A Day in My Life

Crotches and Belt Buckles: Cocktail Party Blues

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The pizza had just arrived.  Before I could take my first bite, the subject of my husband’s company cocktail party surfaces. “Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t want to go,” I say with steadfast determination.  “I’ve already made sure that chairs will be available,” he counters, attempting to make the event seem easy, cozy, attractive even. Then, as he points at me with the tip of his piping hot slice of pepperoni pizza, he gets all serious and a little pouty.  “Look, I  run the company. It would mean a lot to me if you came.  My staff and colleagues are looking forward to meeting you. ”  On the inside, I roll my eyes, feeling a little irritated that some of the melted cheese from the pizza was still stuck to his face. If I’m not there, who will make sure he wipes off his chin, which was now dripping with grease and mozzarella?

pizza-page

Resigned, and feeling slightly manipulated, I agree to join in on the merriment.

Gilles’ mom once told me that sometimes you just have to do things you don’t want to do, like get a root canal,  euthanize your pet lizard or unplug the toilet.  And, going to this cocktail party was right up there in the category of things to avoid.

At cocktail parties, everyone usually stands around with a drink in hand, eating hors-d’oeuvres and chatting. I’m all good with the chatting and eating part. I also enjoy meeting new people. It’s the standing around that is the most difficult. When it hurts to stand for more than 5 minutes because of nerve pain in your feet, it is hard to feel relaxed at these events.

cocktail-parties

After no more than 5 minutes after our grand entrance,  my anxiety rises and I desperately scan the room for a chair or something to lean on. Rocking back and forth, relieving pressure first on the right foot, then on the left,  the right, the left, I wondering if the other guests are noticing my discomfort.  So as to not look too silly, I  even start bopping my head and swinging my hips to the beat of the music, as if I were lightly dancing and really into the melody. (This probably made me stand out that much more, but at the time, it seemed reasonable.)

10 minutes is my max tolerance before  I excuse myself from whatever superficial conversation I am engaged in and plop down right into the arms of my new best friend- the chair. Thank God – the pressure is off of my aching soles. I wave to Gilles, just to show him where I’ve landed. Colleagues in tow, Gilles slowly makes his way toward me and over the noise, the music, the laughter, I overhear, “…… foot problems……can’t stand too long…..pain.”  One of his cohorts, wearing a glittery cocktail dress and 10-inch heels chimes in, trying to relate to my situation, “Oh, my feet are killing me too! Ouch! I just have to slip these off….what women wouldn’t do to look their best! Staring down at my bulky size 10 (mens) hiking shoes, I could not take it anymore. “OMG, can we leave now?” I pleaded to deaf ears. “I just can’t relate to these people and they obviously can’t relate to me.” But, my protests were drowned by the noises of background laughter, glasses clinking and live, blasting music.

8_inch_and_higher_high_heel_shoes

Loving the comfort of my chair, people politely stop by to say hi, but no one really wants to sit with me. Why? Because it is a COCKTAIL PARTY and people STAND at cocktail parties. As a seated attendee, engaging in casual or meaningful conversation with a standing guest just translates into craning of the neck in an upward position for an extended amount of time. The result? A trip to the chiropractor’s the following day. So, to bypass unnecessary appointments and self -afflicted neck pain, I set my gaze forward, looking straight in front of me. From this vantage point, the scenery is mostly just crotches and belt buckles.  That’s exactly what I wrote – crotches and belt buckles!! Yep. Can you say, awkward? What’s worse, if the room is crowded, intimacy is quickly forgotten with up-close views of back pockets and butts. Feeling pretty helpless, I just end up praying that no one passes gas too close to my face. Escape would be difficult.

remote-mine-belt-buckle-1pockets

plasma-belt

I usually get a few stragglers who spend some time talking about how mean Gilles is as a boss (just kidding), but mostly I pretend to be really busy on my phone, answering urgent messages, texting and making note of some vital, earth-shattering information.

I’m usually overjoyed when it is time to leave. Another holiday party over. Check! In all honesty, I think I would have rather unplugged the toilet.

There is no moral to this story, but here are a few thoughts:

  1. If you want to see crotches and belt buckles up close and personal, attend a cocktail party. Make sure to sit for the entire duration of the party so you’ll be able to relate to my experiences.
  2.  Feign sickness and just don’t go to standing only events. Stay home, watch a movie and cuddle with your cat or dog. It’s much more relaxing and the therapeutic value is undeniable.

girls-and-their-cats-breanna-and-vivienne

 

 

Wheelchair Horror Stories – #1

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Ever had to use a wheelchair to get from here to there? Now, I’m not talking about temporarily using a hospital wheelchair to nurse a broken toe or to be wheeled out of the maternity ward after having a baby. I’m talking about relying on a wheelchair to get around for an indefinite amount of time because walking is too painful, extremely hard or simply not possible.

When I was pregnant with Yohan, I developed plantar fasciitis. It was  1993 and we were  living in France at the time.  My french PT chose to implement jackhammer “massage” therapy on the bare bottoms of both feet to loosen up the tightened fascia.

percus-o-matic-350

“Zis weel feel veghrry good. Eet weel ‘elp wit zee pain.” Monsieur Rémy promised.

He turned on the pummeling device and went to work for what seemed forever on the right foot: GRRAKKA KKAKKAKKAKKAKKAKKAKK AKKAKKAKKAKK AKKAKKAKK AKKA KKAKKA AKK  (OW, OW, OW), and then the left: GRRRAKKA KKAKKAKKAKKAKKAKKAKK AKKAKKAKKAKK AKKAKKAKK AKKA KKAKKA AKK (Double OW, OW, OW). It really hurt but I figured, “No Pain, No Gain”  right? 

WRONG!!!

Long story short, from that day forward, 24 years ago, nothing will ever be the same. My life had forever changed. My brain translated the pulsating vibrations as a threat, leaving the soles of my feet to ache, burn, freeze, stab, and just plain hurt.  I no longer count the years, but the memory and the pain are forever etched in my feet and in my heart.

3 years later, Yohan, Gilles and I moved to California and my feet were still killing me. I tried everything, and I mean everything to alleviate the constant discomfort: acupuncture, medication, nerve blocks, psychotherapy, Tens, myofascial release, creams, gels, patches. Nothing worked, so after a lengthy and heated internal debate (the reality of using a wheelchair scared me), I  purchased a custom-built wheelchair.

wheelchair

Here are just a few highlights from the first year or two:

“Oh dear,”  laments an eighty-something-year-old in the grocery store. As I look up, she was peering down at me, pursing her lips and shaking her head slowly from side to side. “You are just too young to be in that chair.”  Um. No duh, but I am, for now, and by the way, why am I even talking to you? 

“Hey, this looks FUN!” yells a “friend” as he unexpectedly grabs the push handles in the back of the chair and starts to zoom me down the street, swiveling erratically to the right and to the left.  He thought he was brightening my day, adding a little zest to my boring existence. Careening down the street, I was furious with my helplessness, vulnerability, and especially Monsieur Rémy. The guy who was pushing me around? We are no longer friends. He’s dead to me.

“Well, Heeellooooo Sunshine!” singsongs a salesperson at Macy’s. How are you doing today? she asks, enunciating every syllable with exaggerated grimaces which made me wonder if she thought I was deaf and had to read lips to communicate. Then she simply turned to my sister and asked if there was anything in particular “she” needed, referring to me. Oh, I get it, she assumed that I was mentally and physically disabled. You have got to be kidding me. Her strategy: avoid all eye contact with the sitter and go with the stander, the one “in control” and who looks the most normal. Normal must be in the eye of the beholder because on that particular day, my sister, Kathy,  was dress as a blueberry…really. She was drumming up business for her summer business, Island Blueberries. 

blueberry-costume-for-adults-bc-808603a

On another note, if you don’t get killed, some of the following situations could be translated as funny…..years after the fact.

This is the real Kathy.

kathy-edited

Kathy, bless her heart, always volunteered to push me around downtown Burlington when I visited in the summer. Going into the mall,  Kathy grunted several times in an effort to get the front wheels of the chair over the seemingly extra tall threshold (bottom of door frame). She pushed once (Hey, that was my back!…don’t use your knee!), she pushed twice and the third time….SCORE! The wheelchair unexpectedly jerked over the doorframe with such force that I fell forward, right out of the wheelchair and onto the cold, hard floor!

wheelchair.

That very afternoon, I Googled: manual wheelchairs + seatbelts+ overly enthusiastic sister.

On a different day, we encountered yet another obstacle. The wheelchair ramp to the store in question was short and steep. It looked something like this:

03c53b87f366d605c1df0f2742867243

Going forward was out of the question, so Kathy, with all her might,  pulled me into the store backward. Gravity was pulling me forward (I had not yet received that damn seatbelt). It felt like I was going to tumble out of that chair, and roll into the street. She got me to the top of the ramp and wouldn’t you know it…the bottom of the doorframe was again, extra high (What is it about buildings in VT?)   I pleaded with her to just leave…it was not worth the trouble, but my sister does not back down when facing a challenge.  And she rarely listens to me, so I held on tightly, trying to shift my weight backward. Then I heard 2 employees scream, “WE’VE GOT HER!” and before I could say, “this is really embarrassing“, one woman  helped my sister pull, when the other suddenly appeared in front of me, and started pushing the arm rests to get the  chair into the building. With three people pushing and/or pulling, we made it into the store, but I had had it, I was done shopping for the day.

Today, we laugh when remembering those mortifying incidences, but to those who experience similar or worse situations daily, it’s really frustrating. Here are just a couple of tips when interacting with a person with a disability:

  1. Respect Personal Space-many use mobility aids, so don’t touch, use, lean on or move the person’s wheelchair, walker, cane, etc
  2. Speak in a normal tone
  3. Talk directly to the person with a disability
  4. Ask before you help

More tips to come. Have any to share?

Phobias: I’ll Tell You Mine, If You Tell Me Yours!

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That hairy tarantula crawling around the ranch the other morning would have, by definition, freaked out anyone who suffers from has arachnophobia, a fear of spiders. While it was basking in the sun behind a tire’s worn treads, I so wanted to put it in my palm and pet it, but before I knew it, someone had scooped it up into a bucket and displaced it into a secluded grassy area, away from me and the lethal parking lot.

And come to think of it, one of the last times I impulsively picked up a feral, furry animal, it bit me. Thankfully, that scraggly rat did not have rabies, or I would have been whisked away to the nearest hospital receiving treatment for rabies which, at the time, included 21 injections, with very long needles, into my 10-year-old abdomen.

I am not afraid of 8-legged creatures, but after reading yesterday’s news, I just might reconsider my position. “Invisible Bugs In Kansas City Are Jumping Out of Trees to Bite People, read the headline of the Wall Street Journal.  Apparently, it is oak tree itch mite season in Kansas City, MO and these microscopic arachnids are pouring out of trees and landing on people, making their lives an itchy living hell. Arachnophobes-beware! Don’t hang out under oak trees in Missouri.

mites

Oak Tree Mite

The next news story, Creepy Clown Craze Sweeps the Globe, peaked my interest.  I do not suffer from a fear of clowns (coulrophobia)…yet, but if I keep reading the news, I may have to ask for a lifetime prescription for Valium.

clowns

While we are on the subject of phobias, here is how I addressed my new-found support group of phobic cohorts:  “Hey everyone. My name is Elizabeth and I’m afraid of inclines.” Inclines? Yes, inclines, also referred to as slopes, ramps, hills, gradients, or ascents. “Welcome, Elizabeth,” they all chanted in a monotone kind of way.

There is a word for my malady. It’s called bathmophobia. For over a decade, this phobia has severely limited my ability to function well in this world. I avoid walking on even the gentlest of slopes. I’ll walk backward up a hill, but no way will I attempt to walk forwards. Sounds weird, right? Well, if you’ve ever seen me walking backward up the jetway to the airport terminal, it looks even weirder.  People stare, make jokes, avoid eye contact and get irritated at my slowness.  Generally, I ignore people by pretending to be pulling a very heavy, wheeled carry-on, or feign looking for the rest of my family who has already escaped to the terminal so as not to be associated with me.

20 years of chronic foot pain can mess you up a bit. Over the years my brain has learned to avoid potentially noxious stimulus. Protecting the area of the body that hurts is a normal response, one which is deleterious if left to linger for an extended amount of time. Muscles, tendons, and fascia tighten, and rigidity sets in. My gait has changed. There is little heel to toe motion.  My calves are tight. I’ve been walking as if I had big blocks of ice on my already very large, size 11 feet-bang, bang, bang. You can hear me coming for miles away. And you wonder why you never see me in a dress!

ice

Up until now, I’ve been half-heartedly facing my bathmophobia. Like everything else in my life, if the consequences are not dire, the task or challenge will most likely remain at the bottom of my never-ending list. Here’s the thing – Gilles and I own horses who have to move to a new pasture soon, a pasture where I will be faced with a 6 percent grade incline. Oh my……

A little bit about Athos: He is more canine than equine. Initially, Athos belonged to Yohan who discontinued riding because of CMT-related fatigue and pain. Then, I started looking after him and he quickly became my primary reason to get up early in the morning to walk and exercise.  Athos, lacking the 2 inches necessary to earn the title of horse, is technically a pony (shhhhh, don’t tell him), but he thinks he’s a Clydesdale, or maybe a Great Dane, depending on the day.  I ride Athos too, but standing 5’9” tall, with daddy longlegs limbs, my ice blocks nearly touch the ground when I get on his back. I can almost break with my frozen heels…..no joke!

athos-spider-legs

 

 

He loves kids, and kids love him. He is particularly fond of my 9-year-old “niece”, Bella, and vice versa.

:bella-and-athos

Athos loves performing.  In fact, he’s clicker trained and knows a lot of tricks, from nodding his head, “Yes” to pushing a ball around the arena to picking up sticks and retrieving. Athos will do almost anything for a carrot!

Watch the video below where Bella and Athos are playing!

video-bella

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gRWbpvvf0Mg

 

So, I need to get moving in the upward direction. I have my mind set on conquering the 6% grade hill below (it’s steeper than it looks, folks).  It’s become my Everest, my K2, my Annapurna. If I can do this, I can do almost anything I put my mind to.  I’ll keep you posted.

slope

 

PS: And in the meantime, stay away from 8-legged creatures, clowns, and oak trees!

 

Seeing Clearly is Not All It’s Cracked Up to Be

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When I received my first pair of eyeglasses in the fourth grade, a vivid and surprisingly clear world unfolded before me. I could actually make out the facial features of the people across the street. Each leaf had a shape, a form, a color, and an outline. Birds in the sky were no longer blurry, flying blobs, but creatures with discernible wings and beaks. I was SO excited… until I walked into school the next day.

“HaHaHahaHahHa,” my “friends” jeered and pointed as I walked into the classroom. “Hey four-eyes!” they howled. “Whatcha’ got there? Coke bottles for glasses? HaHaHaHaHa.”

Message received: Eye glasses were for losers.

losers

Within a split second, I decided that I could see just fine. I put those spectacles in my desk and squinted the rest of the year. If only my dad had allowed me to get those round, John Lennon-style, wire-rimmed glasses my 17-year old half-brother wore. But, there was “no way in hell” (his words)  his 9-year old daughter was going to look like a 17-year old hippie or rebel British pop music icon. I came home with very square and dorky tortoise plastic rims. I hated them. By fifth grade, I was wearing contacts.

Which do you prefer?

These?                                                                                            These?

glasses-wire     glasses

While my eyes were dilating in the ophthalmologist’s waiting room today, remnants of the past hit me right upside the head. I started to get a headache and put my sunglasses on to shield my brain from the light shining through the window of my extra-large induced pupils.

The first part of eye exams always stresses me out. First, the doctor puts the super-complicated, multi-lensed mechanical “glasses” in front of my face, directing me to look at an eye chart, one eye at a time. My ophthalmologist systematically flipped the lenses in front of my eye until the letters were more or less visible. “I see an A, then a G, no wait, that must be an O. Hold on. Is it a Q?”  I hesitate.  Instead of responding, he answers my question with another question (don’t you hate people who do that?).

 

eye

A Phoropter is the name for the big, mechanical, multi-lensed monster.

 

Here is the conversation that ensued:

Doctor: Looking at that same line of letters, which is clearer, #1 or #2?

Me: Honestly, they looked about the same. If I have to choose, I’d say, ummmm, #2 is clearer.

Doctor: Okay, how about now, #1 or #2, as he flips the lens once more?

Me: Uhhhhhh, can you do that again? I think I heard him sigh.

Flip flop, flip, flop, clicks the lenses.

Doctor: #1 or #2?

Me: I don’t like either of them. Is there a #3?

Doctor: No, there is no #3. Look again, #1 or #2? Which is clearer?

Me thinking: OMG. #1 and #2 are so close. I can’t see a difference. I don’t know. I can’t decide. This is way too stressful.  Enough is enough.

I peeked around the machine and looked my doctor, quite appropriately, right in the eye and admitted, “This exam is making me anxious.  What if I choose #1 and the right answer is #2, and then my prescription comes out all wrong? I cannot be responsible for my vision mistakes. I’m here because I cannot see. You’re the eye expert, not me.”

He reassured me that this part was really only a matter of personal comfort, and tried to calm my fears. “Don’t worry, we’ll get it right.” Then he simply pushed on with the exam which makes me even more anxious.

The next device of torture is called a tonometer, measuring eye pressure.

gun

As I placed my lower jaw on the chin rest, he told me to look at his ear while the miniature gun came closer and closer to my eyeball. The thoughts in my head became louder and louder, “How close is he going to get? What if he misjudges and pokes my eye out. What if I sneeze and poke my own eyeball out. Is he going to puff air into my eye?”

I mentally closed my eyes and waited for something to happen. Before I knew it, he was on the other eye and when he was done, both eyes were still intact. Just for effect, I did ask him if he’d ever poked someone’s eye out with that thing. He answered in the negative, “That would be bad for business.” Yeah, it would be bad for someone’s eye too!

I was not happy when he handed me my prescription: -8.00 in the right eye and -9.25 in the left, which translates to: you are still a loser and blind as a bat, to0.

rx

Before I left, I asked if he did eyeball transplants. He looked at me as if he were thinking, “Why are you still in my office?” But he humored me and admitted that the eyeball transplant technology has not yet been invented. Then he warned, “In any case, if you do hear of doctors performing the procedure in the future, don’t be the first in line. That’s never a good idea.”

Fair enough.

Now I have to decide if I want bifocals, progressives, or two separate sets of glasses, one for distance and one for reading. Since I don’t like change, I probably will do nothing and continue to push my glasses to the end of my nose when I need to read. Who needs to see clearly anyway?

me-looking-down