After considerable delays, the anthology Our Haunted World" is finally available for purchase at Amazon.com and should soon be available at Barnes and Noble.com as well.
http://www.amazon.com/Our-Haunted-World-Stories-Around/dp/0977095681
My contribution to the volume is "Ghost in the Rear-View." The story is solidly set here in Providence Rhode Island. It’s more than a haunted car story, to which the title gives some hint. It’s a nifty story inspired by a line in the Jim Steinman song by Meat Loaf "Objects in the Rear View Mirror May Appear Closer than They Are." My story focuses on the appearance of a ghost in a guy’s car and moves towards the answer of why she began appearing there whenever he drives past a highway-side graveyard, as can be readily seen by people heading northbound on I-95 just pas Branch Avenue.
It is one of the favorite three short stories I have written. Originally the publisher planned illustrations for the stories, and mine was the first one chosen by the artists for some of its haunting imagery. The illustrations, unfortunately, were later omitted from the publishing plan.
The anthology features some other good writers I have encountered before and promises some great stories. It’s a must-have addition to the bookshelves for my three fans and anyone who enjoys ghost stories.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Caregiver Seizing Control
Continuing on the ongoing theme of control freaks make the best caregivers....
It’s only special people who can truly rise up and become major caregivers to others in need. Vows of "in sickness and in health" often get broken under such circumstances. I find myself remarkably lucky to have or have had some of the people who have passed through my life and/or remain part of it. I am a cantankerous unmarried and unattached man without close family who went blind at 40. I’ve had more than one person who did or does take excellent car of me, often going out of their way to do so. Two of those rise above all others to the depth of their efforts. Conflict is inevitable with each. They have control freak tendencies in general, and my loss of control and ability creates a vacuum that is natural for either to want to fill.
One is my former employer, business partner, friend, border, roommate and probably a lot of other roles and definitions that escape me right now. I’ll deal with him later.
The other is "Pat," a name I assigned for gender neutrality in the policy I have always maintained with this blog of not specifically mentioning friends and rendering almost all of them anonymous to the blog readers and mutual acquaintances alike. I’ve known Pat for well over half my life and while there were intervening years without contact, at several points we were close, if not intimate.
When the blood hemorrhage happened, it seems Pat dropped everything to be there for me. It did not seem that way from the onset; he just gave rides and other favors here and there. The frequency rose quickly. My parents had taken me to the first few eye appointments in October 2009, but Pat took over that responsibility and had driven me to all the PRP sessions and other appointments. This was one of the first signs that Pat’s help was expanding from charity to control. I want neither Pat nor no one else to misconstrue anything here or think that I do not appreciate everything he did. I appreciate Pat’s actions and the person behind them.
The PRP appointments and intervening exams went from the option of Pat driving me to a mandatory thing by his actions. Pat was rearranging hectic work schedules to do this for me, and taking time away from an already troubled marriage at the time, which made that aspect worse at home. I was dealing with the loss of independence and self control as well as the loss of plain old eyesight. Pat was helping me, but it soon developed that he would arrange future appointments to his work schedule. He would take the appointment cards for upcoming visits; I would never have possession or sometimes even much knowledge when the next appointment was without his reminders and scheduling of my time.
I do not think Pat was intentionally acting out any control freakishness with any bad intent or simple goal of controlling me. Pat simply found it expedient to make sure he knew when the appointments were so he could rearrange his schedule and make sure the treatments were met.
I see this as a classic way that caregivers end up taking control. There’s no sinister conspiracy to seize someone else’s life. Pat did no wrong to me and in fact did much, maybe too much, right. Yet in that time, while I was trying to hold on to everything I was losing, there was no way that the small things Pat took over for expediency or ease in providing help could be surrendered without resentment.
It’s only special people who can truly rise up and become major caregivers to others in need. Vows of "in sickness and in health" often get broken under such circumstances. I find myself remarkably lucky to have or have had some of the people who have passed through my life and/or remain part of it. I am a cantankerous unmarried and unattached man without close family who went blind at 40. I’ve had more than one person who did or does take excellent car of me, often going out of their way to do so. Two of those rise above all others to the depth of their efforts. Conflict is inevitable with each. They have control freak tendencies in general, and my loss of control and ability creates a vacuum that is natural for either to want to fill.
One is my former employer, business partner, friend, border, roommate and probably a lot of other roles and definitions that escape me right now. I’ll deal with him later.
The other is "Pat," a name I assigned for gender neutrality in the policy I have always maintained with this blog of not specifically mentioning friends and rendering almost all of them anonymous to the blog readers and mutual acquaintances alike. I’ve known Pat for well over half my life and while there were intervening years without contact, at several points we were close, if not intimate.
When the blood hemorrhage happened, it seems Pat dropped everything to be there for me. It did not seem that way from the onset; he just gave rides and other favors here and there. The frequency rose quickly. My parents had taken me to the first few eye appointments in October 2009, but Pat took over that responsibility and had driven me to all the PRP sessions and other appointments. This was one of the first signs that Pat’s help was expanding from charity to control. I want neither Pat nor no one else to misconstrue anything here or think that I do not appreciate everything he did. I appreciate Pat’s actions and the person behind them.
The PRP appointments and intervening exams went from the option of Pat driving me to a mandatory thing by his actions. Pat was rearranging hectic work schedules to do this for me, and taking time away from an already troubled marriage at the time, which made that aspect worse at home. I was dealing with the loss of independence and self control as well as the loss of plain old eyesight. Pat was helping me, but it soon developed that he would arrange future appointments to his work schedule. He would take the appointment cards for upcoming visits; I would never have possession or sometimes even much knowledge when the next appointment was without his reminders and scheduling of my time.
I do not think Pat was intentionally acting out any control freakishness with any bad intent or simple goal of controlling me. Pat simply found it expedient to make sure he knew when the appointments were so he could rearrange his schedule and make sure the treatments were met.
I see this as a classic way that caregivers end up taking control. There’s no sinister conspiracy to seize someone else’s life. Pat did no wrong to me and in fact did much, maybe too much, right. Yet in that time, while I was trying to hold on to everything I was losing, there was no way that the small things Pat took over for expediency or ease in providing help could be surrendered without resentment.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Freaky
While talking about caregivers and control freaks, I would be negligent to ignore opinions of some that I am a control freak myself.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Losing Control
There, I’ve said it: The best caregivers are often control freaks.
They do not proceed with sinister intent. They are good people with the best of intentions, with the heart and mind and patience to look after a gimp like me or their agin parents or relatives.
Two digressions before I continue.
First, I was labeled "uncontrollable" as a teenager. I never lost the label as an adult, because it was always true. I can be worked with, guided and even directed, but not controlled. Employers and bosses who wanted jobs done were always happy with me. Those who wanted hoops jumped through soon became frustrated, and more often than not, former employers sooner rather than later. I was always brazen enough to meet the statement "If I tell you to jump, you’re to ask ‘How high’?" with open contempt. I am not an extension of other people and do not exist to boost the egos of others. That has not changed since I went gimp. Nor is it likely to change.
The second reminder for this subject holds true in my case and most others, whether the person needing help is going gimp or just getting old and feeble. People like us are psychologically dealing with losses of control over ourselves and our lives. I looked at giving up driving as a responsibility to the communities through which I would be endangering. I just have a certain mix of competency and confidence And genuine humility. My convenience and self control is not worth the danger I would pose to others. I wish more elderly people would have this reason and just stop driving before they kill someone. Yet I understand why they don’t, often until they total their car or their kids take the keys away. Loss of independence to go where you want when you want is an enormous loss of self control. It is not always the beginning of the end, but is usually the turning point from which there is no recovery. Getting a driver’s licence and car is a milestone for most people, and losing that privilege is akin to picking out your gravestone.
All on our own, we see, even blind, out self control and independence dwindle.
We feel grateful for those who are willing to help us and do for us.
We understand that we are a burden to those who help us the most, and even at our most cantankerous, we truly appreciate the efforts.
Watch that sandwich generation person in the grocery and department store as he shops with both children and a frail parent. Often the sharp barked orders to the parent are as commanding to the elderly parents as to the grade schooler. The caregiver is happy to help, but the daily demands and obligations take over. Getting shoes for the kids and prune juice for the parents become equal things on the to do list, often with similar annoyances: the kid doesn’t like the trim color on the shoes and the parents thinks that bottle of prune juice is too heavy or hard to grasp.
"Normal" or mediocre caregivers get frustrated by this. Usually they make the shopping trips less often or reduce the help they give. I do find that understandable.
The best caregivers seize the reins and take over the situation. This is less pronounced with children. With adults who are already losing control of aspects of their lives, the cycle can soon escalate.
The size and shape of that prune juice bottle really doesn’t matter. But the representation that even such an insignificant decision is out of our hands becomes a small point of stress in a growing porcupine that we sleep with each night.
Conflict between the caregiver and the receiver becomes inevitable....
They do not proceed with sinister intent. They are good people with the best of intentions, with the heart and mind and patience to look after a gimp like me or their agin parents or relatives.
Two digressions before I continue.
First, I was labeled "uncontrollable" as a teenager. I never lost the label as an adult, because it was always true. I can be worked with, guided and even directed, but not controlled. Employers and bosses who wanted jobs done were always happy with me. Those who wanted hoops jumped through soon became frustrated, and more often than not, former employers sooner rather than later. I was always brazen enough to meet the statement "If I tell you to jump, you’re to ask ‘How high’?" with open contempt. I am not an extension of other people and do not exist to boost the egos of others. That has not changed since I went gimp. Nor is it likely to change.
The second reminder for this subject holds true in my case and most others, whether the person needing help is going gimp or just getting old and feeble. People like us are psychologically dealing with losses of control over ourselves and our lives. I looked at giving up driving as a responsibility to the communities through which I would be endangering. I just have a certain mix of competency and confidence And genuine humility. My convenience and self control is not worth the danger I would pose to others. I wish more elderly people would have this reason and just stop driving before they kill someone. Yet I understand why they don’t, often until they total their car or their kids take the keys away. Loss of independence to go where you want when you want is an enormous loss of self control. It is not always the beginning of the end, but is usually the turning point from which there is no recovery. Getting a driver’s licence and car is a milestone for most people, and losing that privilege is akin to picking out your gravestone.
All on our own, we see, even blind, out self control and independence dwindle.
We feel grateful for those who are willing to help us and do for us.
We understand that we are a burden to those who help us the most, and even at our most cantankerous, we truly appreciate the efforts.
Watch that sandwich generation person in the grocery and department store as he shops with both children and a frail parent. Often the sharp barked orders to the parent are as commanding to the elderly parents as to the grade schooler. The caregiver is happy to help, but the daily demands and obligations take over. Getting shoes for the kids and prune juice for the parents become equal things on the to do list, often with similar annoyances: the kid doesn’t like the trim color on the shoes and the parents thinks that bottle of prune juice is too heavy or hard to grasp.
"Normal" or mediocre caregivers get frustrated by this. Usually they make the shopping trips less often or reduce the help they give. I do find that understandable.
The best caregivers seize the reins and take over the situation. This is less pronounced with children. With adults who are already losing control of aspects of their lives, the cycle can soon escalate.
The size and shape of that prune juice bottle really doesn’t matter. But the representation that even such an insignificant decision is out of our hands becomes a small point of stress in a growing porcupine that we sleep with each night.
Conflict between the caregiver and the receiver becomes inevitable....
Monday, March 25, 2013
Caregivers
The experience of going blind and gimpy is much like getting elderly. I’m less capable by far but can remember all the things I could do and could do well if only my body still possessed the physical capabilities. I can see to neither drive nor read nor much in between. Especially when wearing pants with cuffs that do not fit over the Crow Boot, the walking disability is clearly evident to people.
Many people, perhaps the majority, have an aversion to getting close to me for this, as if the blindness or diabetes or collapsed ankle was catchy. Some people just don’t know what to say in the face of evident misfortune and steer clear of the person to avoid saying the wrong thing. I understand this and mean no criticism. I was much the same way. I would look after people in my life when they needed help, but I just was never the type to see an old woman at the curb and grab her by the arm to help her across the street. People with something other than my lump of cold coal for a heart will take that old biddy by the arm and escort her across the street. People do this with me. Often they grip my arm to guide me along, and the hold is not completely different than police escorting handcuffed prisoners. I need help less when I am on familiar ground. I can say I am all right or can get by where I am, but seldom am I released to stand or fall on my own. I get the help, need it or not, want it or not.
I know some readers will take this line of complaints as ingratitude or general surliness on my part. I do appreciate even small kindness from others. I express gratitude without hesitation, to the person who earned it, and often about the person who earned it. People who truly know me do know that I say things how they are, and I am good on stating the positives rather than just the negatives.
Some dark paths run close parallels to the bright and cheery roads that the casual caregivers travel. The first is that offers to the effect "if you ever need help, call me" are moist often empty offers. The person making the offer is often making it in front of others, to make themselves seem charitable and caring. Actually being taken up on those offers strikes them as inconvenient.
The second pitfall is someone who does want to help but finds there can be no end to it. Giving an occasional ride is no problem, but a regular ride somewhere becomes an unwanted obligation. The receiver of the recurring favor needs to keep aware of this. The "now-obligated" caregiver can quickly grow resentful of the obligation but feel unable to separate from it. The stress of the situation will grow in those caregivers and reach a boiling point.
The other type of charitable caregiver can be the most sinister situation of all. My reference to arm-grasping assistance being like police corralling prisoners was not casual. Care-giving is often an expansion of mommy (or daddy) instincts. The best caregivers are often control freaks.
Many people, perhaps the majority, have an aversion to getting close to me for this, as if the blindness or diabetes or collapsed ankle was catchy. Some people just don’t know what to say in the face of evident misfortune and steer clear of the person to avoid saying the wrong thing. I understand this and mean no criticism. I was much the same way. I would look after people in my life when they needed help, but I just was never the type to see an old woman at the curb and grab her by the arm to help her across the street. People with something other than my lump of cold coal for a heart will take that old biddy by the arm and escort her across the street. People do this with me. Often they grip my arm to guide me along, and the hold is not completely different than police escorting handcuffed prisoners. I need help less when I am on familiar ground. I can say I am all right or can get by where I am, but seldom am I released to stand or fall on my own. I get the help, need it or not, want it or not.
I know some readers will take this line of complaints as ingratitude or general surliness on my part. I do appreciate even small kindness from others. I express gratitude without hesitation, to the person who earned it, and often about the person who earned it. People who truly know me do know that I say things how they are, and I am good on stating the positives rather than just the negatives.
Some dark paths run close parallels to the bright and cheery roads that the casual caregivers travel. The first is that offers to the effect "if you ever need help, call me" are moist often empty offers. The person making the offer is often making it in front of others, to make themselves seem charitable and caring. Actually being taken up on those offers strikes them as inconvenient.
The second pitfall is someone who does want to help but finds there can be no end to it. Giving an occasional ride is no problem, but a regular ride somewhere becomes an unwanted obligation. The receiver of the recurring favor needs to keep aware of this. The "now-obligated" caregiver can quickly grow resentful of the obligation but feel unable to separate from it. The stress of the situation will grow in those caregivers and reach a boiling point.
The other type of charitable caregiver can be the most sinister situation of all. My reference to arm-grasping assistance being like police corralling prisoners was not casual. Care-giving is often an expansion of mommy (or daddy) instincts. The best caregivers are often control freaks.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Adjusting the Dividing Lines
It’s been nearly three and a half years since the vitreous hemorrhage that started the permanent decline in vision and other diabetic related maladies. I’ve dealt with it OK, admirably, according to some people. I find irony that some of my personal strengths that have gotten me through these days and years are the same elements that did (and still do) grate on other people.
I’m not a warm and fuzzy guy. There’s a cold center beneath a warm midrange beneath a somewhat icy shell. Not everyone sees that. Cordial introductions can make people overestimate my social demeanor. Introductions made with a cool distance can lend opposite perceptions. Neither extreme is either wholly true nor untrue.
I’m cold and analytical. I judge no one but appraise everyone. Depending on where and how I know the other person, my appraisals often are twofold, personal and professional. Nobody’s all good or all bad, no one’s better than me and I’m not better than anyone else. I don’t force my way into others’ conversations with a driving need to express my opinion, yet have no fear of calling a spade a spade, or a diamond a diamond. I can come across as a wise ass, a know it all, a cold hard ass, a sympathetic shoulder, a passionate debater or a non-caring stone. They’re all legitimate parts of me, and different people tend to bring out different aspects under different circumstances. Under all circumstances, I stay true to myself. I don’t pander or jump through hoops for anyone, but compromise easily to find common ground with compromising people.
It’s those who don’t compromise from their own ways and desires who have had the greatest problems with me. Making friends by burying all my thoughts and needs for others never struck me as worth it. Those people can be very loyal, but only for as long as they are getting their own way. I’ve recognized since early adulthood that no one can be liked by everybody, and too often, the harder someone tries, the less they succeed.
That subtle and easily overlooked willingness to compromise and let others live as they would on their side of any dividing lines has also served me well, even when also being some of the greatest hardship to my adjustment. I have to learn to compromise on my own turf more, learn to accept help and adjust to things I can no longer do or control for myself.
That process of adjustment is still underway.
I’m not a warm and fuzzy guy. There’s a cold center beneath a warm midrange beneath a somewhat icy shell. Not everyone sees that. Cordial introductions can make people overestimate my social demeanor. Introductions made with a cool distance can lend opposite perceptions. Neither extreme is either wholly true nor untrue.
I’m cold and analytical. I judge no one but appraise everyone. Depending on where and how I know the other person, my appraisals often are twofold, personal and professional. Nobody’s all good or all bad, no one’s better than me and I’m not better than anyone else. I don’t force my way into others’ conversations with a driving need to express my opinion, yet have no fear of calling a spade a spade, or a diamond a diamond. I can come across as a wise ass, a know it all, a cold hard ass, a sympathetic shoulder, a passionate debater or a non-caring stone. They’re all legitimate parts of me, and different people tend to bring out different aspects under different circumstances. Under all circumstances, I stay true to myself. I don’t pander or jump through hoops for anyone, but compromise easily to find common ground with compromising people.
It’s those who don’t compromise from their own ways and desires who have had the greatest problems with me. Making friends by burying all my thoughts and needs for others never struck me as worth it. Those people can be very loyal, but only for as long as they are getting their own way. I’ve recognized since early adulthood that no one can be liked by everybody, and too often, the harder someone tries, the less they succeed.
That subtle and easily overlooked willingness to compromise and let others live as they would on their side of any dividing lines has also served me well, even when also being some of the greatest hardship to my adjustment. I have to learn to compromise on my own turf more, learn to accept help and adjust to things I can no longer do or control for myself.
That process of adjustment is still underway.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Finding Accomplishment
I get compliments on how well I handle my situation, this limpy-gimpy blind guy routine. Some compliments are direct by words. Others, demonstrated through actions, mean even more.
Things are a struggle, daily and continuously. I’m stating that clearly, without whining about it.
In some ways, I could cope better. My roommate demonstrates awe for my struggle. He says he could not handle it as well. I disagree, because he likes being taken care of. I built my life on self sufficiency, and that has been the greatest loss overall. I know my roommate likes having someone do all his shopping, meal prep and driving. He would not feel an inappropriate shade of shame when he needs to be led from the car to any unfamiliar building. I know this for certain as a roommate and a former employee. He can feel accomplishment for having requested or ordered something to be done and come back later to find things squared away. I always found accomplishment in doing for (and often by) myself.
I still cook, not as well as I once did, but with remarkably few mishaps. On bad days, it is an accomplishment to pour my own coffee and bring it to another room without spilling it. I’ve learned to find accomplishment in small things. I could never paint a fresh even coat in a room again, but I can still change locks.
I believe that luck is an exchange of fortunes and misfortunes that all evens out in the end, between individuals if not for one individual. This whole eye thing, that’s bad luck that forever stole so many of the things that had provided me true happiness. I’ve trudged and limped on since then. The exchange of luck came with my writing. At about the same time as the blood hemorrhage, I started being published regularly. This blog gets good readership, especially since I don’t advertise it outside my website, email signature and Facebook links. My short stories have usually been well received (usually.) I never expected to set literary or commercial worlds afire. Story submission can be grueling and brutal, more often than not a constant stream of rejection for personal and heartfelt work.. Thick skin is necessary. I learned to take pride in the small accomplishments.
My ability to submit to editors is hindered. I used to regularly review all unpublished stories that had been returned for re-submission somewhere else. I can usually now submit only one in the same timeframe. Despite my de-acquisition of responsibilities, I still get called away from the writing with frustrating regularity.
The thing most important to the overall view of my life is the first things that must be put aside. "Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans," someone said long before John Lennon popularized a similar phrase.
Things are slower with the writing as with everything, but I am plugging on.
I got real close with the very last story I've written, "Stone Soup." A big "professional" magazine, Abyss and Apex, held onto it for months beyond their normal time. They said they had been considering it closely but ultimately chose other material. A bummer, but maybe because I've been spinning my wheels with the fiction efforts so much lately, I find it very encouraging.
"Stone Soup" a Sivil Galaxi tale based on the old folktale but with a couple of my psychotic twists.
It will be available, someday.
Things are a struggle, daily and continuously. I’m stating that clearly, without whining about it.
In some ways, I could cope better. My roommate demonstrates awe for my struggle. He says he could not handle it as well. I disagree, because he likes being taken care of. I built my life on self sufficiency, and that has been the greatest loss overall. I know my roommate likes having someone do all his shopping, meal prep and driving. He would not feel an inappropriate shade of shame when he needs to be led from the car to any unfamiliar building. I know this for certain as a roommate and a former employee. He can feel accomplishment for having requested or ordered something to be done and come back later to find things squared away. I always found accomplishment in doing for (and often by) myself.
I still cook, not as well as I once did, but with remarkably few mishaps. On bad days, it is an accomplishment to pour my own coffee and bring it to another room without spilling it. I’ve learned to find accomplishment in small things. I could never paint a fresh even coat in a room again, but I can still change locks.
I believe that luck is an exchange of fortunes and misfortunes that all evens out in the end, between individuals if not for one individual. This whole eye thing, that’s bad luck that forever stole so many of the things that had provided me true happiness. I’ve trudged and limped on since then. The exchange of luck came with my writing. At about the same time as the blood hemorrhage, I started being published regularly. This blog gets good readership, especially since I don’t advertise it outside my website, email signature and Facebook links. My short stories have usually been well received (usually.) I never expected to set literary or commercial worlds afire. Story submission can be grueling and brutal, more often than not a constant stream of rejection for personal and heartfelt work.. Thick skin is necessary. I learned to take pride in the small accomplishments.
My ability to submit to editors is hindered. I used to regularly review all unpublished stories that had been returned for re-submission somewhere else. I can usually now submit only one in the same timeframe. Despite my de-acquisition of responsibilities, I still get called away from the writing with frustrating regularity.
The thing most important to the overall view of my life is the first things that must be put aside. "Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans," someone said long before John Lennon popularized a similar phrase.
Things are slower with the writing as with everything, but I am plugging on.
I got real close with the very last story I've written, "Stone Soup." A big "professional" magazine, Abyss and Apex, held onto it for months beyond their normal time. They said they had been considering it closely but ultimately chose other material. A bummer, but maybe because I've been spinning my wheels with the fiction efforts so much lately, I find it very encouraging.
"Stone Soup" a Sivil Galaxi tale based on the old folktale but with a couple of my psychotic twists.
It will be available, someday.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Rose Colored Lenses
My fiction piece "Through Rose Colored Lenses" is in its final month as part of the latest issue of the Breath and Shadow online magazine.
http://www.abilitymaine.org/breath/win13f.html
This is the only fiction story to date I have written about being or going blind, and it’s a black humor satire. Other free reads and links to paper publications that feature some of my stories can be found at www.kozzi.us
.
http://www.abilitymaine.org/breath/win13f.html
This is the only fiction story to date I have written about being or going blind, and it’s a black humor satire. Other free reads and links to paper publications that feature some of my stories can be found at www.kozzi.us
.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Forest for the Trees
"Things are never as bad as they seem
You just gotta learn to see
The forest for the trees...
"Huey Lewis, "Forest from the Trees"
I have the opposite problem from the old, often unclear expression quoted in that song. "Can’t see the forest for the trees" indicates an inability to see the whole for the individual components. In so many ways, physically and psychologically, I can’t see the details for the whole.
I can’t see what is in my vision clearly. My range of vision is also greatly reduced. At home, to walk from the living room and down the length of the house to the bathroom, I can get a sense of the hallway and know the territory, but any cat that walks under my feet gets inadvertently stepped on or kicked. I can’t focus on the end of the hall and the intervening steps. The hallway is clear unless something independently mobile puts itself in my path.
The bowling alley is a similar circumstance. I am familiar with the place. The playing area itself is one of my safest and most stable environments because lighting is consistent and the approach area is clear, all according to the sport’s rules. Navigating through the building from doors to bathrooms and lockers and the lanes I’m playing on is more difficult. I do as well as I do from years worth of familiarity with the place and massive effort. The specific invariable difficulties are inconsistent lighting, especially unshaded fluorescent lights at the front desk and vending machines. Sundays are easier than Thursdays; my locker is directly across from the lanes on which I bowl. Thursdays require navigation of the entire building. If I focus on the final destination, there’s no way to avoid all the people who will step in front of me, thinking I will see them to avoid them. With the differences in lighting, lack of contrasts and bustling people, it’s a slow walk. I need to concentrate on individual details rather than the entire environment.
Psychologically, I need to concentrate on specific trees more than the forest. There’s many things I procrastinated or delayed over the past few years, often with the thought "My vision will be better next week." That was true for a while, but did not hold true over time. I know now that there are things I will never be able to do again. The landscape of my life is littered with ongoing projects big and small that I need to complete, have someone else complete, or I need to give up on with acceptance of the impossibility for me. Becoming handicapped has been a humbling experience that has taught me to re-prioritize. I’m trying to release responsibilities in a responsible manner, make sure batons are passed in workable ways, where other people can pick up right where I left off with minimal disruption to others who are affected by the change.
My more private responsibilities and desires are harder to prioritize. There are things with eventual deadlines that I feel I should have more progress on. My fiction writing gets pushed aside for all the other things that come up. New writing is easy enough, but editing can be difficult, and my loss in acuity for reading web sites is one factor that has pushed submitting work to potential publishers into the nearly impossible category.
Slowly, and with help, I manage most things. Each task done is one less tree in the overgrown forest.
You just gotta learn to see
The forest for the trees...
"Huey Lewis, "Forest from the Trees"
I have the opposite problem from the old, often unclear expression quoted in that song. "Can’t see the forest for the trees" indicates an inability to see the whole for the individual components. In so many ways, physically and psychologically, I can’t see the details for the whole.
I can’t see what is in my vision clearly. My range of vision is also greatly reduced. At home, to walk from the living room and down the length of the house to the bathroom, I can get a sense of the hallway and know the territory, but any cat that walks under my feet gets inadvertently stepped on or kicked. I can’t focus on the end of the hall and the intervening steps. The hallway is clear unless something independently mobile puts itself in my path.
The bowling alley is a similar circumstance. I am familiar with the place. The playing area itself is one of my safest and most stable environments because lighting is consistent and the approach area is clear, all according to the sport’s rules. Navigating through the building from doors to bathrooms and lockers and the lanes I’m playing on is more difficult. I do as well as I do from years worth of familiarity with the place and massive effort. The specific invariable difficulties are inconsistent lighting, especially unshaded fluorescent lights at the front desk and vending machines. Sundays are easier than Thursdays; my locker is directly across from the lanes on which I bowl. Thursdays require navigation of the entire building. If I focus on the final destination, there’s no way to avoid all the people who will step in front of me, thinking I will see them to avoid them. With the differences in lighting, lack of contrasts and bustling people, it’s a slow walk. I need to concentrate on individual details rather than the entire environment.
Psychologically, I need to concentrate on specific trees more than the forest. There’s many things I procrastinated or delayed over the past few years, often with the thought "My vision will be better next week." That was true for a while, but did not hold true over time. I know now that there are things I will never be able to do again. The landscape of my life is littered with ongoing projects big and small that I need to complete, have someone else complete, or I need to give up on with acceptance of the impossibility for me. Becoming handicapped has been a humbling experience that has taught me to re-prioritize. I’m trying to release responsibilities in a responsible manner, make sure batons are passed in workable ways, where other people can pick up right where I left off with minimal disruption to others who are affected by the change.
My more private responsibilities and desires are harder to prioritize. There are things with eventual deadlines that I feel I should have more progress on. My fiction writing gets pushed aside for all the other things that come up. New writing is easy enough, but editing can be difficult, and my loss in acuity for reading web sites is one factor that has pushed submitting work to potential publishers into the nearly impossible category.
Slowly, and with help, I manage most things. Each task done is one less tree in the overgrown forest.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Interpreting Offers
People see a blind guy, and he’s all limpy and gimpy with problems sometimes more evident than legal but not full blindness. Many people are inclined to offer, and sometimes even provide unsolicited help.
Two guys in one of my bowling league give unsolicited help when my team plays theirs. They’ll see me hesitate at the step down into the well. They will flank me and move me down the step by lifting me by the elbows. The assistance is also followed by a pat on the back and a kind or humorous remark.
That type of help grates against my old self sufficiency standards. I’ve never said this to them. The annoyance is one of my personality quirks. They’re likable guys being altruistic and helpful when they see a needs. I sincerely appreciate the efforts, probably in greater proportion than the annoyance. It’s kind, cute in a way, and humorously entertaining.
I’ve learned to accept things like that. The acceptance took time, and the resistance definitely originated in my personality. I can be surly and abrasive like that, one of my many personality flaws.
But there’s another aspect of my personality flaws that maintains a positive effect. I feel and express appreciation for things done to me. I have a bemused gratitude for each time those two bowlers have lifted me up or down that precarious step. I have a tendency to cultivate too much appreciation for people who do small things with willingness and natural humility. Sincerely and freely given efforts at even small and relatively insignificant things earns somewhat disproportionate appreciation from me. I am one of those people who feels awkward asking for help. When an entire process where the help and getting it is easier than expected and remains dignified, my cynical expectations are surpassed. The best general circumstance I can compare this to for the non-disabled is the retail return of something defective, when you expect resistance from the store but find them friendly and accommodating.
I use the word cynicism with careful intention. My condition can bring out altruism in others, and that is not always sincere. I’ve learned that generally vague offers of any kind of help, especially the offers that begin "If you ever need..." are best avoided. Politically minded people are particularly prone to making empty offers, because they know they sound good publicly when heard making the offer. They are creating a public persona of altruism and express incredible inconvenience and frustration if actually taken up on such offers. It becomes a highly undignified process just to get a ride home from someone who lives a quarter mile away. This is a sharp contrast to people who have gone and are willing to again go miles out of their way to help out.
It’s another of life’s tightropes to walk. My reluctance to accept help has unintentionally offended friends with good intentions and intentionally offended people who only pretended to be friends. I have a tendency to say what’s on my mind, good or bad, with cold, analytical demeanor. I’ve developed a tendency to not test the sincerity of casual offers because sometimes I’d rather not know which people are fair weather friends.
Two guys in one of my bowling league give unsolicited help when my team plays theirs. They’ll see me hesitate at the step down into the well. They will flank me and move me down the step by lifting me by the elbows. The assistance is also followed by a pat on the back and a kind or humorous remark.
That type of help grates against my old self sufficiency standards. I’ve never said this to them. The annoyance is one of my personality quirks. They’re likable guys being altruistic and helpful when they see a needs. I sincerely appreciate the efforts, probably in greater proportion than the annoyance. It’s kind, cute in a way, and humorously entertaining.
I’ve learned to accept things like that. The acceptance took time, and the resistance definitely originated in my personality. I can be surly and abrasive like that, one of my many personality flaws.
But there’s another aspect of my personality flaws that maintains a positive effect. I feel and express appreciation for things done to me. I have a bemused gratitude for each time those two bowlers have lifted me up or down that precarious step. I have a tendency to cultivate too much appreciation for people who do small things with willingness and natural humility. Sincerely and freely given efforts at even small and relatively insignificant things earns somewhat disproportionate appreciation from me. I am one of those people who feels awkward asking for help. When an entire process where the help and getting it is easier than expected and remains dignified, my cynical expectations are surpassed. The best general circumstance I can compare this to for the non-disabled is the retail return of something defective, when you expect resistance from the store but find them friendly and accommodating.
I use the word cynicism with careful intention. My condition can bring out altruism in others, and that is not always sincere. I’ve learned that generally vague offers of any kind of help, especially the offers that begin "If you ever need..." are best avoided. Politically minded people are particularly prone to making empty offers, because they know they sound good publicly when heard making the offer. They are creating a public persona of altruism and express incredible inconvenience and frustration if actually taken up on such offers. It becomes a highly undignified process just to get a ride home from someone who lives a quarter mile away. This is a sharp contrast to people who have gone and are willing to again go miles out of their way to help out.
It’s another of life’s tightropes to walk. My reluctance to accept help has unintentionally offended friends with good intentions and intentionally offended people who only pretended to be friends. I have a tendency to say what’s on my mind, good or bad, with cold, analytical demeanor. I’ve developed a tendency to not test the sincerity of casual offers because sometimes I’d rather not know which people are fair weather friends.
Friday, March 1, 2013
Charcot Revisited
The Charcot "sharko" Foot seems settled and healed. Perhaps I should do another visit with the good foot doctor, Thomas Mancini, before declaring that, bur I say so from observation of my own body.
The biggest "wild card" advantage I had during the Charcot cycle actually came from the retina reattachment. I was dropping prednisone into my eye, which regulated and reduced the swelling.
On the eye doctor’s advice, I ceased the prednisone. I did this with reluctance; when I tried getting off the prednisone in spring of 2012, the Charcot Foot, then erroneously declared "past Phase One according to Doctor Dumbass, flared worse than before.
This time, judging by the lack of a flare up, Phase One was truly over. The leg has not reswelled with discontinuation of the eye drop prednisone.
I had discussed the side effects of the prednisone with my eye doctor on previous occasions. She wrote off the stomach problems as a probable diabetic thing, perhaps bad kidneys. Maybe her opinion changed the morning she treated the post-victrectomy pressure build up. That was a bad morning altogether, even before she stuck a needle in my eye. Perhaps watching me retch acidic bile convinced her that the prednisone was having the stomach acid overproduction. Who knows? Maybe my puking in her trash barrel was the real reason she stuck a needle in my eye.
With the prior massive swelling of the left leg below the knee last fall, my already hindered diabetic circulation was further impaired. This had led to the gangrene infection on the toe, the problem that sent me to Sturdy Hospital in May. That all recovered nicely, without amputation but with a loss of some fleshy tissue from the big toe. More devastating, the swelling reduced circulation to the structure of the foot. I did not particularly stay off the foot, particularly with Dr. Dumbass telling me all was well. During this time, the bones could not get the nutrients they needed. Those nutrients were there; the semi-regular blood tests always show my calcium on the high end of the scale. While swelled, the center bone of the ankle and the inner portion of the hell bone weakened, rolled and collapsed. My right leg shortened about an inch, and it will never be safe for me to put weight directly on that ankle. The crow boot I wear everywhere except to bed and in the shower keeps the weight off and protects the leg with immobilization. I don’t complain about the Crow Boot. Without it, I would rely on crutches, and there’s not as much I could do with my hands otherwise occupied. The immobilization by the Crow Boot has had its own side effect. My calf muscle has diminished, to the point that it is noticeably smaller than the left calf. The Crow Boot is not a temporary cast or brace, but a permanent fixture.
It is what it is. I am accepting about it, even when I freely acknowledge that the combination of bad leg and blind eyes is a particularly difficult combination.
Difficult, but not insurmountable.
The biggest "wild card" advantage I had during the Charcot cycle actually came from the retina reattachment. I was dropping prednisone into my eye, which regulated and reduced the swelling.
On the eye doctor’s advice, I ceased the prednisone. I did this with reluctance; when I tried getting off the prednisone in spring of 2012, the Charcot Foot, then erroneously declared "past Phase One according to Doctor Dumbass, flared worse than before.
This time, judging by the lack of a flare up, Phase One was truly over. The leg has not reswelled with discontinuation of the eye drop prednisone.
I had discussed the side effects of the prednisone with my eye doctor on previous occasions. She wrote off the stomach problems as a probable diabetic thing, perhaps bad kidneys. Maybe her opinion changed the morning she treated the post-victrectomy pressure build up. That was a bad morning altogether, even before she stuck a needle in my eye. Perhaps watching me retch acidic bile convinced her that the prednisone was having the stomach acid overproduction. Who knows? Maybe my puking in her trash barrel was the real reason she stuck a needle in my eye.
With the prior massive swelling of the left leg below the knee last fall, my already hindered diabetic circulation was further impaired. This had led to the gangrene infection on the toe, the problem that sent me to Sturdy Hospital in May. That all recovered nicely, without amputation but with a loss of some fleshy tissue from the big toe. More devastating, the swelling reduced circulation to the structure of the foot. I did not particularly stay off the foot, particularly with Dr. Dumbass telling me all was well. During this time, the bones could not get the nutrients they needed. Those nutrients were there; the semi-regular blood tests always show my calcium on the high end of the scale. While swelled, the center bone of the ankle and the inner portion of the hell bone weakened, rolled and collapsed. My right leg shortened about an inch, and it will never be safe for me to put weight directly on that ankle. The crow boot I wear everywhere except to bed and in the shower keeps the weight off and protects the leg with immobilization. I don’t complain about the Crow Boot. Without it, I would rely on crutches, and there’s not as much I could do with my hands otherwise occupied. The immobilization by the Crow Boot has had its own side effect. My calf muscle has diminished, to the point that it is noticeably smaller than the left calf. The Crow Boot is not a temporary cast or brace, but a permanent fixture.
It is what it is. I am accepting about it, even when I freely acknowledge that the combination of bad leg and blind eyes is a particularly difficult combination.
Difficult, but not insurmountable.
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