The last thing I wanted was to have the flow of posts interrupted where it was, amid observations about how control freaks make the best caregivers. That could sound like An empty or ungrateful criticism of some of the people who have been there for me most. That’s the furthest thing from my intent, partially because my core statement is true: control freaks make the best caregivers. Those without the ability to plow forward can’t do as much and are often not as effective.
When the blood hemorrhage happened, my friend Pat dove into the deep end of my care. For any minor complaint I could raise, I don’t know how I could have gotten through that time without Pat. The cycle of needs almost cost us the friendship. Pat took over more and more, too much for my liking both as someone trying to learn where and when I had to let go, and more as someone traditionally viewed as uncontrollable. Pat put so much time and effort and energy into my care that Pat’s marriage strained. We both needed a reset of the boundaries for our individual well being. That process was the right thing that never felt right to either of us. Pat had said at one point, I had such a look of hatred in my face; that moment had demonstrated the need to back off to Pat. I had unintentionally inflicted a hurt without being aware of it. I barely remember the incident as anything beyond one of my helpless, self-pitying moods.
It’s been three years. I am more adjusted to my situation and all its stark realities. Pat’s marriage has stabilized. We’ve maintained a friendship with roots back into the mid 1980’s. I am grateful for all that.
Showing posts with label Social Impact. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Social Impact. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 17, 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.
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.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Turning a Blind Eye
Maybe one day, it'll happen to you,
you know lighting strikes without warning!
Who'll see you struggle and who'll hear you cry,
when everybody there just turns a blind eye?
"Blind Eye," Graham Goble as part of Little River Band
Occasionally, I find or seize advantage in my disability.
Don’t get me wrong. No temporary or fleeting convenience can ever compensate for all I’ve lost. I miss driving. I miss reading. I miss being able to watch a movie. I miss being able to observe people. I miss the clear and colorful world and all its little details that I cannot capture on my own. I miss working in my yard and plowing snow. I miss my independence and self sufficiency, things I worked so hard to develop.
I miss taking the trash out. I still do that when my roommate is not around sometimes, during daylight hours when I can see well enough to het down those thirty-four stairs to the barrels. If he is around, my roommate yells at me for doing it. He’s wrong to do that, but the fact that I have fallen down the stairs carry it out puts shades of gray into that statement. I miss being able to do things and being left alone to do them. Now, many people offer help that while appreciated, would be taken better if it was actually offered rather than forced. The situation of increasingly lost self sufficiency has hit me hardest. I can’t do much, and I used to do so much. I still wake some morning, and before opening my eyes, start telling myself I should do this or that item on long neglected lists. When I finally do open my eyes, I remember why that list of things I :should: do got so long. Despite sporadically failing health over the past year, my father helped me or more accurately did for me a number of things I could not do and some others could not do right.
I have not reverted to seeking every easy way, something I was firmly warned against at the age of 17. Now things are just too hard to get too wrong on my own. I realized last fall that I would have to leave my house. This month’s experiences of the blizzard and the loss of my father have only emphasized that.
When it comes to coping mechanisms, I do actively exploit the advantages of being blind. I got out and tried some shoveling, only to learn I really can’t do it. That’s a hard realization to accept. I can block it out even easier now because I can barely see the contrast between snow covered areas and the street’s bare asphalt. Just looking out the window isn’t enough for me to see; if I avoid a prolonged gaze that gives time for adjustment to changes in light, I can block out that stress rather easily. Out of sight, out of mind.
I stated that I dealt with my father’s death perhaps too well. My poor vision helped that. I could not see him in the casket. I could hear my mother’s reactions, but my disability spared me the sights. This worked with my cold core to keep me unemotional throughout the experience.
I cultivated that disability on that sad day. Even adjustment from eyes closed to eyes open needs time. So I kept closing my eyes and then reopening them to keep the adjustment from happening, to keep a blind eye to things too hurtful to see.
you know lighting strikes without warning!
Who'll see you struggle and who'll hear you cry,
when everybody there just turns a blind eye?
"Blind Eye," Graham Goble as part of Little River Band
Occasionally, I find or seize advantage in my disability.
Don’t get me wrong. No temporary or fleeting convenience can ever compensate for all I’ve lost. I miss driving. I miss reading. I miss being able to watch a movie. I miss being able to observe people. I miss the clear and colorful world and all its little details that I cannot capture on my own. I miss working in my yard and plowing snow. I miss my independence and self sufficiency, things I worked so hard to develop.
I miss taking the trash out. I still do that when my roommate is not around sometimes, during daylight hours when I can see well enough to het down those thirty-four stairs to the barrels. If he is around, my roommate yells at me for doing it. He’s wrong to do that, but the fact that I have fallen down the stairs carry it out puts shades of gray into that statement. I miss being able to do things and being left alone to do them. Now, many people offer help that while appreciated, would be taken better if it was actually offered rather than forced. The situation of increasingly lost self sufficiency has hit me hardest. I can’t do much, and I used to do so much. I still wake some morning, and before opening my eyes, start telling myself I should do this or that item on long neglected lists. When I finally do open my eyes, I remember why that list of things I :should: do got so long. Despite sporadically failing health over the past year, my father helped me or more accurately did for me a number of things I could not do and some others could not do right.
I have not reverted to seeking every easy way, something I was firmly warned against at the age of 17. Now things are just too hard to get too wrong on my own. I realized last fall that I would have to leave my house. This month’s experiences of the blizzard and the loss of my father have only emphasized that.
When it comes to coping mechanisms, I do actively exploit the advantages of being blind. I got out and tried some shoveling, only to learn I really can’t do it. That’s a hard realization to accept. I can block it out even easier now because I can barely see the contrast between snow covered areas and the street’s bare asphalt. Just looking out the window isn’t enough for me to see; if I avoid a prolonged gaze that gives time for adjustment to changes in light, I can block out that stress rather easily. Out of sight, out of mind.
I stated that I dealt with my father’s death perhaps too well. My poor vision helped that. I could not see him in the casket. I could hear my mother’s reactions, but my disability spared me the sights. This worked with my cold core to keep me unemotional throughout the experience.
I cultivated that disability on that sad day. Even adjustment from eyes closed to eyes open needs time. So I kept closing my eyes and then reopening them to keep the adjustment from happening, to keep a blind eye to things too hurtful to see.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Blocking It Out
Two things have me thinking about the mentor who took me under his wing when I was 17 and helped me find and develop and focus personal strength through my adulthood. The first was a comment on an old post here ("Finally, a Good Doctor") that asked about how I found center for my writing and overcame start of day writer’s block.
The second factor was the February 18 death of my father. This family trauma predictably ushered in a lot of family drama. I handled everything OK, maybe too well. My father and I had our rough periods. Extended family seem to fall short of understanding how I always avoided the list of disowned kids and grandkids. My family, including myself, we are not easy people. I can’t answer how I held on through specific rough times, but in general, the emphasis and a level of blind loyalty to family is something the old mentor specifically developed, sometimes even when he was also saying "You don’t go mentioning me around there." No, I am assuring my readers, the relationship with my mentor was not a form of "Greek apprenticeship."
The issues of my writing center and getting by with my family both stem to the guidance I received when I was 17 to 18. In short, the mentor had told me about negative things, "Block it out." That’s easier said than done. It’s not advice I was able to say "Yeah, sure," about and just do. I developed the skill over years. I’m still a work in progress.
I started writing at age 13 as a means of escapism. Fleeing to space now known as the Sivil Galaxi gave me a refuge when life on earth got to grim. I blocked out the grimness with distractions. I wrote longhand in those pre-PC days and carried a loose leaf notebook anywhere and everywhere. My father had times of direct pride in what I was accomplishing, but little specific encouragement or interest came from family. It’s possible that any interest they would have shown may have invaded my private places. I don’t think my father could understand that escapism aspect; when I was reading Lord of the Rings, he told me he thought only people with problems with reality read that type of thing.
I blocked out the bad things with my writing, with work, and sometimes with music. I block things out long enough to make any situation less stressful, then I deal with it head on. I have found myself both respected and despised for my tendency to be direct, my willingness to meet confrontation and call out bad behavior with some of my own, my knack of saying what other people will only think. From those kernels planted by my old mentor in 1986 and 1987, I did learn and internalize that not everyone can be pleased, and that what others say, think and do doesn’t matter if I am not treating them wrongly. There’s important distinction there; I question myself. I do not get from others or give to myself a blank slate to trample others. I hold to my beliefs and opinions without deeming those who don’t agree as automatically wrong.
I hope that earnest humility and willingness to agree to disagree comes across in the blog. I’ve seen many people’s surprise when they realize that I enforce my ethos (and pathos) only to my own life and maintain the feeling that everyone needs to make their own decisions about their own lives and tolerate everything on the other side of that line drawn in the sand.
I owe most of these unobvious good qualities to someone who helped me out so much in so many ways so long ago. His time was not wasted, and I have tried to live up to those ideals ever since.
The second factor was the February 18 death of my father. This family trauma predictably ushered in a lot of family drama. I handled everything OK, maybe too well. My father and I had our rough periods. Extended family seem to fall short of understanding how I always avoided the list of disowned kids and grandkids. My family, including myself, we are not easy people. I can’t answer how I held on through specific rough times, but in general, the emphasis and a level of blind loyalty to family is something the old mentor specifically developed, sometimes even when he was also saying "You don’t go mentioning me around there." No, I am assuring my readers, the relationship with my mentor was not a form of "Greek apprenticeship."
The issues of my writing center and getting by with my family both stem to the guidance I received when I was 17 to 18. In short, the mentor had told me about negative things, "Block it out." That’s easier said than done. It’s not advice I was able to say "Yeah, sure," about and just do. I developed the skill over years. I’m still a work in progress.
I started writing at age 13 as a means of escapism. Fleeing to space now known as the Sivil Galaxi gave me a refuge when life on earth got to grim. I blocked out the grimness with distractions. I wrote longhand in those pre-PC days and carried a loose leaf notebook anywhere and everywhere. My father had times of direct pride in what I was accomplishing, but little specific encouragement or interest came from family. It’s possible that any interest they would have shown may have invaded my private places. I don’t think my father could understand that escapism aspect; when I was reading Lord of the Rings, he told me he thought only people with problems with reality read that type of thing.
I blocked out the bad things with my writing, with work, and sometimes with music. I block things out long enough to make any situation less stressful, then I deal with it head on. I have found myself both respected and despised for my tendency to be direct, my willingness to meet confrontation and call out bad behavior with some of my own, my knack of saying what other people will only think. From those kernels planted by my old mentor in 1986 and 1987, I did learn and internalize that not everyone can be pleased, and that what others say, think and do doesn’t matter if I am not treating them wrongly. There’s important distinction there; I question myself. I do not get from others or give to myself a blank slate to trample others. I hold to my beliefs and opinions without deeming those who don’t agree as automatically wrong.
I hope that earnest humility and willingness to agree to disagree comes across in the blog. I’ve seen many people’s surprise when they realize that I enforce my ethos (and pathos) only to my own life and maintain the feeling that everyone needs to make their own decisions about their own lives and tolerate everything on the other side of that line drawn in the sand.
I owe most of these unobvious good qualities to someone who helped me out so much in so many ways so long ago. His time was not wasted, and I have tried to live up to those ideals ever since.
Monday, February 25, 2013
Undue Influence
For a year stretching between 1986 and 1987, I was fortunate enough to have a mentor. I worked with him at the long-defunct restaurant The Maple Root Inn, and greatly considered him a father figure. Despite working two jobs and being utterly dedicated to his wife and four kids, he had taken this punk kid under his wing. He provided direction and outlook that was desperately needed. I really needed more than he or anyone could give. I am not a child from a "broken" home, but things were pretty badly shattered and had been for years. I’ve regretted the loss of the mentor but never blamed him and did my best to implement the things he taught. I was lucky to have him. His influence includes balancing loyalties to both myself and the troubled family, fighting my own lazy streak and what was then (if not still now) my crazy streak. I still think I never succumbed to drug addiction or alcoholism due to his influence.
Those coping mechanisms laid out for me so long ago have carried me through my life, particularly with the strength needed to get through these past few years as my eyes and leg have failed me. I had an inherent but inconstant strength, but my old mentor taught me how to tap into it and provided direction.
A lot of people, including some who do not particularly like me, have been amazed and complimentary in how well I have dealt with the disabilities. I credit that strength to the old mentor. I credit the strength to have stood tall and strong through so many things over so many years to the influence of someone I have not seen since 1987.
At http://www.kozzi.us/LongWay.html,
I have posted an essay published in 2006 by Dana Literary Society Online Journal. This essay dealt with a lot of things that have come up over the past month, including family irregularities and vulgarities and the fact that I am living in a very difficult property to manage and maintain at the best of times. The essay made it clear that I relished the challenges of daily life and the little difficulties that reminded me I was alive. That outlook also came from my mentor, who’d asked pointedly, "You have to have everything the easy way?"That challenge adjusted my attitude and energized my efforts. I don’t give up on this because they prove difficult.
That outlook has been invaluable.
Those coping mechanisms laid out for me so long ago have carried me through my life, particularly with the strength needed to get through these past few years as my eyes and leg have failed me. I had an inherent but inconstant strength, but my old mentor taught me how to tap into it and provided direction.
A lot of people, including some who do not particularly like me, have been amazed and complimentary in how well I have dealt with the disabilities. I credit that strength to the old mentor. I credit the strength to have stood tall and strong through so many things over so many years to the influence of someone I have not seen since 1987.
At http://www.kozzi.us/LongWay.html,
I have posted an essay published in 2006 by Dana Literary Society Online Journal. This essay dealt with a lot of things that have come up over the past month, including family irregularities and vulgarities and the fact that I am living in a very difficult property to manage and maintain at the best of times. The essay made it clear that I relished the challenges of daily life and the little difficulties that reminded me I was alive. That outlook also came from my mentor, who’d asked pointedly, "You have to have everything the easy way?"That challenge adjusted my attitude and energized my efforts. I don’t give up on this because they prove difficult.
That outlook has been invaluable.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Bowling Blind
I am still bowling. I’m blind and need to wear the orthopedic Crow Boot at all times, but I’m still out there trying. The Crow Boot is allowed, but I need to cover it to make sure that I do not introduce foreign objects to the floor as these could pose hazards to others or damage the lanes. I wrap the Crow Boot in a pillow case and secure it with a couple bungee cords. I chose dark pillow cases so I would pick up evidence if anyone was illegally using powder on their shoes.
Bowling is not easy. I’m contending with not being able to see the pins. My teammates tell me what pins remain standing after the first ball. I line myself up by the contrast between lane and gutters and hope for the best.
The Crow Boot is not always stable. The pillowcase can puff out and pose a tripping hazard to myself. My foot does not always feel stable or level inside the boot. I can be misaligned to the lanes and not fully realize it.
Sugar fluctuations plague me even more often. My sugar is inclined to fall suddenly with the onset of activity, and the bowling is the most exerting thing I do in life. Actually, it’s one of the few things I do.
My fourth barrier to success this season was my choice of purchase place for my new ball. I changed only because my blue ball blended in with all the other dark balls on the return rack. I bought a cow print ball just so I could see easily which one was mine. I could have–and should have–gone through the pro shop at the lanes, but I wanted to buy local to me and not in what I figured was a captured audience. I went to Bowler’s Edge in Pawtucket, essentially in my neighborhood. That was a mistake. He ordered the ball and said it should be in next week. He forgot to mention he would be on vacation for two weeks. When, a month later, the ball came in, he ignored my mention of being blind and needing to throw a straight ball and he drilled the finger holes for a hook ball. I certainly won’t be doing business with him again nor would I recommend him to anyone.
I started off lucky this year, but all the various handicaps with me and the ball before it was filled and redrilled played havoc. I was trying to learn to bowl with the Crow Boot, increasing visual impairment and a ball most definitely not reacting to my typical throw. I had plenty of nights where breaking 200 was an impossibility. That’s a 200 total between three games I could not do. My high game was a 157. I had to take time off from both leagues post victrectomy, and seem to be going a little stronger now.
I need of course to acknowledge my teammates in both leagues. Almost all are new teammates this year, and have been accommodating to my gimpiness. I am in less competitive leagues, and while I tremendously miss some prior years’ teammates, I still feel lucky to be bowling with such understanding people.
Bowling is not easy. I’m contending with not being able to see the pins. My teammates tell me what pins remain standing after the first ball. I line myself up by the contrast between lane and gutters and hope for the best.
The Crow Boot is not always stable. The pillowcase can puff out and pose a tripping hazard to myself. My foot does not always feel stable or level inside the boot. I can be misaligned to the lanes and not fully realize it.
Sugar fluctuations plague me even more often. My sugar is inclined to fall suddenly with the onset of activity, and the bowling is the most exerting thing I do in life. Actually, it’s one of the few things I do.
My fourth barrier to success this season was my choice of purchase place for my new ball. I changed only because my blue ball blended in with all the other dark balls on the return rack. I bought a cow print ball just so I could see easily which one was mine. I could have–and should have–gone through the pro shop at the lanes, but I wanted to buy local to me and not in what I figured was a captured audience. I went to Bowler’s Edge in Pawtucket, essentially in my neighborhood. That was a mistake. He ordered the ball and said it should be in next week. He forgot to mention he would be on vacation for two weeks. When, a month later, the ball came in, he ignored my mention of being blind and needing to throw a straight ball and he drilled the finger holes for a hook ball. I certainly won’t be doing business with him again nor would I recommend him to anyone.
I started off lucky this year, but all the various handicaps with me and the ball before it was filled and redrilled played havoc. I was trying to learn to bowl with the Crow Boot, increasing visual impairment and a ball most definitely not reacting to my typical throw. I had plenty of nights where breaking 200 was an impossibility. That’s a 200 total between three games I could not do. My high game was a 157. I had to take time off from both leagues post victrectomy, and seem to be going a little stronger now.
I need of course to acknowledge my teammates in both leagues. Almost all are new teammates this year, and have been accommodating to my gimpiness. I am in less competitive leagues, and while I tremendously miss some prior years’ teammates, I still feel lucky to be bowling with such understanding people.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Impaired Driving
For years, I drove despite one eye total blindness.
I did not drive overmuch. I bought the jeep Wrangler in late 2005 with 115,000 miles and sold it in December 2012 with about 145,000 miles. I was mostly local and worked out of my house and mostly in my own neighborhood. I planned shopping of all sorts for one day per week and generally gassed up to a full tank on that day, need it or not. Less than once a month I would make a strip to New Hampshire or Southern Maine on business for an antique dealer for whom I worked.
I had no accidents. Certainly other will find this post via search engines when their driving is "prohibited" when they develop problems in one eye. Here’s some tips and cautions.
Always remember that everyone assumes you can see them. You must be a defensive driver who anticipates everyone else’s stupidity.
The people in your life will always have reservations, concerns, and opposition to your driving. To get angry about this is to be angry that they care.
Your field of vision is reduced on the side you cannot see out of, so you must compensate for that. My blind eye was on the right. I stopped making left hand turns at uncontrolled intersections, which require a full range of vision. I’d turn right, then make a safe left hand turn and circle the next block. The safety far outweighed the inconvenience. Passengers who objected to the roundabout ways were asked if they would prefer to walk.
I still tended to be a cowboy when I knew the immediate area was free of hazards. This could make people who knew I had eye difficulties very nervous.
Pedestrians will always be a problem, and if you can’t see perfectly, you are extremely likely to miss some spots when washing their blood from your fenders. When driving through parking areas, drive slowly and with the destination building on the side of your good eye. Better yet, drive on the accessway further away from the building. Again, people will always assume you see them.
Park in what are called "sprews." A sprew is a spot that you drive into the bumper-to-bumper adjoining spot and pull through to the next. When you leave, you can pull straight out rather than have to back into the accessway where drivers can carelessly rush you and pedestrians can walk behind you. This means you can’t often park close to the building, but the ease in getting out again was always worth this sacrifice to me.
Don’t resume driving until you’ve had time to get used to the missing depth perception. Depth perception tends to be less important from four to six feet away as your brain will fill in the differences. It will take time to get used to and develop those "automatic translations."
And the basic stuff that applies to all drivers becomes even more crucial. Don’t drive overtired, after any alcohol or on any new meds. Don’t drive with distractions. Need to use the cell phone? Pull over.
I did not drive overmuch. I bought the jeep Wrangler in late 2005 with 115,000 miles and sold it in December 2012 with about 145,000 miles. I was mostly local and worked out of my house and mostly in my own neighborhood. I planned shopping of all sorts for one day per week and generally gassed up to a full tank on that day, need it or not. Less than once a month I would make a strip to New Hampshire or Southern Maine on business for an antique dealer for whom I worked.
I had no accidents. Certainly other will find this post via search engines when their driving is "prohibited" when they develop problems in one eye. Here’s some tips and cautions.
Always remember that everyone assumes you can see them. You must be a defensive driver who anticipates everyone else’s stupidity.
The people in your life will always have reservations, concerns, and opposition to your driving. To get angry about this is to be angry that they care.
Your field of vision is reduced on the side you cannot see out of, so you must compensate for that. My blind eye was on the right. I stopped making left hand turns at uncontrolled intersections, which require a full range of vision. I’d turn right, then make a safe left hand turn and circle the next block. The safety far outweighed the inconvenience. Passengers who objected to the roundabout ways were asked if they would prefer to walk.
I still tended to be a cowboy when I knew the immediate area was free of hazards. This could make people who knew I had eye difficulties very nervous.
Pedestrians will always be a problem, and if you can’t see perfectly, you are extremely likely to miss some spots when washing their blood from your fenders. When driving through parking areas, drive slowly and with the destination building on the side of your good eye. Better yet, drive on the accessway further away from the building. Again, people will always assume you see them.
Park in what are called "sprews." A sprew is a spot that you drive into the bumper-to-bumper adjoining spot and pull through to the next. When you leave, you can pull straight out rather than have to back into the accessway where drivers can carelessly rush you and pedestrians can walk behind you. This means you can’t often park close to the building, but the ease in getting out again was always worth this sacrifice to me.
Don’t resume driving until you’ve had time to get used to the missing depth perception. Depth perception tends to be less important from four to six feet away as your brain will fill in the differences. It will take time to get used to and develop those "automatic translations."
And the basic stuff that applies to all drivers becomes even more crucial. Don’t drive overtired, after any alcohol or on any new meds. Don’t drive with distractions. Need to use the cell phone? Pull over.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
The One Eye Plow Guy
My right eye went dark in 2003. I failed to leave a cornea abrasion covered long enough. The eye looked around the obstruction. The muscles pulled to the outside and peeled the retina off the back of the eye. Diabetic retinapathy, opportunistic of other problems.
I started plowing in 2006, in part because other peoples’ unreliability had crossed all acceptable lines. The city had thoroughly plowed me in, not just with a massive plow ridge, but by moving the snow from the main street to the dead-end access that led to my parking. I had a contractor plowing, but he vacationed to Florida every February. I have not driven since October 2011 but only sold the jeep two months ago. I’m feeling that loss and it triggers feelings of uselessness and helplessness via things outside my control. These things are issues I had handled after experiencing them but have come full circle.
I can only accept limitations. I can only try to impress those genuine limitations on others. A blind guy with a bad leg and reliance on an orthopedic boot brace cannot go shovel someone else’s car out.
I was good at the plowing. The first snowfall after I obtained the Jeep Wrangler was a minor but complicated storm. An inch of snow fell, then turned to rain. The precipitation stopped when a cold front blew in and froze the slush. Wanting to practice and play with the new equipment, I plowed the properties I managed. The tenants were thrilled. Their home lots were bare dry pavement while everywhere else, work, commercial establishments and most municipal streets, were slicked over with layers of ice that remained for days.
I no longer have the equipment to do that because I am no longer equipped to operate the equipment. I did not stop driving because someone made me, or because I had gotten into a serious accident because I was driving past the time I should have been. I stopped on my own because I didn’t want to kill myself or someone else.
Medications combine with insulin fluctuations to trigger periods of vertigo. I have a hard enough time moving and standing without carrying things when the ground is smooth and dry. Snowstorms had been my active times since 2006, and also periods of productive alone time. I miss those aspects. I would prefer to be able to continue some of them, but that’s now physically possible for me any longer. There’s a negative emotional charge to the entire situation for me.
A Wrangler is one of the shortest vehicles that can handle a plow (and I still burned out two transmissions.) Mine was equipped with the narrowest plow blade available. I could get into tight areas despite the fact that my field of vision was reduced and I lacked depth perception. I really was performing beyond my physical capabilities
Those physical capabilities are further diminished now, permanently. I am learning to accept that. Can others do the same?
I started plowing in 2006, in part because other peoples’ unreliability had crossed all acceptable lines. The city had thoroughly plowed me in, not just with a massive plow ridge, but by moving the snow from the main street to the dead-end access that led to my parking. I had a contractor plowing, but he vacationed to Florida every February. I have not driven since October 2011 but only sold the jeep two months ago. I’m feeling that loss and it triggers feelings of uselessness and helplessness via things outside my control. These things are issues I had handled after experiencing them but have come full circle.
I can only accept limitations. I can only try to impress those genuine limitations on others. A blind guy with a bad leg and reliance on an orthopedic boot brace cannot go shovel someone else’s car out.
I was good at the plowing. The first snowfall after I obtained the Jeep Wrangler was a minor but complicated storm. An inch of snow fell, then turned to rain. The precipitation stopped when a cold front blew in and froze the slush. Wanting to practice and play with the new equipment, I plowed the properties I managed. The tenants were thrilled. Their home lots were bare dry pavement while everywhere else, work, commercial establishments and most municipal streets, were slicked over with layers of ice that remained for days.
I no longer have the equipment to do that because I am no longer equipped to operate the equipment. I did not stop driving because someone made me, or because I had gotten into a serious accident because I was driving past the time I should have been. I stopped on my own because I didn’t want to kill myself or someone else.
Medications combine with insulin fluctuations to trigger periods of vertigo. I have a hard enough time moving and standing without carrying things when the ground is smooth and dry. Snowstorms had been my active times since 2006, and also periods of productive alone time. I miss those aspects. I would prefer to be able to continue some of them, but that’s now physically possible for me any longer. There’s a negative emotional charge to the entire situation for me.
A Wrangler is one of the shortest vehicles that can handle a plow (and I still burned out two transmissions.) Mine was equipped with the narrowest plow blade available. I could get into tight areas despite the fact that my field of vision was reduced and I lacked depth perception. I really was performing beyond my physical capabilities
Those physical capabilities are further diminished now, permanently. I am learning to accept that. Can others do the same?
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Snowblind!
I write from Providence, Rhode Island. I am told by roommate and TV media that everything out there is covered by some 20 inches of snow. I can’t see for myself.
It’s not just that basic fact that depresses me. I used to drive a Jeep Wrangler equipped with a plow rig. I never went out and hustled work, but used the truck to maintain the buildings I managed. I picked up occasional local jobs, but the purpose of owning the rig from the beginning was to be self sufficient. In 2005, the city ran out of space to put the snow on the main street and had plowed in the side street that serves as only access to the parking.
I sold the Jeep and plow rig last December, long after I should have. I had last driven it in October 2011.
There’s no self sufficiency left, for the storm or the property management or much of anything else. Things I was real familiar with I can still do. That list grows short. The combination of blind eyes and structurally deficient leg is a particularly bad one. I can’t really shovel 3 inches of light and fluffy snow. Twenty inches of the wet and heavy stuff is beyond me. I know that. I’m not writing it to whine or solicit help, but to add a layer of acceptance to my condition. Like not selling the Jeep for fourteen months after I could last drive it, sometimes the coping mechanism works slower than "it should."
The more valuable analogy for this post is the blizzard blinding white out. My eyes are like that all the time, although the level varies. Car visibility is measured in quarter miles. My visibility is measured in feet, but the cause and effect are identical. If there’s too much gunk between you and what you’re looking at, you just can’t see it.
It’s not just that basic fact that depresses me. I used to drive a Jeep Wrangler equipped with a plow rig. I never went out and hustled work, but used the truck to maintain the buildings I managed. I picked up occasional local jobs, but the purpose of owning the rig from the beginning was to be self sufficient. In 2005, the city ran out of space to put the snow on the main street and had plowed in the side street that serves as only access to the parking.
I sold the Jeep and plow rig last December, long after I should have. I had last driven it in October 2011.
There’s no self sufficiency left, for the storm or the property management or much of anything else. Things I was real familiar with I can still do. That list grows short. The combination of blind eyes and structurally deficient leg is a particularly bad one. I can’t really shovel 3 inches of light and fluffy snow. Twenty inches of the wet and heavy stuff is beyond me. I know that. I’m not writing it to whine or solicit help, but to add a layer of acceptance to my condition. Like not selling the Jeep for fourteen months after I could last drive it, sometimes the coping mechanism works slower than "it should."
The more valuable analogy for this post is the blizzard blinding white out. My eyes are like that all the time, although the level varies. Car visibility is measured in quarter miles. My visibility is measured in feet, but the cause and effect are identical. If there’s too much gunk between you and what you’re looking at, you just can’t see it.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
The Coping Mechanism
I am permanently blind, not from the Cialis-induced vitreous hemorrhage, but because of the PRP laser treatment inflicted by Dr. Michael O’Brien of Koch Eye Associates. I think his employer is as much to blame as Koch has advertised for PRP patients rather than eye tests to see if PRP treatment is prudent for specific patients.
But I still see it as my own fault for letting myself be scared into it. "O’Brien had said, "You’re probably right about the Cialis, but what if you’re not?"
Yes, three years later I remain angry and bitter about this, and other massive "wrongness" from the Koch offices and associates.
I suppress the anger and fight the negativity on a daily basis. Some days don’t succeed as well as others. This is a pattern that has enshrouded me for my entire life. I won’t get into why that’s so. Who wants to hear self pitying whining?
I’ve lost maybe eighty percent of my life to this, and maybe more. Nothing is the same and everything is different, every function, every relationship.
My blindness is legal blindness. The left eye is not dark, just greatly impaired by a few different factors. As long as I have that bit of vision left, as long as I can still find the fridge and the toilet and the keyboard, I can make the most out of what I have left.
I have to content myself with that.
I will content myself with that.
But I still see it as my own fault for letting myself be scared into it. "O’Brien had said, "You’re probably right about the Cialis, but what if you’re not?"
Yes, three years later I remain angry and bitter about this, and other massive "wrongness" from the Koch offices and associates.
I suppress the anger and fight the negativity on a daily basis. Some days don’t succeed as well as others. This is a pattern that has enshrouded me for my entire life. I won’t get into why that’s so. Who wants to hear self pitying whining?
I’ve lost maybe eighty percent of my life to this, and maybe more. Nothing is the same and everything is different, every function, every relationship.
My blindness is legal blindness. The left eye is not dark, just greatly impaired by a few different factors. As long as I have that bit of vision left, as long as I can still find the fridge and the toilet and the keyboard, I can make the most out of what I have left.
I have to content myself with that.
I will content myself with that.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Old Advice
Decades ago, the Providence Journal ran a syndicated column by a Dr. Donague. I may be spelling that wrong; his column may still be one of the Journal’s features, but I wouldn’t be able to see that for myself; I don’t remember the doctor’s first name, but he was not the television host of the late 1970’s on.
I remember a column from some twenty to twenty-five years ago in which he addressed a letter writer who wrote in to complain about a diabetic’s self management. The problem was that the diabetic was using sugar in hir coffee and the non-diabetic friend with limited knowledge of diabetes management, thought the diabetic’s practice was unacceptable.
Dr. Donague’s response defended the "bad diabetic." I remember this because it matched or shaped some of my self management, which always held me in good stead until I started actively seeing a doctor.
Managing the insulin is a series of checks and balances. Once the daily dose of insulin is taken, it is in the system and can cause difficulties for the diabetic if not balanced out with food.
The preferred practice for diabetics is to eat multiple small balanced meals each day to equalize absorption of the time release insulin. This is not always practical or possible for the diabetic to do.
Dr. Donague did not recommend "shortcuts" such as taking sugar in coffee to absorb insulin, any more than he would have recommended Skittles candy or glucose tablets. He merely explained to his readers some of the balancing act diabetics face and that all sugars are not to be avoided at all times. Sometimes they are needed to regulate the sugar.
The problem with a sheer sugar boost, according to Dr. Donague and me, is that the diabetic gains no nutritional value for the intake of raw sugars.
While I have had phases of quick and convenient intake to resolve an insulin spike, I have made efforts to maximize nutritional sources with this. My at home remedy is typically kids’ cereals. Froot Loops and Cap’n Crunch are high in sugar that will resolve and insulin surge quickly, but in addition to the sugar boost, cereals are fortified with necessary vitamins and minerals. On-the-tun solutions include Pop-Tarts for the same reason. When driving, I often had a box of cereal in the car to snack on.
There are actually few foods I would not eat, and all of those were for effects on my sugar that I felt outweighed any potential enjoyment from the consumption. As a "medicine," those sweet foods caused more side effects than they resolved.
I had several specific points of bringing up the old article by Dr. Donague. The first is that no matter how well intentioned the input or correction of family and friends on adult diabetics, unwanted advice can be annoying. This is especially true when the advice stems from the broadest general Knowledge but a lack of specific education of the intricacies of diabetes. Diabetics can consume almost anything, but in moderation only and with attention to the blood sugar effects.
The more personal point: I may actually know what I am talking about, even when my words or actions run contrary to the most black and white aspects of the disease management.
Future posts will explore my personally "forbidden foods."
I remember a column from some twenty to twenty-five years ago in which he addressed a letter writer who wrote in to complain about a diabetic’s self management. The problem was that the diabetic was using sugar in hir coffee and the non-diabetic friend with limited knowledge of diabetes management, thought the diabetic’s practice was unacceptable.
Dr. Donague’s response defended the "bad diabetic." I remember this because it matched or shaped some of my self management, which always held me in good stead until I started actively seeing a doctor.
Managing the insulin is a series of checks and balances. Once the daily dose of insulin is taken, it is in the system and can cause difficulties for the diabetic if not balanced out with food.
The preferred practice for diabetics is to eat multiple small balanced meals each day to equalize absorption of the time release insulin. This is not always practical or possible for the diabetic to do.
Dr. Donague did not recommend "shortcuts" such as taking sugar in coffee to absorb insulin, any more than he would have recommended Skittles candy or glucose tablets. He merely explained to his readers some of the balancing act diabetics face and that all sugars are not to be avoided at all times. Sometimes they are needed to regulate the sugar.
The problem with a sheer sugar boost, according to Dr. Donague and me, is that the diabetic gains no nutritional value for the intake of raw sugars.
While I have had phases of quick and convenient intake to resolve an insulin spike, I have made efforts to maximize nutritional sources with this. My at home remedy is typically kids’ cereals. Froot Loops and Cap’n Crunch are high in sugar that will resolve and insulin surge quickly, but in addition to the sugar boost, cereals are fortified with necessary vitamins and minerals. On-the-tun solutions include Pop-Tarts for the same reason. When driving, I often had a box of cereal in the car to snack on.
There are actually few foods I would not eat, and all of those were for effects on my sugar that I felt outweighed any potential enjoyment from the consumption. As a "medicine," those sweet foods caused more side effects than they resolved.
I had several specific points of bringing up the old article by Dr. Donague. The first is that no matter how well intentioned the input or correction of family and friends on adult diabetics, unwanted advice can be annoying. This is especially true when the advice stems from the broadest general Knowledge but a lack of specific education of the intricacies of diabetes. Diabetics can consume almost anything, but in moderation only and with attention to the blood sugar effects.
The more personal point: I may actually know what I am talking about, even when my words or actions run contrary to the most black and white aspects of the disease management.
Future posts will explore my personally "forbidden foods."
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Waiting
I can’t hide the fact that I am blind anymore.
The Charcot foot has stabilized, but the vision has gotten worse. Not enough light is always too dark, too much light is a hazy bright blur, and just the "right" amount of light leave everything backlit and in indiscernible shadows.
The range of vision is one to two feet, depending on lighting, and usually without the ability to discern fingers unless there is a sharp background. I can’t see well enough to recognize people by sight at any distance. I’ve always been good with voices and other cues, and try to stretch those abilities as best as I can.
I adjust as I stare at the computer, but looking away makes everything worse, and stepping away will often leave me unable to refocus on the bright screen. Most often, light hurts. As I physically tire or exert, my vision also diminishes.
Things have gotten worse month by month. So take out the violin...
And crash it into my skull.I say this to be informative to the people who watch me walk like a crippled great-great grandpa and turn to a caller with that blank blind look in my eyes. I’m still doing everything I can, with the acknowledgment that what I can do is lessening almost daily. I can do less and do everything more slowly. I’ve been trying to accept the new, ever increasing limitations and to stop pushing myself.
For lack of choice in my life, I am learning to relax.
I’ve made progress on completing things that have been on hold in the three-plus years since the Cialis-induced blood hemorrhage. I’m looking to complete final things so I can turn over my responsibilities in an orderly and accessible manner. The more I complete, the better relax. The time for waiting in hope that tomorrow or next week or next month may be better is over.
There’s another procedure in January, and there is some hope of improvement after that. Things may be clearer if the worsening situation is the result of the vitreous being dirty.
Until then, I am waiting and deferring many other decisions.
People have noticed by this blog and in person that I am not talking as hopefully as I had been. This isn’t a matter of giving up, but a matter of perspective. I’m all for optimism, but I am more for realism. I’m finding the balance between the two and holding on to each.
The Charcot foot has stabilized, but the vision has gotten worse. Not enough light is always too dark, too much light is a hazy bright blur, and just the "right" amount of light leave everything backlit and in indiscernible shadows.
The range of vision is one to two feet, depending on lighting, and usually without the ability to discern fingers unless there is a sharp background. I can’t see well enough to recognize people by sight at any distance. I’ve always been good with voices and other cues, and try to stretch those abilities as best as I can.
I adjust as I stare at the computer, but looking away makes everything worse, and stepping away will often leave me unable to refocus on the bright screen. Most often, light hurts. As I physically tire or exert, my vision also diminishes.
Things have gotten worse month by month. So take out the violin...
And crash it into my skull.I say this to be informative to the people who watch me walk like a crippled great-great grandpa and turn to a caller with that blank blind look in my eyes. I’m still doing everything I can, with the acknowledgment that what I can do is lessening almost daily. I can do less and do everything more slowly. I’ve been trying to accept the new, ever increasing limitations and to stop pushing myself.
For lack of choice in my life, I am learning to relax.
I’ve made progress on completing things that have been on hold in the three-plus years since the Cialis-induced blood hemorrhage. I’m looking to complete final things so I can turn over my responsibilities in an orderly and accessible manner. The more I complete, the better relax. The time for waiting in hope that tomorrow or next week or next month may be better is over.
There’s another procedure in January, and there is some hope of improvement after that. Things may be clearer if the worsening situation is the result of the vitreous being dirty.
Until then, I am waiting and deferring many other decisions.
People have noticed by this blog and in person that I am not talking as hopefully as I had been. This isn’t a matter of giving up, but a matter of perspective. I’m all for optimism, but I am more for realism. I’m finding the balance between the two and holding on to each.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Relative Lows
In talking about the feelings of low sugar, I need to put out the reminder that with my system, it is a matter of relative lows. My numbers run consistently high, but almost daily I feel the effects of lower-than-it-should-be levels. These hit me at home meter testing numbers that would suggest it impossible for me to have low sugar or insulin shock sensations.
In feeling out symptoms over the past twenty years and more, I operated on not letting myself feel high. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, and more importantly, all the complications of sugar come from the sugar being too high. To me, a daily low was a good sign overall.
Most often, the low hits when the first spurt of time release insulin kicks in, usually three to four hours after taking the morning dose. I have found this to be an almost unavoidable and inescapable part of the day, whether twenty years ago or today. I used to take my coffee with extra sugar just to beef up against the coming low. These days I will try to eat full meals; a truly full meal will overcompensate, making the sugar feel higher for a short time, even more than the sugared coffee ever did. Eating in short grazing spurts often will not fully ward against the coming low, and has the effect of expanding the stomach. When eating multiple small meals as a diabetic should, I am usually hungry all day. The likelihood of overeating at one of those multiple mealtimes increases.
The many meal day is difficult to follow through with. I’m almost always home now, but the preparation of six meals a day can absorb enough time that nothing else gets done. A day with errands can completely shatter the plan. Especially with other people always driving, there is an unstated pressure to get done what the help is helping with, to the expense of following meal planning. In working times, this was often more difficult, because everyone wants any "perk" granted to someone else for whatever reason.
A busier or more physical workday than normal can also wreak havoc into the blood sugar balance. The unexpected exertions will absorb the food intake faster and leave the body wanting. Supervisors or coworkers can be very quick to raise speculation of laziness when the body’s reserves get used up and further nourishment is required. Whether working low end or respectable jobs, I always gave everything I had when I had it. This almost never seemed enough to compensate for genuine times of need. Too often, the end result was political workplace failings. Too often, I would push past the physical limitations, which exposed the psychological failings of the condition. This has cost me several jobs over the years. The best recourse was to work independently whenever possible, so I could surge ahead when able and recharge when necessary.
In feeling out symptoms over the past twenty years and more, I operated on not letting myself feel high. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, and more importantly, all the complications of sugar come from the sugar being too high. To me, a daily low was a good sign overall.
Most often, the low hits when the first spurt of time release insulin kicks in, usually three to four hours after taking the morning dose. I have found this to be an almost unavoidable and inescapable part of the day, whether twenty years ago or today. I used to take my coffee with extra sugar just to beef up against the coming low. These days I will try to eat full meals; a truly full meal will overcompensate, making the sugar feel higher for a short time, even more than the sugared coffee ever did. Eating in short grazing spurts often will not fully ward against the coming low, and has the effect of expanding the stomach. When eating multiple small meals as a diabetic should, I am usually hungry all day. The likelihood of overeating at one of those multiple mealtimes increases.
The many meal day is difficult to follow through with. I’m almost always home now, but the preparation of six meals a day can absorb enough time that nothing else gets done. A day with errands can completely shatter the plan. Especially with other people always driving, there is an unstated pressure to get done what the help is helping with, to the expense of following meal planning. In working times, this was often more difficult, because everyone wants any "perk" granted to someone else for whatever reason.
A busier or more physical workday than normal can also wreak havoc into the blood sugar balance. The unexpected exertions will absorb the food intake faster and leave the body wanting. Supervisors or coworkers can be very quick to raise speculation of laziness when the body’s reserves get used up and further nourishment is required. Whether working low end or respectable jobs, I always gave everything I had when I had it. This almost never seemed enough to compensate for genuine times of need. Too often, the end result was political workplace failings. Too often, I would push past the physical limitations, which exposed the psychological failings of the condition. This has cost me several jobs over the years. The best recourse was to work independently whenever possible, so I could surge ahead when able and recharge when necessary.
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