one of my dedicated followers has been asking me to post some of my poetry.... this is a first draft, and not one of my best, but it is one of the poems that I've written that falls into the newly named genre of disability poetry. It's always been really hard for me to go back and edit my poetry, for me poetry is my emotion, even if my poems lack feeling words. In my head I always think that I'll never find that exact emotion over that exact stimuli again, so editing to me, in the past, has seemed superficial and created a disconnect from the original words and the edit. I've learned that this isn't true, but I still have not gone back to edit this piece... maybe it'll happen as I type it here for you, but maybe not. I, just like all art, am a work in progress. Before I started this blog, I had daily ideas for topics and what I wanted to say. Since I started this blog, I've gotten more into my writing -- spending hours a day working as a writer, either writing, researching or reading. Since I have started a Twitter account for myself, my writer-self, I keep thinking that I want to start a blog that is just my writing... so many fears, though... how much easier it is for someone to steal my work, my words, my feelings? I am hoping that I get to workshop with Thurston Moore (founder of Sonic Youth, y'all!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) at The Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at the Naropa Institute in Boulder this summer -- I missed him last year, and I can't risk missing him forever at Naropa as I did Allen Ginsberg (a founder of the school and one of my first favorite poets), not finding out about this school until Mr. Ginsberg sadly passed away. Anyway, I think I'm stalling because I really may think this poem is a piece of shit, and I'm not saying that to get compliments.... Please read my "editorial" after the poem regarding comments. Without further procrastination, I present:
FUSED
a brutal overload of screws and rods
in such beautiful colors
you'd never know
from far away
these pieces had shred marks,
until you see them up close
and recognize remnants
of skull and bone
maybe even skin and other soft tissue
or dried up fluids
in hidden places the autoclave missed
they held a girl's head on
straight but crooked
for the last six fucking years --
these "pretty pieces"
of metal
caused sickening pain and
dreams of death,
and now
I hold those loose screws
in my hands,
new hardware resides in my neck
my skull,
and the commercial on TV says
it may cause trouble swallowing or nerve damage
but i had all that before,
after the first time they put Humpty Dumpty
back together again
***Ok, so.... as far as comments on this piece: First of all, it's a totally different piece than what I was typing from; this isn't the end, it's just where I had to stop right now to figure out where to go from here; if you'd like to leave a comment, workshop style (that is, critiquing my poem), please be constructive, and realize this is a work in progress; this piece is a total mess, but it is the only thing I have at the moment that relates to my blog (that I can find), also please be nice, I was completely whacked on morphine at the time I began this piece and I'm working on it....
I'll post a good one in a different post
Friday, March 29, 2013
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Life is a game and I'm finally ready to play...
My mantra for the week has been: I'm not fuckin' around anymore!
I have been out of the house every day for 3 weeks, I've been on time for appointments and plans, I've gotten on the treadmill, I've been doing my physical therapy exercises, I've been talking to people, reading emphatically, writing, trying to get organized.... In the words of Penny Lane, "It's all happening..."
I've been a procrastinator, lazy, gluttonous. I've been self-righteous and self-hating (don't they always go together?).... 3 weeks ago, my normal day involved dragging my ass out of bed around 12-2 and pretty much laying around watching tv all day. Yes, I admit that it's nice to not have to go to work but it also allows for a lot of waste -- body and mind. I'll never be strong or consistent enough in my body to be able to have a "normal" job, and by that I mean this: I don't know how I will wake up feeling from day to day - I could be ok, or maybe I can't get out of bed or walk. Somedays I can't breathe as well, somedays I almost pass out in the shower from lack of oxygen. I can't promise an employer that I will be able to sit, stand, lift, or even speak. I also can't promise them that I will be at work. My issue isn't not being able to find a job, I truly can't work in the traditional sense of the word. The real issue is what happens when I don't have anywhere I have to be, really no one to answer to...
The last couple weeks have really taught me that I am responsible for everything. If I'm not happy, it's my responsibility to get happy. I can put in place certain rules for myself, wake up by x:xx, shower, be on time, whatever, but NO ONE holds me to any of it but me. Everyone in my life is so used to me missing appointments, bailing out of plans, sleeping all day, avoiding society because it hurts, etc.
Of course it hurts, it's life, and "life is trauma." (Jeanette Winterson)
I have been out of the house every day for 3 weeks, I've been on time for appointments and plans, I've gotten on the treadmill, I've been doing my physical therapy exercises, I've been talking to people, reading emphatically, writing, trying to get organized.... In the words of Penny Lane, "It's all happening..."
I've been a procrastinator, lazy, gluttonous. I've been self-righteous and self-hating (don't they always go together?).... 3 weeks ago, my normal day involved dragging my ass out of bed around 12-2 and pretty much laying around watching tv all day. Yes, I admit that it's nice to not have to go to work but it also allows for a lot of waste -- body and mind. I'll never be strong or consistent enough in my body to be able to have a "normal" job, and by that I mean this: I don't know how I will wake up feeling from day to day - I could be ok, or maybe I can't get out of bed or walk. Somedays I can't breathe as well, somedays I almost pass out in the shower from lack of oxygen. I can't promise an employer that I will be able to sit, stand, lift, or even speak. I also can't promise them that I will be at work. My issue isn't not being able to find a job, I truly can't work in the traditional sense of the word. The real issue is what happens when I don't have anywhere I have to be, really no one to answer to...
The last couple weeks have really taught me that I am responsible for everything. If I'm not happy, it's my responsibility to get happy. I can put in place certain rules for myself, wake up by x:xx, shower, be on time, whatever, but NO ONE holds me to any of it but me. Everyone in my life is so used to me missing appointments, bailing out of plans, sleeping all day, avoiding society because it hurts, etc.
Of course it hurts, it's life, and "life is trauma." (Jeanette Winterson)
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Catharsis
In a cathartic moment immediately after finishing Why Be Happy When You Can Be Normal, by Jeanette Winterson, I realized today that there has been one consistent element missing from my writing, especially about the accident. Except in my poetry.... there I can use imagery to bring out the feelings, the torment, the anguish, even the happiness and comfort. I had many, many self-realizations and moments of complete emotional clarity, simultaneously not feeling alone, - though I was with what some people would call just a book (there's really no such thing as "just a book") - while reading this emotional masterpiece that reads like the smoothest poetry and embedded with emotional horror and self-understanding. JW made me see that the thing missing, and I'm sure you'll agree if you go back and read/reread previous entries, is showing my reader the emotion. Not just saying, it was scary or I was sad, but reinventing that emotion to bring you as close to me at that moment and humanly possible without physically being there.
I also realized that the past is the present is the future and that you can move any of those nouns to change the progression of time and the sentiment remains the same. I've learned that we don't have a right to happiness, we have the right to the pursuit of happiness and these are by no means even close to meaning the same thing. We believe we have this right because our forefathers said so. Happiness, like all emotions, are fleeting and, especially good feelings, don't last long. The pursuit of happiness is forever. We have the right, as Americans, to pursue happiness our entire lives.
When I heard JW read in Boston Friday night, it changed my life, my self-appreciation, and hopefully my writing (for the better) and success as a human being. She made a comment that at one point in her life she was suicidal. It didn't work, thankfully. She decided then that she was sick of living half a life. She also said, "...life is trauma..." and when I met her to sign my book I had to thank her for that. I've been living half a life for a long time, especially the last 6 years. I don't feel good every day. I don't want to get out of my PJ's most days. Most days I want to sleep, and if I can't I immediately turn on the tv and plop down on the couch. The ass imprint where I sit is bigger than I'd like it to be, if I'm going to leave an ass imprint on anything, and it's still there when I get out of bed after 12 hours, or sometimes 3 days. This isn't working for me. I can't live half of a life anymore. And I especially cannot continue to not write, not try to get published. Maybe the talent is so much here in my blog, it'll come. I'm a poet, and poet's are a very different breed than a literary writer (notice the stress on literary).
I found last week that novels are probably not the way for me to go, as well. There are so many rad short versions of writing -- I'd never considered an essay before, but I don't want to always write with a setting, developed characters, plot, climax, etc. I like to write about what's twirling around in my brain, or maybe it's my soul? There's also flash fiction and experimental, and so many other things I can write. The intimidation of the length of a novel has steered me clear for 20 years. Yes, 20. I wrote my first poem at the age of like 4, and my short story won some kind of award in elementary school. People have always told me I should write. They're right, I should. I just shouldn't be writing what I do (other than poetry) the way I do (even some of my poetry).
I'm dedicating this year (between now and the next AWP, March 2014, Seattle baby!) to learning about my craft, taking at least one writer's retreat, blogging here twice a week (bare with me at first, kids) and starting my writer's blog. I do regret a bit that that changes my business plans for this year, working on designing and creating and starting a fashion biz, but writing is my first passion, the first thing I remember learning how to do is read, and I'll never be able to keep the rad phrases from popping into my head.
thanks for reading, all comments welcome
I also realized that the past is the present is the future and that you can move any of those nouns to change the progression of time and the sentiment remains the same. I've learned that we don't have a right to happiness, we have the right to the pursuit of happiness and these are by no means even close to meaning the same thing. We believe we have this right because our forefathers said so. Happiness, like all emotions, are fleeting and, especially good feelings, don't last long. The pursuit of happiness is forever. We have the right, as Americans, to pursue happiness our entire lives.
When I heard JW read in Boston Friday night, it changed my life, my self-appreciation, and hopefully my writing (for the better) and success as a human being. She made a comment that at one point in her life she was suicidal. It didn't work, thankfully. She decided then that she was sick of living half a life. She also said, "...life is trauma..." and when I met her to sign my book I had to thank her for that. I've been living half a life for a long time, especially the last 6 years. I don't feel good every day. I don't want to get out of my PJ's most days. Most days I want to sleep, and if I can't I immediately turn on the tv and plop down on the couch. The ass imprint where I sit is bigger than I'd like it to be, if I'm going to leave an ass imprint on anything, and it's still there when I get out of bed after 12 hours, or sometimes 3 days. This isn't working for me. I can't live half of a life anymore. And I especially cannot continue to not write, not try to get published. Maybe the talent is so much here in my blog, it'll come. I'm a poet, and poet's are a very different breed than a literary writer (notice the stress on literary).
I found last week that novels are probably not the way for me to go, as well. There are so many rad short versions of writing -- I'd never considered an essay before, but I don't want to always write with a setting, developed characters, plot, climax, etc. I like to write about what's twirling around in my brain, or maybe it's my soul? There's also flash fiction and experimental, and so many other things I can write. The intimidation of the length of a novel has steered me clear for 20 years. Yes, 20. I wrote my first poem at the age of like 4, and my short story won some kind of award in elementary school. People have always told me I should write. They're right, I should. I just shouldn't be writing what I do (other than poetry) the way I do (even some of my poetry).
I'm dedicating this year (between now and the next AWP, March 2014, Seattle baby!) to learning about my craft, taking at least one writer's retreat, blogging here twice a week (bare with me at first, kids) and starting my writer's blog. I do regret a bit that that changes my business plans for this year, working on designing and creating and starting a fashion biz, but writing is my first passion, the first thing I remember learning how to do is read, and I'll never be able to keep the rad phrases from popping into my head.
thanks for reading, all comments welcome
Friday, March 8, 2013
Finding inspiration, in the obvious and not...
So far, I've talked about being a survivor of traumatic body and brain injury. Did you know the reason I started this blog is because I'm a writer dying for an outlet and an audience? More than that, it gives me a consistent topic to write about and a sort of direction I find hard to find the self-discipline to maintain on my own. But, really I'm a writer. And I officially know that I don't want to be known as a disabled writer, but a writer who happens to be disabled. I don't want to be force-genre'd simply because my first recognized writing happens to be about or involves in some way someone with a disability.
Right now, I'm in Boston and an AWP conference. I'm with 12,000+ people who also call themselves writers, artists, creators. It's been a major struggle for me, physically. It sucks.
I got here Tuesday afternoon. My aunt, a published novelist and successful freelancer, Patti Frazee, met me here. Wednesday we went out sightseeing -- I've NEVER been to New England before, and I've been dying to see Boston for 20 years. Last year, the AWP conference was in Chicago, and that was the first time Patti got to introduce me to her world. Last year, we didn't have time to see the city. This year, I came Tuesday thinking the conference started Wednesday, so I was so stoked when I realized it started Thursday and we had all day Wednesday to sightsee. Patti lived in Massachusetts after college, as well as NYC, plus she's visited here in the past, so she had some ideas to build our experience together here on the east coast. I think she enjoyed the fact that it was my first time here and that she was the one that got to show me around, and to be honest, Patti is someone who I have a certain bond with, she understands me a way that others don't, she's allowed me to fuck up and make mistakes without giving up on me, she's one of few people that I know had the highest hopes, and she even maybe had faith, that I would get my shit together, clean up, and start writing or at least doing something to try to meet my potential. Last year, Patti introduced me to a friend of hers at the conference, and she mentioned that I was a poet, "a good poet, like really good." Last year, she gave me the confidence to start calling myself a writer.
Tonight, I went to a reading by Jeanette Winterson and was blown away, inspired, speachless, crying, laughing, connecting, you got it.... I may have my first writer crush! She said so many amazing things, one of them being that she didn't become a writer, or learn to write, she just was one. That's me. I'm not published, other than in social media and that doesn't count! At the same time, I'm also unsubmitted, I've never tried to get published. All of my poetry is still in journals all over the place. She made me believe that it's my everything to write, I've been writing since I was 4 years old. I'm a writer, whether you've read or heard my work or not. I'm a writer, and no one can take that away from me.
Right now, I'm in Boston and an AWP conference. I'm with 12,000+ people who also call themselves writers, artists, creators. It's been a major struggle for me, physically. It sucks.
I got here Tuesday afternoon. My aunt, a published novelist and successful freelancer, Patti Frazee, met me here. Wednesday we went out sightseeing -- I've NEVER been to New England before, and I've been dying to see Boston for 20 years. Last year, the AWP conference was in Chicago, and that was the first time Patti got to introduce me to her world. Last year, we didn't have time to see the city. This year, I came Tuesday thinking the conference started Wednesday, so I was so stoked when I realized it started Thursday and we had all day Wednesday to sightsee. Patti lived in Massachusetts after college, as well as NYC, plus she's visited here in the past, so she had some ideas to build our experience together here on the east coast. I think she enjoyed the fact that it was my first time here and that she was the one that got to show me around, and to be honest, Patti is someone who I have a certain bond with, she understands me a way that others don't, she's allowed me to fuck up and make mistakes without giving up on me, she's one of few people that I know had the highest hopes, and she even maybe had faith, that I would get my shit together, clean up, and start writing or at least doing something to try to meet my potential. Last year, Patti introduced me to a friend of hers at the conference, and she mentioned that I was a poet, "a good poet, like really good." Last year, she gave me the confidence to start calling myself a writer.
Tonight, I went to a reading by Jeanette Winterson and was blown away, inspired, speachless, crying, laughing, connecting, you got it.... I may have my first writer crush! She said so many amazing things, one of them being that she didn't become a writer, or learn to write, she just was one. That's me. I'm not published, other than in social media and that doesn't count! At the same time, I'm also unsubmitted, I've never tried to get published. All of my poetry is still in journals all over the place. She made me believe that it's my everything to write, I've been writing since I was 4 years old. I'm a writer, whether you've read or heard my work or not. I'm a writer, and no one can take that away from me.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
a perfect PSA (public service announcement)
I said before that I didn't want all these posts to be "woe is me," and I don't want this one to sound like that either, I want this to show just how rude and horrible and plain mean people can be. However, today's ignorance turned it's head around and treated me like a human.
I preface this story with what I look like today. My hair is hot pink, baby pink, and blue, pulled up in a sloppy, messy bun. I'm wearing Levi's, a sleeveless hoody with monster fur around the hood and zombie pin-up chick art on the back and there's is a monster chick on my skinny Mary Jane's. For those of you who don't know what I look like, my full sleeves (tattooed arms) are showing, and I never cover the words on my knuckles or the brass knuckles tattooed on the top of my hand. I don't care where you live, there are always people who are going to draw negative conclusions about someone who looks like me, and a lot of people aren't even sort of concerned with disguising their stares, disapproval and ignorance.
I am flying to Boston today. In fact, in 6 minutes I will be over Detroit. Pretty rad! Traveling east for me usually means: Omaha or Dallas, and I've only been further east from that to Minneapolis and Miami. But I digress...
I have had disgustingly horrific experiences as a disabled woman traveling in the past. I boycott most airlines I've flown in the past because of the way I've been treated by the staff. I'm in a good mood today so I'd rather not relive those devastating moments. I am going to write about the bullshit I dealt with earlier because it has a nice conclusion, unlike most of the others.
When I travel by air, I request a wheelchair when I purchase my ticket and have to also ask upon check-in for wheelchair assistance to the gate and also at my arrival gate. The problem isn't that I can't walk, it's that I can't walk long distances without ending up in pain or breathless (remember, my vocal cords are paralyzed partially closed, meaning that I can't release CO2 like normal, so it's kind of like sucking on an exhaust pipe).
Like any other day at the airport, I checked in, asked for a wheelchair, got my boarding pass and went to the wheelchair stand. The chick that pushed me to the gate was rad -- super nice, helped with whatever I needed her to, got my pre-board pass at the gate, and stood in line to get me diet coke. Then I got to the gate.
My pusher told the woman at the gate when we pulled up that I was a pre-board and not to forget me. Then they both disappeared. People were lined up to board, everyone was off the plane that needed to be, and suddenly, another gate attendant- I'll call her Ignorant- was walking around, grabbing people with (baby blue) pre-board passes and having them board. I got up from the wheelchair to ask if she was pre-boarding and she basically told me no. Again, I travel frequently and always fly SW. I have never, ever seen the gate attendant walk around and pick the people she was going to let board.... pre-boarding is called, on the intercom, like this: "Anyone with a pre-board pass- those who need help or more time getting seated or traveling with small children, anyone with a blue pre-board pass may board now, and then we'll start boarding all A tickets." I watched her hand pick several pre-boarders, about 7-8, then she called for pre-boards. When I just handed her my ticket and pre-board she tried defending herself by saying: "I boarded all wheelchairs first." I said, "FYI I was in a wheelchair, too."
Bad enough? Yes, but not over yet!
I stepped onto the plane, as I always do, and ask the flight attendant for assistance with my carry-on because I can't lift over my head. She tells me I should have checked it, and for future travel I needed to check anything I couldn't fit under the seat. I told her that no one had EVER told me that before, and that a flight attendant from another airline had JUST told me on the train to not be shy to ask for anything I needed from flight staff. She said she'd help, followed me to the seat and then said, "You can help me, right?" I said, plugging my trach, "NO! I have a hole in my throat and 15 screws in my neck, I told you I can't life over my head!" She huffed and lifted my 10 lbs. suitcase into the overhead compartment. Walking away, she said, you don't have to explain everything. I said, "No, I don't, or shouldn't have to, but people like you won't help me unless I explain my disabilities to them, so yes, I do have to explain, even though I have confidentiality agreements with all my doctors. People like you make me give full disclosure."
I immediately called my husband and told him the story, I was so fucking pissed I almost thru a temper tantrum..... the girl that took the aisle seat in my row said, I'm sorry, I wasn't eavesdropping, but I'm really sorry you had to deal with that, I'm a physical therapist and it's just bullshit to hear you get treated that way. She explained that she advocated for people who can't speak for themselves, and how sad she thought it was that I had to explain myself, I should be able to say, I'm disabled without going into detail. Naturally, we began speaking (I mean, I go to physical therapy 3 times a week) and I ended up telling her more detailed accounts of medical problems, etc.
Ok, so both these women were complete bitches. But, the flight attendant, she decided to be human.... she approached me at me seat (little privacy), and apologized repeatedly, almost in tears and caressing my hand. She said that they are told to offer assistance but not life for the guest, but that she was so sorry. And she was genuine, shaking voice and watery eyes and all. Then, she "bought" my Bloody Mary for me.
She also told me that she "set the other girl straight," and that next time I should stay in the wheelchair.
So, I'm glad that someone learned an important social lesson about judging others today. Maybe just one other person will be treated better by her, but even one makes a difference. I told her, during her apology, about the woman at the gate and she said something about the situation, don't assume someone can do everything you think they should just because they look like they can..... it's just WRONG to accuse someone of acting like they need help..... do you realize how many people, especially bull-headed, stubborn people, have a hard or impossible time asking for help? then to be treated like a dick for asking? It SUCKS!!!!!!
We all have bad days, but come on! I at least don't make a comment until someone else is mean. Isn't just easier to help someone, rather than make snide comments, putting all that bad juju out into the universe, only to come right back to you? Think, next time you start to comment about someone parking in a handicapped spot that looks 'normal,' .... the hole in my throat looks like a choker and all the screws in my neck are just that, IN my neck. I wish people could just treat each other like fellow human beings.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
I preface this story with what I look like today. My hair is hot pink, baby pink, and blue, pulled up in a sloppy, messy bun. I'm wearing Levi's, a sleeveless hoody with monster fur around the hood and zombie pin-up chick art on the back and there's is a monster chick on my skinny Mary Jane's. For those of you who don't know what I look like, my full sleeves (tattooed arms) are showing, and I never cover the words on my knuckles or the brass knuckles tattooed on the top of my hand. I don't care where you live, there are always people who are going to draw negative conclusions about someone who looks like me, and a lot of people aren't even sort of concerned with disguising their stares, disapproval and ignorance.
I am flying to Boston today. In fact, in 6 minutes I will be over Detroit. Pretty rad! Traveling east for me usually means: Omaha or Dallas, and I've only been further east from that to Minneapolis and Miami. But I digress...
I have had disgustingly horrific experiences as a disabled woman traveling in the past. I boycott most airlines I've flown in the past because of the way I've been treated by the staff. I'm in a good mood today so I'd rather not relive those devastating moments. I am going to write about the bullshit I dealt with earlier because it has a nice conclusion, unlike most of the others.
When I travel by air, I request a wheelchair when I purchase my ticket and have to also ask upon check-in for wheelchair assistance to the gate and also at my arrival gate. The problem isn't that I can't walk, it's that I can't walk long distances without ending up in pain or breathless (remember, my vocal cords are paralyzed partially closed, meaning that I can't release CO2 like normal, so it's kind of like sucking on an exhaust pipe).
Like any other day at the airport, I checked in, asked for a wheelchair, got my boarding pass and went to the wheelchair stand. The chick that pushed me to the gate was rad -- super nice, helped with whatever I needed her to, got my pre-board pass at the gate, and stood in line to get me diet coke. Then I got to the gate.
My pusher told the woman at the gate when we pulled up that I was a pre-board and not to forget me. Then they both disappeared. People were lined up to board, everyone was off the plane that needed to be, and suddenly, another gate attendant- I'll call her Ignorant- was walking around, grabbing people with (baby blue) pre-board passes and having them board. I got up from the wheelchair to ask if she was pre-boarding and she basically told me no. Again, I travel frequently and always fly SW. I have never, ever seen the gate attendant walk around and pick the people she was going to let board.... pre-boarding is called, on the intercom, like this: "Anyone with a pre-board pass- those who need help or more time getting seated or traveling with small children, anyone with a blue pre-board pass may board now, and then we'll start boarding all A tickets." I watched her hand pick several pre-boarders, about 7-8, then she called for pre-boards. When I just handed her my ticket and pre-board she tried defending herself by saying: "I boarded all wheelchairs first." I said, "FYI I was in a wheelchair, too."
Bad enough? Yes, but not over yet!
I stepped onto the plane, as I always do, and ask the flight attendant for assistance with my carry-on because I can't lift over my head. She tells me I should have checked it, and for future travel I needed to check anything I couldn't fit under the seat. I told her that no one had EVER told me that before, and that a flight attendant from another airline had JUST told me on the train to not be shy to ask for anything I needed from flight staff. She said she'd help, followed me to the seat and then said, "You can help me, right?" I said, plugging my trach, "NO! I have a hole in my throat and 15 screws in my neck, I told you I can't life over my head!" She huffed and lifted my 10 lbs. suitcase into the overhead compartment. Walking away, she said, you don't have to explain everything. I said, "No, I don't, or shouldn't have to, but people like you won't help me unless I explain my disabilities to them, so yes, I do have to explain, even though I have confidentiality agreements with all my doctors. People like you make me give full disclosure."
I immediately called my husband and told him the story, I was so fucking pissed I almost thru a temper tantrum..... the girl that took the aisle seat in my row said, I'm sorry, I wasn't eavesdropping, but I'm really sorry you had to deal with that, I'm a physical therapist and it's just bullshit to hear you get treated that way. She explained that she advocated for people who can't speak for themselves, and how sad she thought it was that I had to explain myself, I should be able to say, I'm disabled without going into detail. Naturally, we began speaking (I mean, I go to physical therapy 3 times a week) and I ended up telling her more detailed accounts of medical problems, etc.
Ok, so both these women were complete bitches. But, the flight attendant, she decided to be human.... she approached me at me seat (little privacy), and apologized repeatedly, almost in tears and caressing my hand. She said that they are told to offer assistance but not life for the guest, but that she was so sorry. And she was genuine, shaking voice and watery eyes and all. Then, she "bought" my Bloody Mary for me.
She also told me that she "set the other girl straight," and that next time I should stay in the wheelchair.
So, I'm glad that someone learned an important social lesson about judging others today. Maybe just one other person will be treated better by her, but even one makes a difference. I told her, during her apology, about the woman at the gate and she said something about the situation, don't assume someone can do everything you think they should just because they look like they can..... it's just WRONG to accuse someone of acting like they need help..... do you realize how many people, especially bull-headed, stubborn people, have a hard or impossible time asking for help? then to be treated like a dick for asking? It SUCKS!!!!!!
We all have bad days, but come on! I at least don't make a comment until someone else is mean. Isn't just easier to help someone, rather than make snide comments, putting all that bad juju out into the universe, only to come right back to you? Think, next time you start to comment about someone parking in a handicapped spot that looks 'normal,' .... the hole in my throat looks like a choker and all the screws in my neck are just that, IN my neck. I wish people could just treat each other like fellow human beings.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Location:somewhere between Denver and Boston
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