I’ve had my fill of incapacity. After breaking my foot
last November and then breaking my wrist in July, I’ve had plenty of time to marinate
in personal inadequacy. The inability to bathe oneself, to dress oneself, to
drive oneself—the
loss of personal agency—is
beyond frustrating.
This isn’t my first go-round with loss of agency. When illness
forced me out of the workforce in 1992, my frustration and anger showed
themselves in many ways. I tried to do things that I wasn’t capable of doing any
longer and that often caused messes and problems other people had to clean up.
I remember the time I wanted my older daughter to go
shopping with me and she wanted me to take my wheelchair. I hated that damn
wheelchair; it made me feel like an invalid. Change the stress in that word and
invalid becomes invalid. And I did feel invalid.
People overlook you when you’re in a wheelchair because
you’re below eye level. Children see you, but if they comment their parents
shush them. The aisles of department stores are notoriously narrow; you can’t
move your wheelchair easily around them or through them.
Alix’s response to my reluctance was to say, “If you’re
not going to use your wheelchair, I’m not going to take you. You always think
you can do it on your own and you’re always too tired to keep shopping before
we’re close to done.”
Fair point, and I conceded graciously that day. Other
days, perhaps I wasn’t so gracious. But I was a person who had taken care of
herself, who took care of other people, who never needed all this help. I hated
being incapable of caring for myself.
Fast forward 30 years to my broken foot. I’m in a boot. I
can’t walk. I can’t drive. Managing the scooter is so complicated that I have
trouble getting around my own house. I can shower once my husband locates the
shower chair that I used to need 20 years ago. But at least I was independent in
the shower! That’s not a small thing.
With a broken wrist, the shower chair is no help. I do have
a handy-dandy plastic mitten (no fingers) designed to go over a cast. It allows
one a modicum of freedom in the shower. For the last five weeks, I’ve been able
to bathe myself, thank goodness.
Last Thursday, I had surgery to correct some serious thumb
problems that my wrist injury had uncovered. Those problems resulted from an 11-year-old
surgery. Now, instead of a cast with a cheery pink camo design, I have a giant
club on the end of my arm. It may qualify as a weapon because of the (feels like)
10 pounds of plaster around my hand inside the Ace bandage.
My shower mitten doesn’t go over it. Where does
that leave me? A plastic grocery bag and duct tape—which I can’t put on by myself—if I have any hope of showering
in the next few weeks. Everyone, especially me, is hoping that works out.
What
else can’t I do? I can’t put on my own CPAP headgear or hook it up to the
machine. I can’t add water to the reservoir in the machine. I can’t put on my
own bra and it’s surprisingly difficult to find good help for that task. (Michael
insists his training was strictly for removing them.)
Today
I tried a sports bra with a zipper in the front. That should’ve been easy,
right? When he finally got the zipper started, he zipped me right into it,
literally. I’m going commando from now on. If you’re averse to pendulous old
lady breasts, don’t look my way.
Things
I can do with difficulty include: Open any jar. Get pills sorted out. Read the
newspaper. Use a keyboard efficiently. Push two buttons on a cell phone simultaneously.
Hold a cell phone and press the shutter button. I could go on, but it’s a
depressingly long list.
I’m
getting pretty good at using my elbow, but I’m really thankful that I usually
have two hands. The doctor promised (insofar as she would actually commit) that
I’ll be functional when we go to Vienna in October as long as Michael schleps
the bags. I’m okay with that. For now, I’m soldiering on.
Wish
me luck on my recovery. And tell us what bodily inconvenience has most plagued
you in recent years. Or, if you’re one of the lucky ones, all those years ago…
Ciao
