Ugh. As I sit here typing this, the thermometer is registering 95°F. It’s barely May and only 4 days ago I still had flannel sheets on my bed. And now I’m sweating and my jeans are sticking to my ass. Why couldn’t the summer heat arrive gently? Like the slow bloom of a flower… or water dribbling down a clogged drain. Why, instead, does it have to be so blunt and nasty? Like a bull, or Steve Bannon, in a china shop?
I HATE SUMMER! There, I said it. I don’t like the heat, the sun, or even the clothes. I much prefer the styles of the cooler months— my cabinet full of scarves is a testament to that. Plus, I can’t wear most summer clothes, like shorts, because I sunburn in mere minutes. This isn’t dramatic hyperbole. One time I got a sunburned in the time it took to go from the front doors of the shopping mall to my handicapped parking space— which was IN THE FRONT. Yes, I really am that white.
Now that we’re on the subject of summer attire, I also don’t understand flip-flops. They seem unnatural and highly dangerous. Why would you want to walk around on something so unstable? It’s a shoe that’s barely attached to your body. You are one thin plastic strap away from disaster. It’s a good thing that I can’t walk, because if I had to wear flip-flops in the summer, it wouldn’t end well for me. First I’d get a bad sunburn on the top of my foot, then I’d fall and break my nose on the nearest object, like a ficus plant. It would be like an episode of The Three Stooges, only less funny and less Jewish.
If all that weren’t enough, the slapping sound flip-flops make is also decidedly unappealing. Do you intentionally want to sound like a walrus flapping their hands together? Because, I hate to be the one to say it, but you really do sound like that.
Anyway, thankfully I have air conditioning to help me during these trying times. It’s currently humming in a soothing way that reminds me of those noise-canceling machines that they used to sell at Bed, Bath & Beyond next to the display of soda-making kits that NO one ever buys. The same ones that have been on sale since 2005. If you are thinking of buying one, you might want to reconsider; I’m sure those flavored syrup pods expired back during the days when Bush Jr. lived in the White House.
Those were simpler times, though, weren’t they? We didn’t have a president with orange skin and hair… and Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston were still alive— so we could listen to their music without the sad pang of nostalgia. Those also were the days before the word taxi had been replaced by Uber. Before long the nerdy folks at Oxford will just drop that word from their dictionary entirely… and a hundred years from now little children won’t even know what a taxi is, let alone that it was yellow and usually driven by strange foreign men with accents— or Tony Danza.
It’s only May, though, so I better get used to this heat. If you need me, you can find me sitting in front of the fan, grumbling… and not wearing flip-flops.
While it may not seem like it from the outside, there are definite benefits to being me. There are the obvious ones— preferred parking spaces, event seating in the front (should the venue be equipped for it), and being able to get away with first-degree murder because no one will believe that the perky girl in the wheelchair could possibly poison anyone with arsenic.
Aside from these obvious benefits, there are the not-so-obvious ones, too. Like my shoe budget. I rarely have to buy new shoes because each pair I buy will last a ridiculously long time. This is what happens when you don’t go walking around in your shoes. While Nancy Sinatra may have sung “These Boots Are Made For Walkin’,” she clearly wasn’t talking about me. My boots are made for sitting in my wheelchair while I do things like try not to stain them with dribbled spaghetti sauce. (This is a serious concern. My wardrobe is more susceptible to food-spillage than actual wear-and-tear.)
I’m not ashamed to admit that I still have two pairs of shoes from the 8th grade. I am not kidding. As I know that fashion is cyclical, I’m just biding my time until 90’s chunky heels are all the rage again. If acid-washed jeans can make a comeback, so will my Payless black leather loafers.
If you don’t believe me, I’ve taken this picture of my shoe closet. The average age of a pair of shoes in this closet is 9.7 years.
Anyway, being me is not all sunshine and rainbows. It can be challenging when you get an itch you can’t reach or drop something on the floor and you have to wait for someone to pick it up. Patience becomes a daily practice, an endeavor. It’s not an obscure or unknowable concept — like what the hell is really going on with Trump’s hair.
Yesterday, I had such a challenge. While I was on the phone with my aunt, I felt something weird on my neck. Thinking it was just my hair tickling me, I ignored it. A few minutes later, I felt it again. I looked in the mirror and I saw a spider crawling around on my clavicle… like it owned the place.
To say I freaked out would be an understatement. I hate bugs with a deeper passion than I feel for anything else on this Earth. And that is saying a lot because I really hate manbuns.
Nearly dropping the phone, I went to my dad and shrieked, “THEREISASPIDERONMYNECK! GETITOFFNOW!” With exasperated amusement, he flicked off the spider and it smashed on the knee of my pant leg— leaving a stain on the jeans that would be a reminder for the rest of the day of my traumatizing experience.
In his accented voice, my dad then scoffed, “Bah, eet was juust a leetle bug.“
This was a total lie to try to make me feel better. But, I was the one that had it crawling around on my neck like a fucking Land Rover on safari. In my mind’s eye, heavily colored by my assorted anxieties, the spider was NOT little. And it never, ever will be.
I guess being me isn’t all fun and games…
On a typical Valentine’s Day, one might expect a day of romantic gestures— giant teddy bears, Papa Murphy’s heart-shaped pizzas, and overpriced jewelry from the neighborhood mall. Since my boyfriend is of the fictional variety, I don’t have to worry about pretending to like the “chocolate diamond” necklace he bought for me at Zales.
This week, my Valentine’s Day definitely wasn’t a typical one— I got to spend the most romantic day of the year at the Stanford Neuroscience Building for my Spinraza evaluation. Upon arriving, we proceeded to not be able to find any handicapped parking in the garage. This is the irony of going to a place where a good number of the patients are crippled just like you. Handicapped parking becomes a valued and scarce commodity— like Stradivarius violins, raw uranium ore, and politicians with integrity.
The first item on the agenda was a lumbar spine CT-scan. Spinraza has to be administered into the spinal fluid, so the neuromuscular doctors need to verify that there is a pathway available in the lumbar region for their mega-pointy needle. For folks like me who have scoliosis and spinal rod fusions as a result of our Spinal Muscular Atrophy (SMA), this isn’t an easy task. You know Pin The Tail On The Donkey? Imagine playing that, blindfolded, with a donkey that has anatomy that closely resembles the tornado from Wizard of Oz. Try to pin the tail on that donkey’s ass and you might hit Glinda the Good Witch instead.
Anyway, after my lumbar CT-scan, I went to see the team of specialists. After taking my vitals, the first thing they wanted to do was find out my weight. This was not as simple as it sounds.
If Elizabette’s wheelchair weighs X pounds without her sitting in it, and it weighs Y pounds when she is sitting in it, how much does Elizabette weigh?
This problem would have been easy if I had known my wheelchair’s weight without me sitting it in— aka, the tare weight. Which, of course, I didn’t. So, we had to do it the hard way. But, I am now pleased to report that the tare weight of my wheelchair is 377 pounds— this does not include me and my backpack full of random stuff. That’s super heavy. Therefore, I’d like to apologize, in advance, if I ever accidentally run over your foot. Or, even purposefully— which I might do if you’ve pissed me off enough.
Anyway, after that was completed, I met with two neurologists, a few nurses, a physical therapist, a respiratory therapist, a blood-draw technician and a circus juggler. (Okay, I might have made that last one up.)
Everyone seemed professional and I was encouraged by their thoroughness. Although, the physical therapist and respiratory therapist were kinda bossy— in a good way that brings out my competitive nature. If anything is turned into a game or a test of skill, I will win, goddamnit.
They tested my pulmonary functions and my physical strength using an assortment of cool gadgets. These will be the benchmarks they will use to measure potential progress moving forward.
All in all, it was a tremendously long, but encouraging, day. The preliminary lumbar CT-scan radiology report indicates that I have a potential open spot on my L5 vertebrae, which is a promising sign. I also learned that the radiologist thinks I have a really big bladder. This is not surprising. I can comfortably go quite a long time without peeing. I suspect that my bladder can currently hold more water than the Oroville Dam.
I’m grateful to the family that joined me on the trip to Stanford and fed me peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. An influx of sugar makes anything more tolerable. If everything falls into place, I’ll try to get Spinraza. It’s still a long journey ahead and I have lots of hoops to jump (or wheel) through, but I’m on my way!