Author: Cynthia White

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I Never Complain, but…

QWERTY middle finger picAll this talk of viruses disabling computer programs. There are other ways of disabling us users, and I’m not referring to disability.

What is it with this younger generation, anyway? They come out of the womb air typing—like they already know QWERTY’s keyboard layout. Really! It took me a high school senior class to memorize my typewriter’s layout, though my class drill assignments looked like Greek on a modern-day sheet of papyrus. I mean, with 50-65% typing errors, it was sort-of illegible.

Even now, I have deceptive looking hands. My five-year-old Grand Niece says my hands are “tangled,” meaning: I can’t grip things. They look like they belong to a keyboard maestro with long skinny fingers and a palm spread to rival The Shaq. Hey, I’m not complaining about my unusual hands, I’m complaining about our 21st century digital communications.

Since I was born in the first half of the 20th century—a long time ago—hertz and gigahertz mean nothing to me but frustration. Forget kilo, mega, and gigabytes. Our brains store information, hopefully; computers store space or bytes? Where I come from, a byte means a “bite of food,” or a limb, if you’re a child in the throws of anger. Anyway, we used to have bully bullies. In addition, we now have cyber bullies. I can’t take it anymore! I’m tired of being pinned against my password wall!

I’m being bullied into taking “Brain Energizer” supplements to boost memory and ward off disabling Alzheimer’s Disease; because I can’t remember all my passwords to my varied treasure chests of Gold? NO! They’re to my many portals of business goings-on. It’s not my fault!

For security’s sake, when I come up with a password, I’m asked if I want my program to remember it. Of course. It’s a time saver to click “Yes;” so I click “Yes.” If they remember it, why should I. Right? Wrong!

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When my Shaq fingers make a mistake, they ask me to verify my password. Excuse me! They were the ones who asked me if I wanted them to remember it. When I type in my username, that horizontal line of bold black dots clues me that they remember; it’s right there, hidden in plain sight, to login.

My question is: “How does this clock-and-dagger password drama relate to my identity?” Hackers, BE HACKED! Computers, my brain intelligence has out-witted your byte space. I’ve been byte-n enough.

I have a manila envelop titled “Usernames and Passwords” filled with each venture’s name, email address, username, and password…written in reliable, old-fashioned long-hand.

I love my long digits; especially my multi-functional middle finger—for the express purpose of typing, of course.

P.S. Just returned from my Chicago convention. I’ll have the update, and warnings of “accessible” tours, next week. Stay tuned.

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Equilibrium of Nature

Are you stressed, lonely, bored, or all of the above and SCI? Do you relieve these anxieties with serotonin producing comfort foods like bread, pasta, chocolate, or ice cream, wind down with alcohol, mellow out with drugs, or work it out with exercise or sex?

The last two have been proven to be beneficial, but if “All the world’s a stage,” (Shakespeare) did you know that you can relieve stress, feel connected, and find equilibrium (mental, emotional, physical, and spiritual) in the show of Nature? Preferably in the wild outdoors, but pictures of Nature bring comfort on these levels, as well.

Consider going anywhere green. (Green lends balance, renewal, and peace.) There are 80 national and state parks. Take a pick!

Then, there are scenic drives like the 444-miles of Natchez Trace Parkway (MS), Tennessee’s Great Smokey Mountains, 469-miles of the Blue Ridge Parkway (NC-VA) over the Shenandoah Mountains and through North Carolina’s Asheville in the Appalachian Mountains.

(FYI: The Biltmore Estate is a MUST SEE! Overcome with amazement at George Washington Vanderbilt’s vision (8,000 acres worth), I couldn’t sleep for two weeks after touring its mansion (175,000 square feet and 250 rooms) and gardens (75 acres), which are 95% wheelchair accessible. It is a self-supporting estate. I was more impressed with The Biltmore than the many European mansions I have visited.)

Organize a trip to Arizona’s brownish-orange (B-vitamin enhancing) clay, or New Mexico to drink in its landscape of neutral desert rocks, thirsty plans, and sand (browns calm and ground), and its eternal sunset colors—golden yellows (ease depression and increase energy), ochre, orange (stimulates happiness and joy), and rust; maybe a greenish-yellow margarita, or two; always helps what ails you.

Maybe, take in Wyoming’s Doppelgänger reflections of blue (for vitality, knowledge, intuition, mental relaxation) lakes, snow-capped mountains, and evergreens.

Then, there is oxygenated Oregon; great for renewed energy and cerebral creativity.
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Take in an ocean view with its turquoise (calming, sleep inducing) waters, like a trek along California’s Big Sur, a Caribbean cruise, or Jamaica, mon.

Your geographical location determines the landscape, or lack thereof. If you are a city-dweller, there must be art and science museums, public parks and gardens, a zoo, an animal shelter, or aquarium, most always wheelchair accssible. Plan weekly look-forward-to trips somewhere. Reward your dedication to work. Remind yourself that you’re not a lost island or, relieve a rut.

If your mobility limits these participations, rent travel and adventure videos. My favorite are “Warren Miller Entertainment” videos (extreme snow skiing, snowboarding, etc.), because I loved snow skiing and relish Nature. “The Wonders of God’s Creation: Animal Kingdom, Planet Earth, and Human Life” is awesome. And, there’s youtube.

You can purchase paintings and pictures of whatever calms and inspires you—the Northern lights, mountain tops, sunrises and sunsets, moon-lit evening skies, clouds, rain, rainbows, rainforests, waterfalls, whales, seascapes, trees, flowers, animals, insects, etc; Nature is limitless. She’s waiting for you.

I am calmed, refreshed, inspired, and renewed when I commune with Nature. As well, my home is filled with objects of Nature. I even frame note cards and cut pictures out of magazines to frame. I have pictures of lightening on my refrigerator that I cut out of a National Geographic magazine.

Sometimes, I let scissors do the walking.

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“Help!” (Not the Beatles) – A Wheelchair Assist

WELL! I have had an eye-opener-of-a-day!! (Pay attention to double exclamations.) I went through my drive-thru shower this morning only to realize that I COULD NOT make the landing (transfer) onto my helipad (commode). Wheelchair positioning alongside the right of my commode is essential for a successful transfer. Three-fourths of the way, I could not disengage from my rubber ROHO!!

“Help, I need somebody,
Help, not just anybody,
Help, you know I need somebody, help.”

–the Beatles

For a safe transfer, I depend on my shower-wet rubber cushion. It was not in slip-n-slide mode. My left buttocks sat on a dry cushion; my right, on the dry left side of the toilet seat. I was stuck, literally. Teetering, I balanced with my left hand on my cushion, while trying to heave my dead weight over onto the toilet seat. NADA!!

I’m not a once-does-it kind-of-girl, so with Olympian efforts amidst multiple Hail Marys (prayers, not passes, although it was in desperation), I finally retreated back onto my ROHO, reentered my shower for a second water-lube, and tried again.
Forget it. It wasn’t happening!

“When I was younger, so much younger, than today,
I never needed anybody’s help in any way.
But now these days are gone, I’m not so self-assured,
Now I find I’ve changed my mind and opened up the doors.”

–the Beatles

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To assist my regular commode transfers, I sprinkle baby powder on its seat. Powder lessens the skin-against-wood toilet seat friction. After a shower, I depend on water for an assist.

I used to have an antique ball-and-claw tub fitted with a hydraulic-lift seat secured by suction-cup feet under its base. That was definitely when I was younger. The precarious struggles off the rotating seat, over the tub’s rim, and into my wheelchair gave birth to my drive-thru shower design. (I’m also an interior designer.) A drive-in shower seemed much safer, and certainly has been until, lately, when my body and strength changed.

“And now my life has changed in so many ways,
My independence seems to vanish in the haze.
But every now and then I feel so insecure,…”

–the Beatles

To remedy my impasse, I had to transfer into bed, dry off, slather up with my lotion, and dress in bed. But, I did it!!

“…Won’t you please, please, help me, help me, help me, oh.”

–the Beatles

Waiting for some “Help!”-ful comments; but not from you, Paul.

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Wheelchair Exercise in Optimism-Part Two

When your schedule is un-expectantly interrupted, are you flexible enough to calmly and thoughtfully move to Plan-B; or, are you so self-centered you haven’t considered a Plan-B (because you assume everyone is on your Plan-A) that you pitch a hissy-fit, blaming the interrupter for screwing up your day? Do you see your glass as half-full or half-empty? Do you call a rose bush a “rose bush” or a “thorn bush?” Do you appreciate the dappled sunlight in the woods, just see trees or, do you really give a flip? These are points of view or perspective.

When you experience something unfortunate, even horrific, can you truthfully find something to be grateful for, or do you throw a pity party, hold a grudge, speak evil of the “perpetrator”, act spitefully toward them, and harbor un-forgiveness? Are you familiar with the sayings, “Ill-as-a-hornet” and “Happy-as-a-lark?” Which of the above best describes your behavior on any given day? These are attitudes, states-of-mind, or dispositions.

Sibling order, environments in which we were reared, experiences we have weathered, temperaments and personalities we are born with influence who we are, but we are not doomed by any of these. We have choices and we make these choices unlimited times each day. Every one of us is who we are by our choices. No other person is to blame, or can receive all the credit. Do you feel alone or empty?

When we find ourselves, day-after-day and year-after-year, re-living and ruminating an event in the past, bad or good, it’s time to open the prison gates and be freed.

If another person was involved in the event, the other person has blissfully moved on—oblivious to our hate—or is dealing with his/her own demons, WITHOUT A THOUGHT OF YOU.

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If it was a disease, illness, accident or natural catastrophe that caught you off-guard, push on. If you haven’t been touched by sorrow or hardship yet, buckle up. Not one of us will dodge the bullet, not even Neo. Life happens! We all suffer; how we deal with it is the solution to our happiness.

I would much rather see the world happily through rose-colored glasses (Remember, denial is my happy place.), without self-induced stress and with normal blood pressure than, viewing the world drearily through a heavy fog, with plaque-filled arteries and un-repairable, frayed DNA.

What about you?

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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 Warrior

Let me tell you a story:

“There was a little girl who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead.” (It’s not exactly a curl; it’s more like a wave, if I have a perm. If I don’t have a perm, I wear unintentional bangs.) “And, when she was good, she was very, very good, but when she was bad, she was horrid.” MY story changes here to: When she was MAD, she was a Warrior. Let me explain:

Last week, I told you that my ebook was coming SOON. I was three-fourths through; I had about one more week of typing to do. As I’ve told you or you’ve read, or maybe you haven’t read and I haven’t told you, I type about 8 words a minute, with my middle finger. Five hundred words a day is great for me. It’s a good day. Recently, I typed a thousand in one day. I was elated to be ahead of schedule. How I did it, I don’t know. Magic fingers, I guess. What can I say?

I took a break, went to dinner, came back to my office, and opened the file. It was EMPTY—0 CHARACTERS!

I clicked here, clicked there, trying to find where it went. Was there an auxiliary file? No. The original file was still titled, but there was nothing in it. Seven thousand words circling Saturn!

Okay, I have “lost” articles, emails, FB notes before but not of this magnitude. I decided to call my computer guy the next morning. He had retrieved things before; he could do it again.

He said, “If the file remains with no content, it can’t be retrieved.”

I was sick; I was literally nauseous. I thought I would vomit. Instead, I cried. After a short cry (I do not indulge in pity parties.), I made my morning espresso. I enjoyed my morning indulgence then, went to wash my face and apply make-up.
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I decided on black eyeliner. After lining my eyes, I thought, “I feel like black eye shadow.” I have NEVER been Goth but, today, this felt right!

I DECLARED WAR!

I blackened my eyelids. My hand painted God’s zigzag lightening rod on my right cheek and on my left cheek. I drew a cross (the blood of Jesus) between my eyebrows, three interconnecting circles (Father, Son, and Holy Ghost) on my chin, and symmetrical arches (my angel’s protection) on my jaws.

Because this book is for YOU, my faithful readers, this MAD WARRIOR put her head down, fists up, and middle finger poised. Threatening the enemy, I DECLARED VICTORY to complete this book!

I am back again, two-thirds of the way through. Determinedly, it is COMING SOON. (You can order, Views From My Chariot: A Wheelchair Oddity while you wait. Click “Purchase,” and click the link to its web page. Order there.)

Today, I apologize for the delay.

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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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Living With a Disability-WITH A HOPE

According to me, one of the misfortunes of living with a disability is the loss of spontaneity. I miss impromptu trysts with friends for a midday coffee, catching a matinee at the last minute, foot-scorching sands on the beach, beach towel sunbathing, walking barefoot in the rain…but, living with a disability can not diminish beholding beauty.

Recently, I felt overindulged at a friend’s “throw her own” birthday party. She invited an estimated seventy friends for a special luncheon at her country club. (For you guys, if you’re not into flowers, envision the panoramic view through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the 18-hole, 6,702 yards of rambling golf course. Now, fantasize about your par 71 score. Check back in for the last three paragraphs.) The speaker was Dorothy McDaniels of Dorothy McDaniel’s Flower Market fame in Homewood, Alabama. (She has even made arrangements for Margaret Thatcher!) She demonstrated techniques of a dozen different floral arrangements using red roses and green roses (I didn’t know that there were green roses.), green hydrangeas, purple irises, hot pink lilies, yellow this and thats, and white everythings; I love the purity and simplicity of white.

My rose after a two day bloom

 

The table settings were breathtaking. At each place setting was a single rose tied with bows of purple organza and spring green satin. Every rose was a different type and a different color.

 

The centerpieces were low and glorious with light and hot pinks, purples and periwinkles, orange, yellow, and green. See!

A floral rainbow

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The meal was as colorful and tasty: Spring greens salad sprinkled with sliced strawberries, wild mushroom crepes with Béchamel (a rich, creamy white sauce) over a rice pilaf, and rainbow sherbet with a Pirouette (rolled cookie) served in a long stem wine glass. Yum!

Outings have been rare lately, although I’ll be out promoting my book, Views From My Chariot: A Wheelchair Oddity, in the upcoming months! August 23-26, I’ll be in Chicago for the fall National Rehabilitation Conference peddling my book. Look me up if you’re there.

Although, I believe this is my temporary home (like Carrie Underwood’s song), I travel daily, making the best of living with a disability. Each room in my home is decorated with a different country’s influence. My wardrobe is ethnically chosen, and two of my three cats are Persian and Russian.

A language barrier you wonder? No problem! The language in my home is love—the universal language!

When I “relocate,” I look forward to traveling this universe beholding its breathtaking beauty. I’ll be whole and healed, enjoying unsurpassed spontaneity. That will be something.

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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.