Tag: Living with a disability

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Olympic Collaboration

Recently, my 5 ½ year-old Grand Niece and I were playing “I Spy a Color.” Of course, Diego—of the Dora and Diego duo—was participating. It came his turn to pick a color. He normally picks green, because green is his favorite color, but his spokesperson said he chose brown. Herein, lay the challenge.

We were in my great room. In the “Bless This Home” chapter of my book, Views From My Chariot: A Wheelchair Oddity http://booklocker.com/books/6235.html , I reference this room as my mixed child because of the various countries represented in its antique décor.

There is an English bow-front chest, a huge American chest, an African coffee table, Irish, French, and Italian chairs, and to magnify my conundrum, wood floors. If I didn’t use colorful upholstery fabrics and Persian rugs, we would drown in brown.

So, I said, “Baby, tell Diego that this will take forever for Toppy (her pet name for me) to guess. Look at ALL the brown.”

She looked around the room, realizing the truth of the matter, and said, “Oh, it’s easy. It’s round, made of wood (yes) and has horn legs.”

From her fitting description, it was obviously the African coffee table. What struck me was her cooperative compassion.

Now, she likes to win. Don’t take me wrong. We had just played a visual memory card game, “What’s That?” where I pick eight pair of numbers, she lays them face down—four rows, four cards across—then, we take turns turning two cards up trying to find a match. If they don’t match, the cards are turned back over in their same space for the next player’s turn.
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I always make sure that I win one game to give her the “joy exercise” for my win. Life, disappointments, even disability gives us opportunities to look on the bright side. Thereafter, she deserves her win. (Give and take is an important heart lesson/character quality in my book.) Her Olympic victory dance, and its accompanying celebratory song, had lasted ten minutes. She likes winning!

Nonetheless, in her realization of Diego’s difficult color choice, she still played by the rules, but chose to benevolently offer clues to make my guess easier…instead of prolonging the agony of my defeat.

During this Olympic season, winning is the name of the game, as it should be. Each participant has dedicated their life for the goal of the Gold. But, how often in our daily lives do we stroke our own ego above another’s, just to be right, or to win?

I choose cooperative compassionate collaboration to make the world a better place.

How about you?

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Wheelchair Pathfinder

This is an excerpt from my ebook that you can instantly download FREE with your subscription to my ezine. COMING SOON!

When I was five or six years old, someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. Without hesitation, I said, “A boy.” As adults, we laugh at children’s cute misconceptions. We know it isn’t going to happen. Then, somewhere amidst the journey from innocence into adulthood, the majority of us arrive unfulfilled, bothered and bewildered of the cause. We wonder: How did I get off my path? What is my calling? What is my purpose?

Carolyn Weiss says it best. She says it’s never too late to get back on your life path. If you are alive and breathing, you have a purpose.

I have always been an explorer, much like my Daniel Boone-esque, frontiersman, explorer dad. (You can read the wild stories about him in my book, particularly the “That Was Then” chapter.) Back in my walking days, I spent endless hours exploring concealed paths off country dirt roads, ambling amidst woods, discovering hidden swimming holes, and forgotten Civil War grave yards. Occasionally, forgetting my compass, I lost my way. Of course, I always found my way back—I’m here to tell you about it. But, they were daunting times in unfamiliar places. It required maintaining control over my emotions—to stay calm and focused—search for familiar landscape, and persevere until I recognized my path.

I have ALWAYS been a writer. Growing up, other ambitions, and other’s ambitions for me, clouded my thinking, causing me to diverge from my path. Like the blinking arrows >>>>> direct a driver to merge into another lane, thoughts of becoming a nun (yep), an archeologist, Ms. America, a linguist, a famous actress, an Airline stewardess (to name of few), kept detouring me from who I was—a writer and teacher.

Because I never listened to my heart, I didn’t know who I was. My persona became whatever this noggin head imagined I wanted to do.

I entered and won beauty pageants until retiring my last three crowns at nineteen. I took Latin, Spanish, Italian, and French until I realized it took more dedication than I was willing to give. I majored in Speech and Theater until my interest in phonetics changed my path into becoming a speech and language pathologist. (This was God’s plan, after all. It was a trick up His sleeve in order for me to provide for myself after becoming disabled.)

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I still followed a couple of detours after that. I’m a S-L-O-W learner, but once I got it, a dust cloud follows behind me and my chariot. (You don’t see it on my book’s cover because my illustrator replaced it with wheelchair tracks. Whatever.)

I believe we wander from our heart’s path because we don’t recognize our value and belittle our gifts. We assume them common and mundane by thinking, “This is too easy. Anyone can do it. I’m nobody special.”

That’s the big LIE—to derail you off your life path, your fulfillment, your contribution to the world. Yes, the world!

Do you know what yours is?

I will help you find the path leading to your heart, the way I found mine.

HOW TO BE THE BEST YOU COMING SOON!

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Disabled or Enabled Thoughts

I may be living with a disability, but I have enabling thoughts, most of the time.

I enjoy reading and writing, and I love words, but there are times when OCD (Obsessive-compulsive disorder) sets in—like the Howard Hughes moment when I catch myself repeating, in my head, the same set of words over and over and over and over and over…. I catch myself repeating a slogan on a billboard, a car sticker silly-ism, a TV advertisement, or a thought reminding me to do something.

I fall out of the formal diagnosis of ritualistic behaviors because there is no mental compulsion driving me to relieve an identifiable anxiety. Except, I must confess, on rare occasions since I was a young girl, when a group of birds fly overhead, I am compelled to count them before they disappear from sight. Of course, that’s totally normal. Don’t you also need to know the avian population? No worry; I don’t keep count from one counting to the next and add them up. That would be CUCKOO, and compulsive. Repeating the same set of words in my head is recurrent, it isn’t compulsive, unless I don’t have a pen and paper readily available, or until I turn the oven off…turn the oven off…turn the oven off….

“STOP!” I say out loud, only to hear myself repeating the same stale words moments later. It’s like dictating a Western Union telegram—Stop (period). No such luck! It’s really aggravating.

To get to my point, research has shown that our thoughts (able-bodied and disabled alike), positive and negative, affect our emotions and physiology. Long before this type of research was accepted, James Allen wrote As A Man Thinketh. The following are food-for-thought quotes from his contemplative writing:

“The body is the servant of the mind. It obeys the operations of the mind….”

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“Disease and health, like circumstances, are rooted in thought. Thoughts of fear have been known to kill a man as speedily as a bullet….Anxiety quickly demoralizes the whole body, and lays it open to the entrance of disease; while impure thoughts, even if not physically indulged, will sooner shatter the nervous system.”

“Strong, pure, and happy thoughts build up the body in vigor and grace.”

“If you would perfect your body, guard your mind. If you would renew your body, beautify your mind. Thoughts of malice, envy, disappointment, and despondency, rob the body of its health and grace. A sour face does not come by chance; it is made by sour thoughts. Wrinkles that mar are drawn by folly, passion, pride.”

“There is no physician like cheerful thought for dissipating the ills of the body; there is no comforter to compare with goodwill for dispersing the shadows of grief and sorrow.”

And, along those lines—A REMEDY: When you find yourself feeling depressed and sorry for yourself, do something kind, thoughtful, and generous for someone else; not just once, often. He’s not heavy; he’s your brother. Your heaviness will be lightened, as well. I have always found this to be true.

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Wheelchair Delights

Until you read my book, Views From My Chariot: A Wheelchair Oddity, let me add a little more personal information, aside from the tidbits included in all my articles about my living with a disability.

I’ve been riding in my chariot, i.e., wheelchair for thirty-five+ years now, at break-neck speed—probably not funny because that’s what I did (broke my neck), but it made me giggle as I typed it.

In fact, I was making a phone call a while back checking on something, maybe accessibility, I can’t recall. My sister was at home with me. Midway through my conversation with whomever I was speaking, Candace reminded me—like a backseat driver—to offer that I was handicapped.

As I began to explain that I was disabled, my sister and I broke into hysterical laughter. The harder we tried to regain appropriate solemnity, the more boisterous we became. Finally, I just hung up. Neither of us could compose ourselves enough to explain. I’m sure they thought it was some sick prank—totally disrespectful of the disabled plight. What can I say? That’s how I roll.

Besides my sister, here are some of my favorite things: Nature’s cooperative communication—like a school of fish changing direction in a split-second (I used to scuba dive.), and a flight of birds swooping in a 180° turn in unison; expressive music (Carmen’s “Champion” is my favorite Easter song; for Christmas, Michael English’s “Mary, did you know?” and in general, the Chordettes’ “Mr. Sandman”—a VERY old oldie.); cashmere sweaters, scarves, and barefoot sandals; breakfast, spicy Indian food, and mahimahi;  beets, turnips (boiled, roasted, and sautéed),and roasted garlic; the aroma of freshly baked bread, rosemary, and lemon verbena; the scents of gardenia, honeysuckle, and vanilla; azure skies, full moons, and shooting stars; the exuberance of orange, and the peacefulness of white; late winter daffodils, bright Gerber daisies, and red poppies;  ancient Asian peonies, graceful crepe myrtles, and their leaping lizards (which will make sense when you read my book); a tugboat’s baritone horn in the night, a train’s distant whistle, soothing wind chimes, and a child’s voice; movies, movies, and more movies; cats, cats, and cats (I have three, and I’ll be posting some of their antics.); a good book, and time to read it; oxymorons (Are you thinking I’m clearly confused?); a smart joke, a fun game with friends, and laughter; champagne, dry red wine, Maker’s Mark Whisky, Glenlivet Scotch, Jose Cuervo Gold Tequila (I’m fasting liquor. Can you tell?); coffee (coffee candy, coffee yogurt, Tiramisu, anything coffee), and espresso.
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I have been tediously repetitious with things that I love, but I DO LOVE LIFE! If you think about it, all of the above are simple sensory delights available to the able and the disabled alike.

And now, like any of you, after my coffee’s adrenalin surge, I am exceedingly alert with dilated arteries and accelerated blood flow. I think I’ll go run it off.

Uh-oh, I can’t run.

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Living With A Disability

How do you, live with a disability? I think we live as any regular person lives, though a little differently.

I advanced my education after my car wreck. Instead of walking, I rolled to my classes. Later, I was hired as a speech and language pathologist in a school for special children. Due to the diversity of speech and language disorders, I scheduled much of my caseload in individual sessions, or as one-on-ones.

On a particular day, this seven year old, who didn’t want to be in school, decided his session was over. I saw it coming; he had previously used me as target practice with a metal toy truck (one of several vehicles) I was using to teach vocabulary for modes of transportation.

Seated across the table in front of me, he rose from his chair—wearing the face I knew so well—and backed across the room until he reached the wall, never once breaking eye contact with me or even acknowledging my request to return to his seat. Challenging me, he stood firm.

I backed from under the table and wheeled left toward its end. Before I could round the table to guide him back to his seat, he ran to the table’s right end. I backed up and headed toward the right end. He scurried back to the left, never taking his eyes off me.

I knew I could not win this stand-off. I rolled over to the intercom, buzzed the principal’s office, and requested his audience, by name. Instantaneously, David had a change of heart, breaking the sound barrier to get into his chair. After that incident, I was assigned an aide for a couple of my unruly students.

With this one exception, children have always shown a compassionate understanding of my disability. I never had children, but I sat for everyone else’s.
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When I requested that they not go upstairs, outside, or anywhere that I couldn’t be with them, they complied. Since I couldn’t pick them up, I taught them the two-step-climb up into my lap. This was a multi-purpose skill, not only for reading stories, or to love on them, but also to assist them onto my dining room table to change a dirty diaper. Yes, it’s a little unorthodox (I always sterilized the table surface afterward.), but the joy was the same, and the job was accomplished.

With children, here are two perks of having a parent, sibling, or friend, living with a disability. The first is: They can develop early language skills because we talk them through most developmental tasks, i.e., learning to dress, and give directions for performance abilities (keeping their rooms straight and floors clear of toys; if not, we can’t step over things to put them to bed.).

The second is: Their confidence and independence—doing things for themselves, and us—set them up for success, as well as nourishing a sensitivity and consideration for all others.

I think we do rather well living with a disability, thank you very much.

Remember, R.S.V.P.

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The F-word

When I was nine, my younger sister asked my mother, “What does f*** mean?” Mother asked me to leave the room while she explained its meaning, but I listened. (Inquiring minds need to know.) That was the first time I had heard the word.

I have since read various postulations of its origin: An acronym for the King of England’s consent for a married couple to procreate, an acronym labeling a prosecuted prostitute, or an acronym for an unlawful, sexual attack. Most probably, it arrived in the 15th Century from the Dutch or Low German language, fully formed, and not from the swearing Irish.

Less sensational than this four-letter word’s questionable etymology, but equally misunderstood, is the F-word I’m talking about: Flexibility. It isn’t a vulgarity, although many consider it a dirty word.

Before my disability, I did things when I wanted, where I wanted, how I wanted, with whom I wanted, and because I wanted to. If I wanted to explore, I searched country roads to discover their secret destinations or strolled through secluded graveyards imagining the mysterious deaths. When I wanted to socialize, I gathered with friends, went shopping, danced and listened to music, or participated in sports. All of these are spontaneous freedoms. Once confined to a wheelchair, I had to learn to be flexible.

In living with a disability, I consider flexibility to be my lifeline.

Merriam-Webster defines lifeline as 1:“a line…used for saving or preserving life…to keep contact with a person…in a dangerous or potentially dangerous situation” and 2: “something regarded as indispensable for the maintaining…of life.” The way I see it, hired caregivers or family, friend, and neighbor volunteers are our lifelines assisting us in maintaining our health and preserving our quality of life.
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I live independently, but I happily anticipate the weekly and bi-monthly help from my girl Friday and housekeeper. (Learn about the village that keeps me independent in the “It’s a beautiful day in my neighborhood” chapter of my upcoming book Views From My Chariot: A Wheelchair Oddity.)

My “village” helps me with miscellaneous errands, grocery shopping, pet trips to the veterinarian, keeping a clean house, etc.; they sacrificially work me into their schedules. And yes, there are times that their availability interrupts my schedule. Beggars can’t be choosers. What is a little inconvenience when it is my needs (or wants) being met? For that matter, being flexible is a consideration of someone else.

Knowing that I am clay in His hands keeps me malleable. I can’t be broken if I am adaptable and pliable; and gratitude insures my flexibility.

Have you been rigid and staid in your time table? What are your thoughts on the F-word? (the one with eleven letters)

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Wheelchair Exercises

What to do when we want to stay in shape but aren’t physically able to enjoy Zumba fitness, or stretch with yoga, or go for a cardio work-out in spin class? Whether we are disabled from SCI (spinal cord injury), spina bifida, CP (cerebral palsy), an illness, disease, or stroke, there are options for retaining flexibility and maintaining as healthy a body as possible.

I believe we are what we eat, so I’m not a proponent of fried or fast foods, soft drinks, or sugar-laden anything. Not that I never indulge in KFC’s chicken livers (maybe once a year), or a Sonic Jr. jalapeño burger with a small order of onion rings (maybe once or twice a year, and I’m overdue), but I know that my body thanks me with excellent health and more than sufficient energy by eating responsibly.

Until you experience the benefits and are sincerely given to healthy choices, it will require discipline and serious denial to the dictatorial cravings. Aren’t you so-o-o encouraged and just can’t wait to be healthy? It’s like when fasting all I think about is FOOD or that recipe I anticipate preparing.

Diet aside, let me mention a few simple warm-up exercises to stretch and encourage blood flow to our masterful muscles and Mensa minds. Make sure you have adjusted to your new body, know its idiosyncrasies, and check with your PT or doctor before enbarking on new techniques.

By far, one of my easiest exercises for stretching Achilles tendons, calves and ham strings is by using the OPTP strap. It is 72”L x 1”W, sewn together at 7” intervals, rendering 10 loops—perfect for any height.

I place my feet on my bed (any furniture wheelchair height will suffice), wrap one loop around the ball of my foot, wrap my wrist through the loop reaching my upper thigh, then pull. After a few stretches, I lean forward over my lap to increase the stretch. Make sure you are balanced so not to fall forward or sideways. This strap is $17.95 and is available at 1-800-367-7393.

I have an unconventional method for stretching my back, but it pop, pop, pops—just right. I back up against an open door, center the door jamb against my spine, and push my wheelchair tires backward as I press my back against the jamb. For a horizontal lying-in-bed position, I simultaneously press the back of my head and my bent elbows against the mattress (no pillow).

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For a simple yet ingeniously engineered devise that relieves stress, increases blood flow to the musculoskeletal system, stretches, and realigns vertebrae, I have a True Back.

By their description, it is “…a non-powered orthopedic traction device.” and it is my favorite. (I include a complete chapter in my book, Views From My Chariot: A Wheelchair Oddity, on assistive aides, equipment, and such devices. It weighs 4 pounds and measures 24”L x 10”W x 4”D, at its deepest. Each end has a different angled incline; one is for less traction, and the other is for more.

If you are ambulatory, you can put it on the floor at home or, if you prefer, at the office; I put mine in bed with me.

While sitting up with legs outstretched, I slide one end against my buttock—centered for my spine to rest between its two undulated rails–then, slowly lie back over its length. I place a pillow under my head to protect it from the uncomfortable, hard wood and to lessen the stress on my neck.

There have been slight changes made in its design since I bought mine (They now offer a vibrating version.), but it can be purchased for $69.95 (with a free comfort pillow) at www.trueback.com or call 1-800-630-3372.

Does this help? What works for you?

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Wheelchair Bulldozer

From the beginning of my wheelchair ride, family and close friends understood the importance of my gaining independence. Now, they are so accustomed to me bulldozing boxes, furniture—whatever needs moving, that they don’t even volunteer their services. They just curiously observe the unfolding of a new furniture arrangement or open the door for me to add something to my back porch recycling center.

Most often, it simply doesn’t occur to me to ask for help. For those things I cannot do, like changing a light bulb, retrieve objects from a high shelf, or open a cantankerous jar, I make a list to ask the next able-bodied person who enters. (A short pencil beats a short memory every time.) Recently, I was reminded that my bulldozer can’t do everything.

Upon transferring into my wheelchair one morning, my ROHO air cushion went flat. Now, I’ve always had a bony butt and could not endure bleacher seats without a cushion or blanket to set on. With a spinal cord injury and without the minimal glutei maximi muscles, sitting on anything but my air cushion is like bare bone grinding on concrete—excruciating.

Because I’m a plan-ahead kind of girl, I always have two ROHOs: one that I’m sitting on and a back-up for when the one I’m using springs a leak, normally once a year. BUT, I had just returned one for repair and was sitting on my back-up when it went flat.

Upon receiving my returned cushion the prior week, a ROHO (http://www.therohogroup.com) representative had called me to offer a preused, repaired cushion for $100 because mine was out of warranty (A new one is around $400.); they no longer repair for customers or send replacements unless it is still under warranty. I decided I could safely wait a few months before ordering a new one. Wrong!

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I was back in bed within two hours of getting up, to allow my ischia some time off, then up again on my second back-up cushion (hard foam). I called ROHO (800-851-3449) inquiring if they offered next-day air; if so, I could make an order for a new ROHO through DME Services.

I told the service representative that my preused, repaired cushion for which I paid $100 was also caput mortuum, and I needed a new one fast. He put me on hold and came back with wonderful news: This ROHO was still under warranty. He would send me a brand new replacement, and ROHO would pay the $59 fee for next-day.

Today, I’m back on air. Maybe I can help with your wheelchair woes.

R.S.V.P.

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Passionate Beauty

In my youth, beauty was a non-issue and definitely not my focus—whatever focus I did have. In the past, my life decisions were made without-a-thought, out-of-the-blue, riding-a-whim.

By the time I entered my first beauty pageant at fourteen, I was a full-blown misanthrope–I disliked and distrusted people. Their opinions carried little weight on my self-image, thoughts or actions. I did what was right in my own eyes.

This philosophy freed me from taking pride in, or credit for, others’ labels of my physical attributes. This belief system also shackled my emotional development. (I discuss these in my book, Views From My Chariot: A Wheelchair Oddity)

I gleaned from both my parents to be true to myself, to the best I understood at the time. Though, I don’t believe either of my parents read Ralph Waldo Emerson. He was of the same opinion when he said, “Insist on yourself. Never imitate.”

At sixteen, I remember my mother coming to me with an anonymous letter. The letter contained the warning that because of someone’s “rumored” lifestyle, I was going to ruin my reputation if I continued spending time with her daughter. That’s one of the hazards living in a small town. I had heard untrue rumors about me, too.

Mother read the letter aloud to me, then asked, “What do you think you should do?” My answer was that it was no one’s business what I did or who my friends were. I was going to remain her friend. Mother tore up the letter.

This was the girlfriend who informed me, as I returned from walking the ramp at a rehearsal for a pageant we both entered, “You have a big ass, but it looks good.”

It wasn’t that I really had a big butt. It was my twenty-one-inch waist that emphasized my thirty-five-inch hips filling out my red pencil pants. (It was the sixties.) Anyway, I knew she meant it as a compliment, and I didn’t take it as an insult. We were friends. She was expressing her thoughts. And, even if I did have a big butt, she thought it looked good.

The point being: I knew that people thought I was beautiful. These were the first words crossing their lips upon our meeting. Whatever part of the anatomy being appreciated, I was aware of people staring, even of strangers walking backward to get longer looks. Remember: I didn’t think people had much sense so I interpreted it as silly, just their opinion—not the absolute truth. My critical eye zoomed in on characteristics I considered problematic.I didn’t consider myself beautiful. I considered Elizabeth Taylor, Grace Kelly, and Dianne Carrol beautiful. Today, I consider Selma Hayek, Heidi Klum, Gong Li, Mellody Hobson, and Laila Ali as beautiful.

SCI is hard on the physical body. Though I would like to look as I did in my forties, even my fifties, I’m not an advocate of needless surgeries, drugs, and injected poisons. I love and respect my body’s faithful service these many years living from a wheelchair. Although the physical fact of beauty has faded, I can honestly say that I am beautiful. I now know what true beauty is, and I behold myself from a totally different standard, from a totally different perspective.

Photo MOON fullBeauty isn’t only a physical attribute. Yes, it can be seen in a human face or body and, in addition, it can be seen in the majestic full moon or a promissory rainbow, in Santana’s rock guitar and Latin percussion, or in Yo-Yo Ma with his cello. I believe the secret of beauty is in excellence—in doing or being your best.
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In being at the right place at the right time, the moon does what it was created to do; it reflects the sun. At its most glorious, it’s full. Its other phases may not be as spectacular, but to reach its splendid fullness, it waxes. Hmmm. Are you in a new phase or growing toward your fullness?

For a rainbow to form, an alignment of three things must occur: There must be water droplets in the air in front of you, the sun must be shining, and the sunlight must be behind you. As the result, as the sunlight penetrates into the front of the droplet, it bends or refracts for the first time; as it exists the back of the droplet, it bends the second time. (Double rainbows occur when the light makes a return trip through the back and out the front of the water droplets. How breathtaking is that?)

Hmmm. The beauty of a rainbow can only be observed when sunshine peeks through the clouds, after or during a rainy day.

For the virtuosos in their fields, it took passion, and practice, practice, practice. I believe the moon passionately reflects the sun, and that the rainbow is God’s passionate promise.

What makes you stand out? What is your passion, your beauty source? As a rainbow, it may be shining through a struggle making you so.

Today and tomorrow, look yourself in the mirror; behold the beautiful you. Find a feature, a mannerism, an inherent gift that you like. Whether it is the color of your hair, eyes or skin…an artistic, mathematical, musical or rhythmic talent…height, health or humor, say, “Thank you_______ (don’t be single-minded; mention a few. None are jealous.) for serving me. I love you. I AM beautiful.”

Trust me. It’s true.

Let’s talk…about you. I’m listening.

R.S.V.P.

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The Etiquette of Truth

The truth used to be told straight up, according to the facts, as it was seen, and with no apologies. Of course, if it was bad news, it was given with heart-felt sympathy and concern, as with the doctor’s prognosis of our disability, illness, or disease. Otherwise, the truth was served up as the truth. Who doesn’t tell the truth or want to know the truth? Well….

When I was fifteen, I remember having a conversation with my best girlfriend. I trustingly asked her to tell me something in my personality that needed tweaking; some bothersome trait she found annoying. I seriously wanted to be a better person. Who else would tell you the truth but your best friend? She agreed to tell me something I needed to change on one condition: that I would first tell her a habit she needed to change.

Well, I loved her the way she was. The only thing I could think of was that most of the time I went to her house to spend time with her. So that’s what I said—I would like for her to come to my house more often instead of always having to go to hers.

Now that it was my turn, I asked her again. She said, “I don’t want to. I don’t know.”

I felt so let down and disappointed that she wouldn’t give me any constructive criticism. Now that I’m older, I understand the conflict she must have felt in telling the truth, even though I had asked for it.

Since becoming disabled, I have observed (or have become more aware of) people’s aversion to and avoidance of discomfort, whether mental or physical. One of these seemingly uncomfortable situations is being around the disabled.

During the five months of SCI rehabilitation after my car wreck, we were warned of other’s reactions to us. The teaching staff explained that their responses to us were more a result of their ignorance than our condition. I have experienced this as true.
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Before I internalize another’s words, looks, or actions, I remove my self-centered glasses stained from my life experiences. (Regardless, if a matter has nothing to do with oneself, we tend to interpret it personally.) When I do this, I can see their awkwardness and discomfort as they approach me.

Most often they look over my head or in another direction. If they muster up enough nerve to meet my gaze, I simply smile. I understand. At first, I didn’t know what to do with myself. And, I’ve learned that we in wheelchairs, using walkers, or assisted by guide dogs aren’t the only ones disabled.

For those of you paralyzed by uncertainty of what to do in our presence, it’s okay. For a starter in etiquette, you could just acknowledge that I am there with a smile and a nod.  At our next encounter, you could do the same or ask if there is anything I need help with. You might even confess your lack of experience in helping a disabled person, but you’re available and willing to learn.

Amazingly, truth dismantles barriers. Unhealed wounds, self-absolving justifications, and staid conclusive judgements do not teach us about anyone or anything, particularly ourselves. There should be no consequences to a well-meaning truth.

What has been your experience? Let’s talk about you.