bandages and splints when I need them? What compels me to put them away? Why aren't they laying out on my dresser along with my old teddy bear, single earrings, and crumpled receipts? I swear, I go through this every single time. Where can I put them that they won't be in the way when I don't need them, but also won't be impossible to find when some part of me has decided to storm off in a hail of bitter recriminations and tears? What do you do about things like this? Where do you put your repair kit stuff that it can be fetched with whatever limb you have working at the moment?

In which I finally make what is probably an obvious connection

The past several days have been absolutely miserable. There was a joint in my body that wasn't complaining, and quite loudly, too. And I was nauseous. I was inflamed. You'd think the nausea would have clued me in, but I am stubbornly dense. Anyway, pain. Of the beaten to a pulp by giants and then rolled over by heavy machinery that won't get off me sort. I only have Darvocet for pain relief, because this bad of pain this much all over isn't an everyday thing, for which I am thankful. And even really bad pain can be ignored to an extent if I can stay distracted. Being distracted, though, is impossible when one wants to sleep.

Monday night, I finally realized that my head was also hurting, that someone was coming along every few moments and wailing on the right side of my skull, sending my eye shooting out the socket. Well, it felt that way. And that is when it dawned on me that maybe I ought to take a Zomig. It worked marvellously well. I actually fell asleep within an hour and slept through the night.

So. Hmmm. Now I'm thinking that my crapped out neck maybe leads to the migraines, and the migraines magnify every other distress in my body. It also helps that the pressure front that was bearing down finally broke into actual storm. However, since I can't command the weather, I will instead follow up on this migraine-joint pain connection.

Death by a Thousand Paper Cuts!

OK, not death. And not a thousand. But still...oh, so very, very annoying!

My fingers go on these jags wherein, for a couple weeks every so often, it seems as if the cuticle around the nails tears at the slightest provocation. Since I handle paper as part of my job (oh, the perils of office work!), I can't avoid the chief cause of the injuries. The last couple of weeks I've been furiously painting Liquid Bandage on one finger, then another, and then recovering the wounds an hour later when the stuff peels off. Anybody know a better product? I have considered Super Glue, but it is pretty much a one-time use product for me, since I can never get the lid off more than once. If it gets too bad, I'll wear latex gloves at work. It looks weirdly creepy, though, so I like to avoid that.

The Blue Lantern

Obama, I understand, is a big ol' geek. That's why I'm sure he'd love this rendition of himself as Phil Jimenez's Blue Lantern.

Five-oh

The great thing about naming one's blog in such a way as to disabuse readers of any notion of timely updating is that no one worries when I haven't posted in over a week. This state of affairs might have gone on for another week, but my fiftieth birthday is Saturday (today), which is a big enough deal that maybe some of you would be put off if I didn't tell you.

Not that I'm doing all that much interesting for my birthday. I'm taking a friend to the airport, meeting up with my daughter, and going to a comic book shop where I will also meet up with a friend who has never bought comic books but thinks it might be cool. And we will eat. I think I will try a Greek place my daughter goes to with her best friend.  Then we will go to Goodwill to rid ourselves of things we can no longer wear. Then we will go to Half-Price Books to rid ourselves of books we have done with and to buy new used ones. And then I will be exhausted. Gad, what am I doing? That's a lot of standing and shopping for one day. My knees are already preparing their protest, I can tell. They are busy with poster paints, picket signs, and giant puppets. But I can assure them, my plans include plenty of sitting down time. And I have a cane that unfolds into a seat, which works well for browsing for comics and books.

Which reminds me.... I went clothes shopping last weekend, since I've dropped too many sizes to keep on wearing my old stuff. While I was at the mall, I spotted another woman, about my age, making her way into the parking lot with a look on her face and a gait that I recognized instantly. She was in agony, every step sending waves of pain from her feet up into her brain, and all she could think of was to keep moving, to get to her car, to sit down. She nearly stumbled into traffic but showed no sign on her face that she saw anything beyond her own pain. And she was wearing what passes for comfortable shoes, so I know this wasn't the first time. Sister, I feel your pain. Where's your cane? It needs to be your next purchase. 

Oh, other excitement today. I mean, Friday, not today which is Saturday. (No, I haven't gone to sleep yet. Yes, it is 3 am. Why do you ask?)  I had my first full fledged asthma attack in quite some time. Oh, yeah, I always have asthma, and generally have some symptoms. But except during ragweed and pollen season, when I'm prepared, I haven't had any serious problems in several years. Damn, I had forgotten just how much I hate it. Guess I'll sleep sitting up tonight. Which is today. Er. Man, my sleep schedule is just a mess.

So, why am I going to the comic book store for my birthday? Oh, you tell me what else I should do when I am severely single and my birthday falls on a day dedicated to romance, and every freaking event in the city is geared toward couples? Dammit, I'm going to commune with my kind. It's been over six months since I last had the time to go, so surely there's something waiting for me. I wish Dylan Meconis's Bite Me was out already, but I guess I'll just have to use its coming out later as an excuse to make another foray sooner than six months. At least, it better not take 6 months to finish its journey from web comic to bound graphic novel. I wants it now!

Speaking of vampires. Sort of. Last month's most interesting geeky fun was watching Kamen Rider Kiva, the touching story of a young man, abandoned by his vampire mother, raised by a mechanical bat and a possessed violin, who lives in a house with the best bathtub in all Japan and the worst locks. Seriously, if I'm taking a bath and people keep showing up and climbing in with me, I'm seeing the landlord about my deadbolt. But I really liked the character development of the story, and wish it had gone on longer so more could have been done. So far, the current Kamen Rider isn't as promising. The worst photographer in 10 worlds has to fight monsters on 9 worlds in order to keep the 10 worlds from collapsing into each other. Ummm. It's being called "Crisis on Infinite KR Worlds" by toku followers, and since versus-type stories don't appeal to me, this one is rather leaving me cold. However, Donut, I mean, Decade, does have a "light red" uniform, so I am at least amused. Oh, and Heroes is back. The entire issue of Daphne's CP seems to have been dropped. Why is it that a TV character only has a disability when it is convenient? I'd like TV shows to reflect the reality that disability is everyday, not just as a plot device. Thus, Kiva failed when Nago's eyesight came back miraculously, but succeeded as Wataru, even though he got better at coping, continued to grapple with his rather substantial psychiatric issues all the way through the series. Heroes, can't you take disability more seriously than a kids' show?

Well, now, this post has been all over the place, hasn't it? Happy Valentine's Day, all you couples and triples and whatnot out there. And the rest of you, this is my birthday, so celebrate it with me. Surely there is a comic book calling your name.

Truly wonderful!

I read in Media Dis & Dat today of a new park being built in San Antonio, TX. Morgan's Wonderland, named in honor of his daughter, will be what is probably the first-in-the-world public park with dedicated primary use for visitors with disabilities.  Philanthropist/developer Gordon Hartman has even managed to bring the city, county, and local school district in on the project, and is making sure to keep records of the process so that others will be able to duplicate his efforts. Non-disabled children and adults will also be using the facilities, but at this park, disability is not an after-thought or add-on. How neat! 

Ring splints

I don't know if the use of ring splints in EDS is widespread enough to be called universal, but it is pretty darn common. I've used both Silver Ring Splints (SRS) and Oval 8s, both of which have plusses and minuses. I first got SRS, oh, six or seven years ago, though I needed them earlier. Completely losing the ability to maintain a grip was a motivating factor in getting them. I got eight fingers splinted at the time (three fingers on each hand, plus thumbs), leaving out my pinkies in order to reduce my out of pocket expenses. Since then, I've managed to lose splints, break splints, and replace some splints. Pinkies are still waiting for the love.

Perhaps you'd like to see pictures? OK, here's pictures!

This is a front view of my hands with silver ring splints, including thumb splints. I have the thumb splints tied on with elastic band because (1) I find having anything more substantial right at the base of my palm drives me nuts and (2) I tend to snag bracelets. I used to have a splint for my right middle finger, but it is broken.

Here you can plainly see that I don't have my pinkies splinted. You also get to see my lovely saggy baggy skin. It's always been that way, sort of flopped on top of bones and veins. My hands naturally curl up--tighter than this--and the splints help keep me from contracting them quite so much. 

Both hands, with fingers forced straight. Notice that the unsplinted fingers are taking creative paths. You can also see that my thumbs do their best, even splinted, to disappear into my palm. The splints on them guide them into the correct place, but don't put a lot of pressure on them. In fact, over time, all of the splints become deformed from my fingers' tendency to veer off. This is why Carapace prefers 3 Point Products Oval 8 splints. Also, you can buy Oval 8s directly, if you know your knuckle size, but SRS need to be sized by professionals. Because I have so much extra skin on my fingers, and the joints were quite swollen, the hand therapist had quite a challenge getting the right size, so if you are like me, don't expect that you will get the right size the first time with SRS.



Finally, here is a palm-side view of my left hand. You can see that I have a mixture of extra-strength and regular-strength splints.  I would suggest to anyone to get the stronger ones because  of the tendency of the splints to deform after a while.

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Please take a moment to speak up for Minna. Her life depends on all of us.

I ain't dead

It's the little things that keep me from blogging. Specifically, of late, my left pinkie finger. I keep forgetting that it has decided it isn't stable anymore, and thus I keep slamming it against the keyboard as if I could actually type with it. I'm going to have to do one of two things: Either I remember to type like my daughter, who has never had use of her pinkies, or I actually remember to schedule a visit to the hand therapist and get the pinkies splinted up. Me remembering either one doesn't seem to be happening. You'd think the pain and annoyance would be enough reminder.

Note to anyone else who is in the process of getting finger splints: When they ask you which joints you want splinted, even though you would like to hold the cost down, go ahead and get your pinkies done even if they don't seem to be much of a problem. Otherwise, you'll be like me, grumbling "ow!" every few keys and then just closing down the program to go do something that doesn't threaten to dislocate your poor neglected pinky.

Other than pinky abuse, I've been having a pretty good time of things these past few days. I did take health leave for a few hours Monday last week. Thanks to the combination of EDS and the menstrual cycle, I was a collapsing mess all day. Menfolk, you have no idea what it is to have a monthly dose of cartilage dissolving hormones loosening up your already loose bones. By mid-afternoon, my muscles were spasming from the effort of holding myself upright. When the boss suggested everyone taking a "meeting" at a lakeside cafe, the first thought that popped into my head was dread at trying to sit up in a bistro chair.  That's when I knew I really needed to just go home. Ah, home, where my recliner is and gravity isn't trying to coax my head off my neck.

I am actually trying to get another post written, but finishing it will have to wait until I'm up to bashing my pinkie some more. 

Fuzzy

It was the Monday before Christmas and Carapace wanted me to take her to see the lights and get in some last minute shopping. So we started off with a nice lunch and made our way into The Big City.

On the way, I started to feel it slipping over me. Pain? Maybe. I'm not particularly good at identifying pain. Discomfort, yes, discomfort. Tired, so tired. Patella slipping out of place--annoying, potentially ruinous of the night's plans, which involved walking through a neighborhood to see the lights.  But tired, so tired. So very, very tired. And uncomfortable. And nauseous. Everything comes through as if in static. Sight, sound, touch. So much fun to be driving like this, oh, such a delight. No stress, no stress.

When we get to our first destination, I take a Zomig and stay in the car, try to sleep. A car pulls up in the next space, waiting for someone, it seems like hours, pouring out pounding hip hop. I want to vomit. I sleep for five, maybe ten minutes. I give up and go into the stores. Maybe I am feeling better. Maybe that's why I can't sleep. I'll shop. But the lights are wrong, there are lines, there are people moving faster than I can process. My stomach starts rolling again.

Carapace sees me and tells me I look bad. I wonder what I look like to other people who aren't her. She thinks I look like Death, that I have no color in my face, that my lips are white. I feel like Death, so it is good to get some external validation. Do other people see me and see the same? Is that why they move past so quickly? I lie to Carapace, telling her I feel a bit better, and that we can go to the next shopping center. She's having a good night, this time. And I think she rather likes it when she is the one whose brain isn't misfiring.

We get to Target, and she no longer believes I am doing any better. "You need caffeine," she says as she hands me a migraine tablet. I protest that I've taken the Zomig, that maybe it will start to work. "Doesn't matter." She's insistent, and I'm in no shape to argue. If she'd told me I needed arsenic, I'd have relented just as easily. "We need to get some coffee in you." I buy a coffee at the in-store deli, but it is their last cup of the day. It's weak, old, and not enough.  She's bought her last few items, and I promise to stop for coffee as soon as we find a place. 

I drive on auto-pilot, taking the literal roads of least resistance. Other drivers are being extra courteous as I slow down, trying to suss out a place to go, a place that won't be too loud, too bright, too unlikely to have coffee. I've about given up when I spot a Whataburger. Assuming they have coffee, it will be in copious amounts, because they don't do small. And, while brightly lit and garishly colored, they don't do "ambient music." I've had all the ambient music I can take for one day, so fluorescently lit orange it is.

We linger over coffee. I discover that the annoying scratchy crinkly sound I've been hearing all day is my knee brace. I have a window now. I'm not completely better, but I can function like this. We leave. Young men in the parking lot are singing about sex. They notice us as we approach and suddenly change their tune: "Fa la la la la, la la, la la." I get in the car, laughing. It's the best I've felt since lunch.

We go see the lights, and they are fun. I'm glad not to have missed them. One more store--groceries. Now Carapace is down on the floor with a seizure. Her window is closed for the day. Mine will close again soon. Time to go home.

X marks the Day!

It's here at last, Xmas Day! The most X-citing day of the year. Yes, there are the gifts and the relatives, and the contemplation of all I didn't get done (stack of cards addressed but never sent, as usual? Check!) But the really thrilling part is what comes next: Putting it all away!

Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!

Oh, you think I'm joking, don't you? Well, you are so wrong. See, I grew up with a tradition that the house must be clean come January 1st. Tree and decorations taken down, things replaced by new gifts packed and taken to the thrift store or tossed if too ratty, the general mess of the holidays cleaned up and the household ready to start in on the new year's troubles with as few of the old year's as possible. And I only have 5 days to do it in! And on the sixth day, I make a nice simple dinner of corn bread, greens, and black-eyed peas. And that is my favorite holiday dinner of all. 

I finished all the wrapping and deciding who gets what on Christmas Eve (except for my daughter and son-in-law, I can't generally remember what I got for who), and started the process of putting all the papers and tissues and bows away, and attacked the Room of Doom where such things as gifts waiting for wrapping and projects hoping to be completed lie in wait, strewn on every flat surface, and on some surfaces which are not quite flat but allow for artful balancing. The Room of Doom is much less doomful now, having transferred the doom to my knees and feet since I foolishly did my sorting without wearing shoes. Which means without orthotics. Which means I will be paying for my oversight for quite a while.   But no rest for my weary soles! There is more cleaning to be done in the early morning before the day's festivities begin. And then there is breakfast to cook.

Just knowing that the new year is coming, I am feeling much perkier. I might even get some cards in the mail.

Open Letter to Obama

President-Elect Obama,

I was among the millions stirred by your victory speech the night of November 4, heartened by your call for the contributions of every American, including the "disabled and the not disabled." I was so excited that I immediately blogged about it.

Since then, I've been thinking about your invitation. It wasn't specific, which is entirely appropriate since you have no way of knowing what each individual may be able to bring to the table. What can I do, what special insight might I have? More generally, what can disabled people offer a country that often thinks of disabled folks as nothing more than an unfortunate expense? Now, since your bizarre and inappropriate selection of Rick Warren to give the prayer at your inauguration, I have a better idea of what we can bring: a sense of what inclusion actually means.

I have been disappointed in the Democratic Party for several years now. Back in 2004, at my county convention, I put forth a proposal to support the strengthening of the Americans with Disabilities Act in the wake of the Supreme Courts undermining of that important civil rights legislation. All the time, I hear "oh, no one is against the disabled." Well, you'd have had a hard time proving it that day, as person after person, with increasing vehemenence denounced any such bill. And what justification did they give? To a person, they each stated that they were against "special rights."

"Special rights." What are special rights? Apparently, (here I'm judging from the comments made by fellow Democrats) the right to a fair chance at employment, the right to housing, the right to visit the homes of friends, the right to access public buildings and businesses. There is a further context, the right to the body, the right to sexuality, the right to marry. The tradition of denying people with disability reproductive rights is not just a sorry history painfully recorded as a warning to the present. Instead, it is an ever-present reality. As the Ashley X case made clear, public support for even the violation of body integrity is widespread, with sexuality being considered a burden for the disabled rather than a natural function. While law has changed to permit marriages for people with intellectual disabilities, social sentiment has little budged, and practice continues to deny people with disabilities full rights to control over personal sexuality.

What other group in the United States currently faces similar restrictions against their sexuality, their employment, their right to housing? Who else is told that access to the same rights as everyone is "special rights"? That would be everyone considered homosexual, the group you have chosen to single out as expendable in your choice of Rick Warren to offer an inaugural prayer. Rick Warren, who actively campaigned for California's Prop. 8, and who embraces only "ex-gays." This is a wholly unnecessary slap in the face to gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transgendered people. And it is an insult to those of us who are straight and count among our friends and family non-heterosexuals. We have seen their pain, their isolation, their hardship, and see how the inherent difficulties of being a member of a minority group are magnified by legal discrimination. Rick Warren wants to continue to make life as difficult as possible for non-straight people, justifying his discrimination with "love the sinner, hate the sin," and calling for non-straight people to change rather than society to change. This is as preposterous a stand as demanding that people with disabilities stop being disabled before being included in society. And, yes, people do make that argument,that people with disabilities aren't being excluded, that it is the disability at fault rather than society, and once we get "cured," we'll be welcome. Such an invitation to fellowship rings hollow whomever you are.

You can't distance yourself from Warren's small minded hatred. You didn't need to have a prayer offered at all, and as a supporter of the separation of church and state, I'd argue that you shouldn't be having one at an official government event. But you obviously want to make some kind of public statement, to present a particular type of image, by having a prayer said for you. And thus, your choice of Rick Warren has indeed made a statement. It is a statement that your support for civil rights for disenfranchised minorities doesn't run any deeper than campaign rhetoric. 

Your public distancing of yourself from gay and lesbian supporters isn't the only rejection going on right now, either. In the name of "security," the inaugural welcome of those of us with disabilities has also been rescinded. No chairs at the parade route, insist security officials. What about walkers, canes, wheelchairs? The latest I read is that security is still "thinking" about that. Thinking about it? Thinking about clearly violating the ADA? Sadly, it won't be the first time, since "homeland security" has been allowed to trump civil rights at every turn.

So, I am telling you now, as a person with disabilities, that what you need to do, what you need to make uppermost in your priorities as president, is embrace full civil rights for us all, not just those who already hold positions of power and privilege in our nation. You remember us, right? If you don't, then all your beautiful words about hope and change are meaningless. Full civil rights undergirds everything we in the disability community have been campaigning for. To live in communities, in our own homes, rather than warehoused in nursing homes and institutions. To be employed based on what we can do, rather than idled based on fears of what we can't do. To have mature sexual relationships, to have children or not depending on our own decisions, to have the right to adopt, to marry and form families. These are not "special rights" of only privileged groups. These are among the rights of all Americans. 

Help some cat in Japan

Via Elizabeth, I learned of the Japan Cat Project, a trap/spay/return program to reduce the feral cat population. You'd think the land of Hello! Kitty wouldn't have any unwanted cats, but you'd be wrong. If you find you are short of a gift for a cat-lover, why not make a donation in their name? I'm sure they'd rather have that than whatever it is you were going to pick up at Walgreen's. Face it, you don't even know what you were going to get them at Walgreen's.

No "good death"

I have been absolutely sickened by the news coming out of Britain. It's just horrible. My daughter and I have started avoiding British news and programming because of the euthanasia drive. I know we shouldn't, that we should actively confront this monster on the global scale, but there is so much bigotry, so little understanding of disability--where to start? How to get it through people's heads? It's a kind of terrorism directed at the disabled, I think. More of us have been openly identifying as disabled who in the past would have denied it and tried to hide it. We've experienced relief in doing so, and found solidarity with our brothers and sisters who are unable to disguise their differences at all. And here the bullying able-bodied world wants to shame everyone again, to clear their days of any interaction with openly disabled people. It will be those with learning disabilities and neurological problems and bad joints pretending that they don't need any accomodations, so they can keep their jobs. It will be those in wheelchairs, in braces, those who are deaf or blind, cloistered behind drawn curtains so no one has to have visual reminder of disability. And those already largely housebound pressured to submit to the ultimate exclusion, euthanasia. And once it is a common place to kill those who require nursing care, the next level of social "burden" will be targeted. None of us are safe in a culture where the answer to weakness is death.

Pro-euthanasia advocates insist that they would never pressure anyone into committing suicide. But they lie. Their language, as William Peace shows,  reveals how they routinely devalue and disparage the lives of people with disabilities.  Daniel James's parents are excellent examples, saying that their paralyzed son, along with disabled people in general, are "second class citizens." Since when is the solution to a problem of second class citizenship euthanasia? I'll tell you when! The Indian Wars! Oh, those poor Indians, losing their land and culture. Let's kill them off toot-sweet and put them out of our misery. It's a veritable final solution to the issue, one might say as one goose-stepped along. 

Euthanasia advocates also purposely muddy the waters, appealing to people's wish to resolve the suffering of loved ones who are truly dying in distress in order to get assisted suicide legalized. Thus British television viewers were given the opportunity to witness a disabled man said to be at the end of his life kill himself at a Swiss clinic while talk still swirls about Daniel James, who was not terminal. Disability does not mean dying, but if the euthanasia advocates get their way, it will soon.

&*$%#!!

Damn. It's cold. I know, I know. It gets cold every winter. But every winter, I take the dip in temperature as a personal affront. People, it sleeted on me on the way home last night. I had to stand outside in the sleet and hail when I got home, covering the plants as best I could, hoping that they don't all just shrivel up and die.  Poor, poor plants. I'm a bad plant mommy.

And, apparently, my cover is completely blown. I blame the norther. Its howling winds and freezing temperatures, combined with Hell Week at work, seem to have left me actually looking as bad as I feel. OK, maybe it was the cervical collar. Or the knee brace. Or me having to take a lie-down on the back office floor because back went out. Or the ashen look on my face ams I fought down nausea and headache most of the evening. Maybe the boss is right and I am falling more often.

If only I could get someone to reduce my left shoulder before my left hand gets anymore numb. But, sad. I'd usually ask my housemate but he's actually sick right now, and I'm completely what passes for healthy in my gene pool. And in many ways, I feel better tonight than I have in several days. I don't know if this is because the front is actually here now instead of coming in, or if I'm feeling some low-grade giddiness antecedant to headache. I guess I'll find out soon enough.

Just another boring week

I know, I know. You are wondering what I've been doing all week. Well, it's just been so exciting.

Monday: Fell down in front of people at work.

Tuesday: Fell down in front of people at work.

Wednesday: Avoided falling down. Started wheezing.

Thursday: Cedar (mountain juniper) season began in earnest. I took an Allegra at noon. My nose kept running. I took Sudafed. My nose kept running. Except for when it was sneezing. I work with the public, mind you. I called the doctor's office to beg an appointment. How about Monday? Ha! I'd be lucky to last so long. OK, squeeze in for Friday morning? Perfect.

I get home at 9:30 PM, my nose still running. I took Claritin. Yes, I know I'm not supposed to layer antihistimines, but I do, because antihistimines are easy to get but steroids always require a prescription.

Friday: I'm so tired, between the allergies and antihistimines that I can hardly stand. I get to the doctor's. I wasn't trying to go for the death warmed over look, but I suppose the chest rattle makes it convincing. Steroids! Fresh new inhaler and sinus spray, ridiculously expensive but I no longer have to contemplate telling my supervisor that I will be taking sick leave during our most hectic time of the semester.

Saturday: Now it's just the regular pain of my left leg feeling like it is rotting and my hands being stood on by elephants. And the falling in public.

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Heroes

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C.P.? They have got to be kidding. She was so disabled by C.P. that she could not walk, but she somehow managed to build a scare crow in the corn field and make regular visits to talk to it? That's one unusually accessible corn field. And how's she fitting back into her braces? Last I knew, metal doesn't have particularly elastic qualities. I know, I'm just nitpicking on an issue that most viewers won't catch at all, but still, sheesh.

It does look like Daphne's belief that Arthur Petrelli had given her her powers was just a lie he had told her to control her. Maybe she and her dad are both particularly gullible, and she never had C.P. but rather one of hundreds of other possible mobility conditions that her lazy-ass small town doctor couldn't be bothered to read up on. OK, that's my fanwank, and I'm sticking to it.

Heroes, disabled

S * P * O * I * L * E * R * S



Hey, I'm going to talk about the show. I will reveal things that happened. If you haven't watched it, but plan to, and just hate having the plot revealed, Go back! Go back! Captain Kirk, go baaaaaaaaaaaaaaack.



Last Warning!



I got caught up on my favorite TV show, Heroes, yesterday. The Eclipse, Part I is something of a study on disabilty attitudes. Everyone lost their powers and suddenly became disabled, merely normal after they had gotten used to being supernormal. Each character reacted differently to their loss, with their reactions in keeping with their personality and values.

To some of the characters, the loss of powers is a relief, even though it brings them great pain. For the super-healer, Clair, the pain is what she cherishes most, since she had lost the ability to feel it. Even though she is shot in a botched kidnapping attempt, and can't immediately heal like she usually would, she is happy that she now has confirmation that she is human after all. Series all-purpose bad guy Sylar is also content with his loss of ability, focussing on his release from the constant hunger and discontent his super-comprehension had put him through. In comparison to what he was, he now has a cognitive disability, and he couldn't be more pleased. And Mohinder, who had mutated himself in the service of mad science, is thrilled to no longer be turning into an insect...at least until the heavies come around and threaten to beat him to a pulp.

Some of the characters are irritated with their loss and resistant to adapting. Nathan Petrelli, at the beginning of the episode, was chiding his younger brother, Peter, who had lost powers to their father earlier in the season, for being resentful over his relatively disabled state. Then he also loses his powers and begins lashing out at Peter for suggesting that they take his inability to fly into account in their travel plans, and his stubborness leads them both to a deadend. Psychic Matt Parkman, who had nearly given up on finding happiness when his superpower first began to manifest, again nearly gives up on finding happiness--this time with the excuse that he can't do anything to win his intended without his ability.

The most pathetic character, though, is the one whose loss of super-speed renders her disabled by TAB standards. Daphne is ridiculous. Tim Kring, why did you pull out the self-pitying disabled person stereotype? All this time, we were led to believe that Daphne was in thrall to the evil Papa Petrelli because of some super terrible feature of her pre-super life. And now we find out that the terrible thing is that she has leg braces and forearm crutches? And to avoid having her powers stripped by Papa Petrelli was willing to betray everyone she loved and act contrary to her own moral code? What kind of a person would rather be someone else's puppet than be unable to walk? This is a completely unbelievable personality flaw, and a libel against people with disabilities. If you had other characters who were traditionally disabled without their powers, then it would be OK to show one of them as being a self-hating cripple. But you don't. You are using one character to stand in for an entire class of people. You may as well kill off the black cast members on a regular basis. Oh, wait. You do that, don't you. Maybe you all need to think a little harder about your positions of privilege?   

The one character that I think best reflects the disability reality is Hiro. He refused to allow Parkman to feel sorry for himself, insisting that a real hero wouldn't need special powers but would find a way to save the day. He is confident that everything will be fine, that they must simply have a plan. Yes, right now, he has the mind of a child and is looking to get his own power back. But it is his basic personality that is leading him, and that views regaining both his adult mind and powers as simply a means to an end. And if he can't be a hero with his abilities restored, he will still be a hero. He's already saved Parkman's romance.

(Hiro is actually reminding me a bit of my mom right now. She has messed her leg up but good. Again. Maybe permanently this time. And she is irritated about not being able to do what she usually does, but chalks up her inconvenience to not having what she needs for the circumstances: a wheelchair, someone to walk her dog, handrails. She has a plan. She's going to get those things, and everything will be fine.)

Rudolph, redux

Way back in December of aught-six, I considered that perennial classic, Rudolph, the Red Nosed Raindeer from a disability standpoint. And now, in November 2008, Ces Marciuliano sends up the cantankerous, small-minded Santa of that stop-motion favorite.

Santa in 4 panels
To Donner: "Hey, if I didn't build Dasher an office ramp after the bus accident I'm sure not gonna put your handicapped son on my team, Donner..."­
To unseen elves: "'We are Santa's Elves'...Well, maybe next time, invest in an electric pump before committing musical abortion."­
At dinner, talking about the Misfit Toys: "They're misfits!!! I can't deliver misfits! Even blind kids would know they got fucked."
Angry, to unseen Momma Claus: "Do you think I wanted to hit you, Momma?! Do you?!"
Final caption: The not-so-endearing Santa of "Rudolph."

On Beth's meditation: Falling

Beth uses her seizures and falling as a metaphor for the difficulties that people face, and enjoins her friends to see people's falls (in the sense of adverse circumstances) as an opportunity to be the hero we imagined ourselves as children.

I fall quite often. It comes free with the bad hips, bad knees, bad ankles and bad feet. What I have learned is there is no point to fighting it. When I feel me going down, I bring me down instead of trying to stay upright. People often think I just suddenly decided to sit. Indeed, I did. I decided that suddenly sitting would be better than suddenly slamming into the floor. Gravity is a harsh mistress.

It's peculiar who will stop to help and who will make it a point to not see that any help is needed. Some people are terrified to acknowledge that others are having difficulties, even small ones. To notice the needs of others would force them to have to consider helping. To refuse to help would make them Bad People. But to offer help would undermine their autonomous self-image, since in the act of rendering real assistance, the helper and the person being helped become one in their goal. And some people fear being helped for exactly that reason, that loss of the illusion of independence. I mean, it is an illusion. We are all interdependent, we truly cannot live without each other.