Active Waiting

A good friend once told me that CMT is secondary to my main disability... Impatience. Yep, busted.

I've always approached losing weight with unrealistic short-term goals. Cousin's wedding next month? Lose 30 pounds? No problemo! Umm, not. I'd usually get so discouraged when I realized my timing was impossible that I'd eat more and go to the wedding weighing even more than when I began.

Hmmm. Impatience. A funny illustration comes to mind. Two weeks ago, my son, in a lovely act of kindness, bought bedding plants for the window boxes and planters on the back porch. (I write this while surrounded by a riotous display of color with my heart soaring at God's sheer creative genius.) Two weeks ago, though, I was not feeling so kindly. Instead of buying lush hanging baskets as I requested, he decided to save money and plant his own using last year's hangers. I'm sorry to report that his ingrate, shrew of a mother bitched and moaned. "I DON'T WANT TO WAIT, DAMMIT!" (Anybody who thinks disability confers a saintly demeanor needs my kids to set them straight.)

He planted three little bedding plants in each basket with me moaning, "More plants! Too bare!" He ignored me.

Today, the baskets are full and beginning to spill over with hundreds of blossoms. He spent a buck, maybe two. Can you guess the plant of choice? ......drumroll..... IMPATIENS!.... Cymbals.

When am I going to learn? Thank God that God doesn't have my character disability and is patiently, painstakingly changing me, little step by agonizingly slow step.

I am changing. How do I know? This quest I have undertaken to reclaim my health. I am in this for the distance and don't have unrealistic goals or expect a short-term fix. I'm enjoying the process, like watching a seed sprout instead of planting a nursery transplant.

My daughter graduates High School next year and I will turn 50 later that summer. I expect to be slimmer and healthier. It will be fun to see where I'm at at that milestone on the journey. It might be 20 pounds lighter or 50, but, no matter. It will be better and the journey will continue for a lifetime.

And I'll be running the race, even while I wait.*

* Borrowed from my favorite song "Worship while I'm Waiting"

Exercise Ain't a Four-letter Word

Sometimes you have to lose something before you can really love and appreciate it.

I grew up, like many Americans, believing "exercise" was a four letter word, only slightly less profane than the worst four-letter word; you know, the one even worse than the "f-bomb". (Shh. I'll whisper it if you promise not to tell. "diet".)

Oh sure, I knew nuts who loved to jog, but, by and large, most people conveyed the attitude that moving their bodies was something to be endured, akin to having a cavity filled. Something torturous that you did to lose weight or to try to stay healthy. A necessary evil.

Thank God my disability opened me to a different reality! After years and years of declining physical capacity and of losses of one activity after another in which I could participate, I have grown to appreciate and to ENJOY moving my body in ways that are still available to me.

Six night a week, I hop onto my Nustep with a rush of exhileration. I love being able to do this. Love burning calories. Love the feeling of moving my body effectively and gracefully.

When I started, I was only able to ride for about 30 minutes. Now, I rarely stop before two hours, and have even ridden for a four hour stretch! Did I mention that I love this! I love the power. Love the burn. Love the feeling of being athletic. Love knowing I'm on an upward spiral of health. Love being a fitness enthusiast even though I'm still very overweight and have a long way to go. (I estimate that I've lost 20 pounds by the way my clothes fit and my appearance in the mirror.)

If my disability had not progressed to such a degree of incapacity, I might have never found this new joy (and quite probably would not have the increasing cardiovascular health that I'm also enjoying.)

Disability and Exercise. Two words I used to hate. Two words I'm growing to love.

Alchemy

My naked body is beginning to bring me pleasure. How is that for a "Stop you dead in your tracks, jaw-dropping, must read further" opening line? At the risk of disappointing any lecherous readers out there, this IS a Christian blog. (If you meant to go to a XXX site, maybe you'll find this one even better. Different, but better.)

Sooo, back to pleasure... there is little so pleasurable as to be significantly overweight and to see yourself shrinking and to revel in the body's alchemy of turning fat into muscles. Chemists in the Middle-Ages attempting to turn lead into gold failed; whereas the body has mastered this seemingly elusive wizardry when given the catalyst of good food and exercise. From leaden fat to golden muscles.

I look at myself and see losses! And this has me thinking how it is so often the case that losses are really gains. In the case of this loss, I am gaining muscle definition, a smaller clothing size, and increased stamina to name a few. Conversely, when I was gaining weight, the mounting losses were staggering. (Come on, I don't have to tell you what that means! You KNOW, don't you?)

Could it be similarly true in other areas of our lives that losses are gains and vice-versa? I know, for me, the old adage about "gaining the world, but losing your soul" was dead on. The more I achieved the American dream of climbing the prosperity ladder, the less I attended to matters of the soul. It was only with the losses that accompanied my disability that I gained precious gifts of vulnerability, inter-dependence, self-love, other love, compassion, and wisdom, to name but a few.

Paul, the late-comer to the Apostle's party, knew something of this. He lost everything he held dear, everything that had been the ground that supported his ego, and yet he wrote:

"What is more, I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them rubbish, that I may gain Christ." (Philippians 3:8)

These words bring me comfort in the midst of so many losses in my life. If these paltry losses result in gaining Christ, (and I trust they can, such is the chemistry of the great Alchemist in the Sky) then I have the potential to be wondrously transformed if I will but climb into the crucible and submit to the heat. What are the losses in your life that could similarly be gains in disguise?

Passing the Torch

This weekend, I'm going on a retreat with my church's confirmation class, accompanying my mentee, one of the most amazing people I know.

This is hugely significant for me. When my kids were young adolescents, I avoided scary, hormonal, judgmental, throngs of kids at all costs. The biggest challenge of my life, at that time, was mustering the courage to roll into the middle school cafeteria and face hundreds of eyes that I was sure would judge me "defective". My already shaky self-esteem could not support the added weight of that much disregard.

I was dead wrong. But, I had to change before I could see that. The best gift I could have given my own kids and their classmates was to roll into that cafeteria, overweight, disabled, and full of self-love. It would have been a powerful antidote to the poison of the false and life-robbing values perpetuated by our damaged culture that worth is based on beauty (or athleticism, intellect, etc.)

So, I'm different these days than I was then. Interestingly,and amazingly, I find that, not only do I have something precious to offer, but young adolescents are attracted to it, even the cheerleader girls with the attitudes (especially them!). One of the best gifts I have to pass along to my young friends is just to be with them and let them witness a different way of being with one's self. One that offers upwardly spiralling freedom and life instead of the fear-based lies with which they are daily bombarded.

Falling in Love

I am falling in love. We'll get back to that in a bit.

For most of my life, my body has been my frenemy. (Frenemy: modern slang for an enemy disguised as a friend.) It would lure me into comfortable complacency, serving me fairly well to live a "normal" life, and then BAM! Falling and bloodying my knees on a date with a hot guy and spending the evening dealing with the gory ruins of my white eyelet dress (borrowed from my fastidious roommate); trying with determination to earn the respect of my elementary school gym teacher only to be exceeded by his surpassing determination to tell me that I was beneath contempt as I failed to pass any standard of fitness on that damned "President's Physical Fitness Test" (which was surely designed by an evil dictator rather than a patriot);
always the last one chosen for teams ("groan! Not her again!"); the nightmare of shopping for chubby sizes as a child; the ridicule, the clumsiness, the rejection. My body, as much as I wanted to call it "friend", was so fickle and so prone to betraying me that I was compelled to exploit it, treat it badly, or beat it into a semblance of submission.

How does one exploit one's body? Easy. By using it as barter to obtain something desired, such as male attention. Enough said.

Treating it badly: Atrocious diet, sedentary lifestyle, mocking it, ignoring illnesses, hiding it, feeling shame about it.

Beating it into submission: Battling with it endlessly for supremacy over weakening muscles and expanding girth. Endless diets. Running to "beat CMT", not for the fun of it, but with the express goal of conquest.

To be sure, and to be fair, my body was, at times, my friend. It grew, fed, and cuddled my babies. It yielded exquisite pleasure in the experience of a lover's first kiss. It allowed me to feel the breathtaking delight of jumping into a swimming pool on blistering hot summer days. To hear the giggles of little girls at play. Thousands, if not millions, of acts of friendship.

I think I've made a pretty good argument for my body being my frenemy. What I could not have anticipated, and am only beginning to realize, is that I am falling in love with my body.

Believe me! I know how odd (narcissistic? self-obsessed? scandalous? perverse? crazy? or perhaps wonderful?) that sounds. I can't explain it (and don't even want to try), but I am finding my body to be exquisite, delightful, and truly fearfully and wonderfully made. I want to fill it with nutrient-rich delights, smooth it with aromatic lotions, and move it as though dancing with my lovely partner on the ballroom floor.

And as any lover will do, when they are cherished and pampered, my body is responding by wooing me with the flirtatious glimpse of a muscle flitting across my arm, and by pushing itself further to delight me with increased strength and stamina, and by willingly shedding the pounds that were appropriate for an enemy but not for a beloved. And I reciprocate in delight with proferred gifts of jewelry and perfume and words of appreciation. It is an intoxicating romance.

We are enjoying the dance... My body and me.

Date Night Revisited: Ditching Madison Avenue

My last post, which I find to be well-written, and hopefully humorous, has a tone with which I grow increasingly uncomfortable. It feels to me a week later as though I was mocking myself. "Yeh right! Who would ever want to be with somebody like you? Maybe, just maybe if you attain a level of beauty and slimness, that will compensate for the disability and you *might* get a guy. Maybe. But not too likely."

No matter how hard I try to leave behind my "Madison Avenue" worldview, it tags along like a younger sibling one's parents insisted accompany you on a hot date with a great guy. All enjoyment is tainted by the clinging, annoying, whiny presence and the resentment that you can't ditch the brat.

Hey Madison Avenue. Get outta my car. I'm leaving you on the side of the road. I have a great life to lead, and I'm not dragging you around to ruin it anymore. You've traveled with me far enough, whispered your lies long enough, and I'm tossing you on your rear on the shoulder of the highway, slamming the door, and flooring the gas. Eat my dust.

You told me I was ugly and couldn't be loved. I say, "Look at all the people who DO love me and are attracted to my beauty... the inner beauty of love, valor, faith, compassion, humor, and intelligence."

You told me I was crippled and couldn't be loved. I say, "I love myself and others. And have more love now, as an overweight woman with a disability than when I was slim and physically attractive in college."

You told me no man would ever find me sexually attractive. I say, "Balderdash!" or "Poppycock!" or "Oh Pish!"

So long Madison Avenue. I'm off to the dance and you are not invited.

Date Night

When my son was young, we'd frequently leave Dad and little sister at home and go have a "Mommy-J***" date night. While he's no longer a child, and rapidly becoming a man, it's still nice to enjoy each other's company, and last weekend we had an evening reminiscent of those cherished evenings of his youth.

I've had dating on my mind. Now, I know some readers wouldn't expect a middle-aged, divorced woman, and especially a WHEELCHAIR-using woman, to be thinking about dating. But here it is for all the world to see: Disabled people have the same biological, emotional, relational longings as the rest of the world. Even sexual needs... gasp. (But that's not what I'm talking about here. As a Christian, I believe sex is something sacred to be experienced within the bounds of a marriage commitment, not casually in dating. Just saying...)

Now that I've grabbed your attention... back to this past weekend. While Jeff and I were having dinner at a fun Japanese restaurant, I started imagining what it would be like to be on a real date. What would it be like to be romanced? What would my date find it to be like to be with me? Those sorts of things. Within that framework of wondering, I "watched" the evening unfold through the eyes of my "mystery date".

OK, dinner. So far so good. Fun. Light-hearted. (Although, I did look like Gene Simmons from KISS when I tried to catch the rice ball with my tongue snaking a foot out of my mouth. Every other person in the restaurant tilted their heads back as the chef gently lobbed rice balls that dropped effortlessly into their mouths. But, me? No way! I had to make it look somewhat perverse... or so said my son who took great enjoyment in my embarrassment.) Dinner with a date. Yep, definitely do-able. With one caveat: No unlimited refills on beverages! We'll get back to that.

We were rushed to get to the movie theatre -- the one that offers free seating for people with disabilities and one companion. (Hear that men? You can take me to the movies and it will only cost the price of popcorn. A definite perk?)

I rolled to the ticket window, requested two tickets to the movie, and $19.50 appeared on the screen. Ummm, hello? I'm a good two feet below the average person, isn't it obvious I'm in a wheelchair?

"Ma'am, that will be $19.50."

Thinking he was somehow overlooking the obvious or forgetting policy, I replied, "What about free tickets for people with disabilities?"

"I'm sorry, that is no longer provided. The industry folks in Hollywood were unhappy with that policy."

(It's amazing how much can process through one's brain in an instant. "The one perk, the one perk, and such a little one at that, the one public recognition that being disabled might be difficult, the one little concession that feels like somebody is paying attention and showing some honor, and they have taken it away because the filmmakers in Hollywood are concerned about the money they aren't raking in from the hoards of wheelchair-using movie goers! Damn, we don't even take a real seat in the theatre!")

Quite without thinking, and in a heartbeat, I replied somewhat sardonically, "Yeh, damn gimps."

My son blushed and stammered, "Ignore her."

(Picturing the mystery date in the same shoes,I thought, "Uh oh. Probably not good date form!")

That waitress at Wasabi's was an evil genius. She knew we were headed to a movie, and I think she knew just how... ermm... *urgent* my bladder needs can be. Why else would she keep bringing diet coke after diet coke after diet coke?

Before heading into the movie, already ten minutes late, I HAD to stop by the restroom. (Here's where blogging gets fun. Do I tell or don't I tell? Do you want to read this or not? If not, just scroll down a couple of paragraphs.) I scooted over from my wheelchair onto the toilet and began tugging down my pants. I thought they were down far enough, but NO THEY WERE NOT! I peed all over the waistband of my jeans.

What would you do in this circumstance? I don't know about you, but I'd gone to alot of trouble driving to the next city and was really looking forward to the movie, so I dried my pants with toilet tissue, as best I was able, thinking, "This would most definitely not be good date form! If I ever hope to be asked on a second date, I'll have to come up with better options!")

The movie was great and with the revised policy requiring PWDs to pay for their tickets, the theatre was blessedly empty of those throngs of wheelchair-goers and we were able to use one of the cut-out areas. (I'm kidding. In years and years, I've seen only one other wheelchair-goer and there was ample room for more.)

It gets better (or worse!), folks. After the movie, I stood from my wheelchair, stepped onto the running board of my SUV, and my foot, as it is wont to do, slipped. I'm splayed back on the seat, holding onto the grab bar for dear life with my feet on the pavement. JEFFFFFF! (Maybe together we can help me scoot my butt backwards onto the seat and prevent a complete drop to the pavement.) Nope. No stinkin' way. I slid out of the car and onto the ground. (For all you men out there reading this and wishing you were in Jeffrey's shoes, I understand. Isn't it a shame blogs are anonymous and I can't post my phone number?)

We tried, and I do mean tried, to get me back to my feet or into my wheelchair or...

Twenty minutes later, and almost ready to call for professional help, I sent up an SOS to God, "Would you be an angel and help me out here?"

I looked up, and kid you not, there was a Hell's Angel sporting a shaggy gray beard, Harley vest and a belly that spoke of beer... lots and lots of beer. I had a quiet confidence that this very kind, burly man could help. Indeed. Two minutes later, he and my son had me safely seated in my wheelchair, and within another minute, I was in the car ready to head for home.

Now, had this been a real date, can you imagine the conversation during the thirty minute drive home!! Or would there be silence as my date would be thinking longingly of the tender goodnight kiss he hoped to plant on my soft lips at the front door as he gazed romantically into my eyes telling me what a good time he had?

When I begin dating, it is going to be an adventure. Probably fodder for a best-selling book. But, in the meantime, I'm going to continue taking care of my body and trying to get in better shape. Less weight and stronger muscles would definitely be a plus. I like to imagine those well-muscled men deftly lifting my graceful, slim self from the ground while I have my slim, toned arms wrapped around their good-smelling necks. Now, THAT could be good date form!

Living in a Saturday World

I sit here on the Saturday between Good Friday and Easter Sunday.

This day has traditionally been full of activity to take care of last minute Easter preparations: chocolate bunnies and pink tights to purchase, eggs to dye, potato salad and coconut cake to prepare. In contrast to the activity, it has always been somewhat spiritually void... back to the "real world" between the agony and pathos of Friday, and the triumph and joy of Sunday.

That's where I live my life. I live in a Saturday body, among Saturday people, in a Saturday world.

I live in limbo between the past certainty of the crucifixion and the future hope and faith in the resurrection. In order to live more fully and faithfully during this Saturday life, I must remember the past, hope for the future, but live in the tension of the present. It isn't always easy. I want my Sunday body and I want
it NOW! I want Sunday relationships and the Sunday world where there will be no more tears.

For now, though, I live Saturday most faithfully, by living as though Sunday will come... by seeing people through Sunday eyes as they will be one day fully redeemed, by treating creation with Sunday care, by honoring my body as though it is resplendent in Sunday perfection.

On this one Saturday, I am going to bake a ham, plant flowers on my back porch, have a dinner party for "sinners and tax collectors" and rejoice that Saturday is tinted a lovely shade of Sunday.

Identity Crisis or Identity Opportunity?

Identity Crisis: a disorientation concerning one's sense of self, values, and role in society, often of acute onset and related to a particular and significant event in one's life.

Yup. That pretty well captures my life right now. I'm in the midst of profound changes that affect almost every level of my life: financially, socially, theologically, relationally, emotionally, physically.


I'm simultaneously dealing with about ten MAJOR life changes... any one of which could send a person careening into a tailpin:

Daughter moved out to finish high school years living at her dad's house
Son moved home after dropping out of college
Resigned from church job under physical and emotional duress
Income decreased by 2/3
Looking for new church home after 11 years
Applying for Social Security Disability
Loss of Health Insurance
Harassment from Ex-husband
Betrayal by former friends
Loss of social network which was completely tied to my former church

AND ALL OF THIS WHILE DEALING WITH A SEVERE DISABILITY!!!

All I can say is that I serve a VERY BIG and WONDERFUL God. If it weren't so, I'd be in a straight-jacket, rocking back and forth on my bed in an institution somewhere.

In the midst of all these changes, having some control of my life and future through diet and exercise feels almost salvific. I might have other losses, but I have the power and the freedom to choose a smaller, healthier, more attractive, stronger body.

Ironic that in the midst of profound losses of love, community, and purpose, I am finding strength and hope in areas that I once perceived as deprivation. I eat a salad now with gratitude that something I have long desired (health and fitness) is within my grasp, even when so many other dreams have vaporized. I ride my Nustep with gratitude that there is still life and hope, and new dreams to dream.