I went to Mexico last week looking for direction for my life.
Mariposa Ministry, on-line, was responsible for saving my life and for giving me hope that I could live an abundant life, even with a disability, at a time when I was full of despair.
Born on the border of California and Mexico over thirty years ago as a ministry with disabled teens to explore the spiritual and emotional aspects of disability, Mariposa has grown even as those first teens have grown into middle-aged grandparents.
As I understand the early years, it was never an "organization"... more loosely characterized as a community coming together to share stories and to try to fit those stories into the framework of the larger story of the Gospel. (If the Gospel, as the church proclaims it, isn't perceived as Good News by the least of these-- and so often the message of the church IS hurtful to people with disabilities-- then perhaps our understanding of the Gospel message is deficient. For example, many churches teach that if you have enough faith, God will heal your disability. That creates a terrible tension for a person with a disability who approaches God with a heart full of hope and faith and doesn't receive the healing they anticipated. Is the Good News good enough and are the promises of "abundant life" for people with weak and twisted bodies, people with missing limbs, people born without eyes, etc.? Mariposa Ministry has wrestled with theological questions such as these and through times of deep, heart-wrenching sharing, liberal use of Kleenexes, healing prayer and laughter, the men and women of Mariposa grew and healed and began to live with a sure and certain hope and dignity that they could offer their broken bodies to God as living sacrifices, and God would be pleased and would glorify himself through them. (I'm not just writing as an observer... I am one of "them" and this has been my healing journey, too.)
Fast forward from those early years with awkward teens in the 70's to the present. I was blessed to attend an event in Mexicali this past Saturday "Disability with Dignity" that was a gathering of veteran Mariposa participants who had invited people with all manner of disabilities throughout the city/region to come together to explore what it means to live with a disability. (Mariposa has always been about sharing the gift of healing with others. Some of the first participants became "peer counselors" and traveled the city of Mexicali taking the healing hope to people trapped in poverty, hopelessness, and living lives characterized by indignity.)
Not knowing what to expect (would anybody want to come to such an event? would anybody be able to come given the transportation constraints?) they found a neighborhood center that graciously donated space that would hold the hoped-for fifty participants. The main meeting room was small by US standards and I thought it would be quite "intimate" if 50 people showed up.
Do you know the story Jesus told in Luke 14 where he talks about a rich man throwing a party and telling his servants to go into the highways and byways and not just invite but COMPEL the blind, the lame, the poor to come to the banquet?
I had the joy of seeing that parable brought to life this past Saturday! By mid-afternoon, we estimated that 80 people with disabilities had squeezed into the center. (One or two more wheelchairs and we would have had a traffic jam we'd still be trying to untangle in that room! It was like one of those little, hand-held puzzles with sliding tiles with one empty space for moving the tiles into order.)
Of the 80, I believe I heard that about half were new participants. (My Spanish is very rudimentary.) What was so beautiful and exciting was the vast array of disabilities represented: mobility, vision, cognitive, auditory. What was even more exciting was the sharing in small groups where we found that even though the nature of our disabilities was hugely varied, our thoughts about them, our experiences living with them, our emotions and our questions about God related to them were very similar.
The main activity of the day was to break into small groups of about six people per group and to share answers to a host of questions contained on slips of paper in a baggie. How would the new people respond to these " preguntas metiches" (nosy questions)? Most people with disabilities never have opportunity to talk about their experiences with disability, not even in their families (maybe especially not in their families!) Would people be shell-shocked at hearing such things uttered? Would they retreat? Would it be too much too soon?
It was a pretty daring experiment, but one born of faith, knowledge of the healing power inherent in telling one's story, and wisdom.
Examples of some of the nosy questions (as I remember them:
How do you feel about asking for help? How do you feel when other people try to help you?
What is the worst part about being disabled for you? Do you see any good in being disabled?
It was extraordinary how readily the new participants dove into answering questions. The group in which I participated had 7 participants, three who had never experienced anything like this. ALL shared deeply and I didn't sense any discomfort (unless it was trying to be heard over the noise in the room); rather, I sensed a deep relief and freedom in being able to talk freely about "taboo" subjects. My only frustration with the experience was wanting to talk/listen for hours upon hours more... I saw it just scratching the surface and pray that there will be ample opportunities in the future for people to have opportunity to go deeper.
Lest I am painting a picture of hand-wringing and "serious" times, rest assured, there was an aspect of people taking seriously the questions, but the day was infused with laughter, hugs, old friends connecting, new friends being made, little children playing, praises being sung, and a FEAST! The party went on well into the night. (I asked one man how long parties in Mexico go on. He answered, "Two days!") I'm pretty sure that people departed for only two reasons: 1)They had to because their transportation options were limited, 2)We had to clean the center and return it to readiness for the next day's activities.
As I think back to this day, I will be pondering for a long time to come what was so COMPELLING about that day, and what the church could learn from it. How does the church issue the invitation to the banquet? (Does it issue the invitation? Does it even want those guests? How does it prepare to be hospitable to people with disabilities? Is it nibbling the appetizer at the banquet without fully feasting on all that is offered? Why do people with disabilities not feel compelled to be in church?) Little questions like that.
In the meantime, I am very grateful to have experienced a day full of grace and beauty and want very much to share the gift with others.
Hear that, God? Tell me how... (umm, please!)
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Reflections on a Different Decade
Ten years ago today, I had returned from Kentucky, where my dad was dying a horrible death from esophageal cancer, to be with my kids for Halloween. While they were getting into their costumes and we were eating a light supper before hitting the neighborhood for trick-or-treat, just at sundown, the phone call came. My dad's horrible battle was over. No longer would he have the morphine-induced terror, no longer would he struggle to pull air into his cancer-ridden lungs, no more assaults on his poor, skeletal, emaciated (ghoulish-looking, even) body.
It was a relief that the horror was over.
In the ensuing months and years, however, I realized that the pain of his death wasn't just because of the nightmarish experience of watching a robust 200 pound kayaker become a skeleton in less than a year; nor was it the hole created in our family by the absence of his large personality; but, for me, it was something uniquely my own: He died and with him went the opportunity for me to have peace that my dad was proud of me.
Oh, I knew he loved me. I just never got the impression that he was proud of me, that he took pleasure from me.
For the longest time, when I thought about my dad, all I could picture was his displeasure. One scene was particularly powerful. On the day before he was to have surgery to remove his esophagus, I took him to the hospital for his pre-op appointment. Afterwards, we stopped at Arby's. While he was in the bathroom retching, I ordered and started eating lunch. He walked out of the restroom, took a look at my tray, and sneered, "Well, you didn't waste any time eating all those french fries did you?" No doubt, that comment was largely fueled by his own misery and fear over his body's assault on his digestive tract, but all I heard was, "Lynna, you are a disgusting, overweight pig."
After he died, I remembered the gifts he had given me on Valentine's Day that I had received as messages of displeasure such as sugar-free chocolates and low-fat cookbooks. I felt like I had allowed my dad to die unhappy and I felt a terrible burden of guilt that I was so defective that he couldn't die in peace. Not only had I let him down by carrying 50 extra pounds, but I also carried the visible representation of our family's "secret" that somewhere in our family genetic code there was an abnormality resulting in CMT.
For years after he died, I grieved and I ate more. "Damn you! I am not going to lose weight to gain your approval!" Yes, it is possible to continue battling a ghost.
As I have healed over the years through counseling that has allowed me to accept my body -- my disabled body-- and to begin honoring it for the gift that it is, my need for my dad's approval has dramatically lessened. I have realized that all the regard I needed did not die when he died, but that I could have that regard in abundance... first from God (who delights in me!) and internalized within myself as self-regard. I thought when my dad died that the chance to feel good about myself had died. (That was a gift I thought he had to bestow.)
Today, as I seek to have as healthy a body as possible through exercise and losing weight as a gift of honor to myself, I miss my dad. I wish he was here to share in my happiness and freedom. I think he would be proud. I love you, Dad.
It was a relief that the horror was over.
In the ensuing months and years, however, I realized that the pain of his death wasn't just because of the nightmarish experience of watching a robust 200 pound kayaker become a skeleton in less than a year; nor was it the hole created in our family by the absence of his large personality; but, for me, it was something uniquely my own: He died and with him went the opportunity for me to have peace that my dad was proud of me.
Oh, I knew he loved me. I just never got the impression that he was proud of me, that he took pleasure from me.
For the longest time, when I thought about my dad, all I could picture was his displeasure. One scene was particularly powerful. On the day before he was to have surgery to remove his esophagus, I took him to the hospital for his pre-op appointment. Afterwards, we stopped at Arby's. While he was in the bathroom retching, I ordered and started eating lunch. He walked out of the restroom, took a look at my tray, and sneered, "Well, you didn't waste any time eating all those french fries did you?" No doubt, that comment was largely fueled by his own misery and fear over his body's assault on his digestive tract, but all I heard was, "Lynna, you are a disgusting, overweight pig."
After he died, I remembered the gifts he had given me on Valentine's Day that I had received as messages of displeasure such as sugar-free chocolates and low-fat cookbooks. I felt like I had allowed my dad to die unhappy and I felt a terrible burden of guilt that I was so defective that he couldn't die in peace. Not only had I let him down by carrying 50 extra pounds, but I also carried the visible representation of our family's "secret" that somewhere in our family genetic code there was an abnormality resulting in CMT.
For years after he died, I grieved and I ate more. "Damn you! I am not going to lose weight to gain your approval!" Yes, it is possible to continue battling a ghost.
As I have healed over the years through counseling that has allowed me to accept my body -- my disabled body-- and to begin honoring it for the gift that it is, my need for my dad's approval has dramatically lessened. I have realized that all the regard I needed did not die when he died, but that I could have that regard in abundance... first from God (who delights in me!) and internalized within myself as self-regard. I thought when my dad died that the chance to feel good about myself had died. (That was a gift I thought he had to bestow.)
Today, as I seek to have as healthy a body as possible through exercise and losing weight as a gift of honor to myself, I miss my dad. I wish he was here to share in my happiness and freedom. I think he would be proud. I love you, Dad.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
A Dazzling Decade
Before leaving on vacation, I dutifully packed 35 Medifast "meals", fully intending to continue the plan by eating 5 Medifast products and the 1 Lean/Green meal each day. As soon as we got to California, though, I quickly realized that I could not easily follow that plan AND be receptive to the hospitality that was being offered and avail myself of the wonderful opportunities to try new cuisine and broaden my horizons.
Had I stayed on plan, I would have missed the opportunity to eat the best Chinese food I've ever tasted at the Yum Yum Restaurant in Calexico, Victor's juevos rancheros, the best orange juice EVER!, barbacoa (similar to pulled pork with hot chili spice), refried beans, tripe soup (yes, I even enjoyed the opportunity to eat soup made with the lining of a cow's belly!), and authentic tamales.
It was wonderful to eat freely without guilt or hesitation. I find that my relationship with food continues to change. Even while trying new food, I found myself choosing NOT to eat chocolate cake, fast food, hotdogs at the zoo, etc. I felt completely free of any compulsion to eat, and completely free to eat that which seemed a good thing.
Now, that I'm home, I'm 100% back on track. (If you read my last post, having my pants fall off my hips was a MAJOR rush... one which I am excited to continue... umm... that is to say, I'm excited to continue losing weight so that my pants continue becoming looser. Don't worry, East Tennesse, I'm retiring those gray jeans. It's the experience of getting smaller and healthier that I crave, not the opportunities to flash poor hapless men. Although...)
Not only was it a rush to lose my pants (three times! but who's counting!) but also to be able to do things with more ease and confidence. Several times during travel, especially in Mexico outside of the reach of the Americans with Disability Act accomodations, I was SO grateful for the strengthening exercises I had been doing. None of the bathrooms in Mexico had grab bars and that would have been HIGHLY problematic just a few short months ago. Instead, I managed.
Because of losing weight and exercising, I felt stronger, more adventurous, healthier, more vivacious, and more attractive. Flirtatious, even.
When I turned 40 back in 2001, God "told" me to hold my arms up to the sky and prepare to be amazed at what was going to happen during this decade of my life. It has been and continues to be an amazing journey of healing in every possible way that a person can be healed, especially emotionally, spiritually, and now physically. Once I stopped defining for God what healing entailed (strong "normal" legs), I have been enfolded in healing grace and would honestly choose God's way of healing (healthy in a wheelchair), as weird as that might sound, to having a standard-issue body. God, you dazzle me.
Had I stayed on plan, I would have missed the opportunity to eat the best Chinese food I've ever tasted at the Yum Yum Restaurant in Calexico, Victor's juevos rancheros, the best orange juice EVER!, barbacoa (similar to pulled pork with hot chili spice), refried beans, tripe soup (yes, I even enjoyed the opportunity to eat soup made with the lining of a cow's belly!), and authentic tamales.
It was wonderful to eat freely without guilt or hesitation. I find that my relationship with food continues to change. Even while trying new food, I found myself choosing NOT to eat chocolate cake, fast food, hotdogs at the zoo, etc. I felt completely free of any compulsion to eat, and completely free to eat that which seemed a good thing.
Now, that I'm home, I'm 100% back on track. (If you read my last post, having my pants fall off my hips was a MAJOR rush... one which I am excited to continue... umm... that is to say, I'm excited to continue losing weight so that my pants continue becoming looser. Don't worry, East Tennesse, I'm retiring those gray jeans. It's the experience of getting smaller and healthier that I crave, not the opportunities to flash poor hapless men. Although...)
Not only was it a rush to lose my pants (three times! but who's counting!) but also to be able to do things with more ease and confidence. Several times during travel, especially in Mexico outside of the reach of the Americans with Disability Act accomodations, I was SO grateful for the strengthening exercises I had been doing. None of the bathrooms in Mexico had grab bars and that would have been HIGHLY problematic just a few short months ago. Instead, I managed.
Because of losing weight and exercising, I felt stronger, more adventurous, healthier, more vivacious, and more attractive. Flirtatious, even.
When I turned 40 back in 2001, God "told" me to hold my arms up to the sky and prepare to be amazed at what was going to happen during this decade of my life. It has been and continues to be an amazing journey of healing in every possible way that a person can be healed, especially emotionally, spiritually, and now physically. Once I stopped defining for God what healing entailed (strong "normal" legs), I have been enfolded in healing grace and would honestly choose God's way of healing (healthy in a wheelchair), as weird as that might sound, to having a standard-issue body. God, you dazzle me.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
David Hasselhoff, Eat your Heart Out
Hoo Boy! Do I ever have a humdinger of a story...
Before going any furter, I urge you to go watch this youtube video. It will definitely add to your enjoyment of this post.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1X9AUZoG0I0
Pants on the ground. Pants on the ground. Looking like a fool with your pants on the ground... catchy, ehh?
On the last day of our Mexican/Californian adventure, Kelly and I decided to spend some time on one of San Diego's gorgeous beaches. Having learned through a serendipitous email just days before we left for vacation that CA beaches have special beach wheelchairs available for use by disabled persons, I was over the moon at the thought of "walking" the beach and searching for shells. (The beach had become something I could not do about six years ago after gradually becoming more and more difficult.)
We traveled to the southern-most beach, just a couple of miles from the border with Mexico, on a drive that was phenomenally beautiful. At the lifeguard station, the poor lifeguard seemed a little bit puzzled about where the chair was stored, how to assign it to me, etc. (He was sixty years-old and was obviously tired of his job saying it was nothing like Baywatch... monotonous, low-pay, no retirement... stuff like that. He was about as effervescent as flat diet coke.)
This is where the story gets good and I hope you've read this far because you are about to be rewarded. When I stood up to transfer from my standard wheelchair to this weirdly specialized motorized chair with huge rubber tires, I felt my pants slide down over my hips, smooth as silk, and then begin gaining momentum as they slid down my thighs to my knees. My quick reflexes stopped them from puddling in a heap at my ankles. Yes, old, lifeguard excitement man was standing inches away. Just when he thought his job could offer nothing new! And I started babbling like diet coke exploding from a shaken bottle, "Kelly! Look! My diet is working!" I didn't care the Mr. Old, but still slightly hot, lifeguard man had seen me standing with my hole-free (thank God for that grace!)white panties shining for all the world to see.
I'm almost certain he audibly exhaled a sigh of relief as I toggled the joy stick forward and descended the sand bank towards the ocean's edge. His relief was short-lived. Two minutes later, I looked up to see him barrelling across the sand in his big, shiny red truck at a hurried clip. Leaning out the window, he hollerered with a BIT more animation than he had exhibited before, "Oh, you can take it on the moist sand, but you can't get it wet!" ( You see, I had made a beeline for the waves. In my excitement about feeling waves lapping at my feet and reveling in the sensation of sand receeding beneath my toes, a larger wave had landed and water had swirled mid-tire. I was trying to remember what I knew about flash floods and driving through swollen creeks and wondered if I was about to be swept out to sea on my newfound toy.)
Do you agree with me that this would have been an excellent plotline for Baywatch?
After about an hour of "beach-combing" we headed back to the lifeguard station only to find the battery was almost exhausted and the chair kept lurching to a stop. Enter the same red pick-up truck with a different oldish lifeguard coming to the rescue. (He seemed perturbed that LG#1 had not gone over the safety checklist nor had me sign the liability release. (Bet they were sweating bullets when they observed me from the glass enclosed guard tower as I was about to be swept towards Hawaii on their chair! Can't you just see the newspaper headlines!!!)
We managed to push me up the dune and parked outside the station.
I stood up to transfer to my own wheelchair, and,... yes, I think you know where this is going... I'll be danged if my pants didn't begin their descent towards my ankles once again. "Woops!", exclaimed LG#2. "Kelly, look! It wasn't a fluke. These pants really are too big!"
I'm glad I was able to relieve their boredom. It was fun appearing in this parody of Baywatch. (And my freakin' pants FELL off! Twice!!! Well, really, three times... again at the airport later that evening for the Indian cab driver. San Diego, I'll definitely come back. This was too much fun!)
Before going any furter, I urge you to go watch this youtube video. It will definitely add to your enjoyment of this post.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1X9AUZoG0I0
Pants on the ground. Pants on the ground. Looking like a fool with your pants on the ground... catchy, ehh?
On the last day of our Mexican/Californian adventure, Kelly and I decided to spend some time on one of San Diego's gorgeous beaches. Having learned through a serendipitous email just days before we left for vacation that CA beaches have special beach wheelchairs available for use by disabled persons, I was over the moon at the thought of "walking" the beach and searching for shells. (The beach had become something I could not do about six years ago after gradually becoming more and more difficult.)
We traveled to the southern-most beach, just a couple of miles from the border with Mexico, on a drive that was phenomenally beautiful. At the lifeguard station, the poor lifeguard seemed a little bit puzzled about where the chair was stored, how to assign it to me, etc. (He was sixty years-old and was obviously tired of his job saying it was nothing like Baywatch... monotonous, low-pay, no retirement... stuff like that. He was about as effervescent as flat diet coke.)
This is where the story gets good and I hope you've read this far because you are about to be rewarded. When I stood up to transfer from my standard wheelchair to this weirdly specialized motorized chair with huge rubber tires, I felt my pants slide down over my hips, smooth as silk, and then begin gaining momentum as they slid down my thighs to my knees. My quick reflexes stopped them from puddling in a heap at my ankles. Yes, old, lifeguard excitement man was standing inches away. Just when he thought his job could offer nothing new! And I started babbling like diet coke exploding from a shaken bottle, "Kelly! Look! My diet is working!" I didn't care the Mr. Old, but still slightly hot, lifeguard man had seen me standing with my hole-free (thank God for that grace!)white panties shining for all the world to see.
I'm almost certain he audibly exhaled a sigh of relief as I toggled the joy stick forward and descended the sand bank towards the ocean's edge. His relief was short-lived. Two minutes later, I looked up to see him barrelling across the sand in his big, shiny red truck at a hurried clip. Leaning out the window, he hollerered with a BIT more animation than he had exhibited before, "Oh, you can take it on the moist sand, but you can't get it wet!" ( You see, I had made a beeline for the waves. In my excitement about feeling waves lapping at my feet and reveling in the sensation of sand receeding beneath my toes, a larger wave had landed and water had swirled mid-tire. I was trying to remember what I knew about flash floods and driving through swollen creeks and wondered if I was about to be swept out to sea on my newfound toy.)
Do you agree with me that this would have been an excellent plotline for Baywatch?
After about an hour of "beach-combing" we headed back to the lifeguard station only to find the battery was almost exhausted and the chair kept lurching to a stop. Enter the same red pick-up truck with a different oldish lifeguard coming to the rescue. (He seemed perturbed that LG#1 had not gone over the safety checklist nor had me sign the liability release. (Bet they were sweating bullets when they observed me from the glass enclosed guard tower as I was about to be swept towards Hawaii on their chair! Can't you just see the newspaper headlines!!!)
We managed to push me up the dune and parked outside the station.
I stood up to transfer to my own wheelchair, and,... yes, I think you know where this is going... I'll be danged if my pants didn't begin their descent towards my ankles once again. "Woops!", exclaimed LG#2. "Kelly, look! It wasn't a fluke. These pants really are too big!"
I'm glad I was able to relieve their boredom. It was fun appearing in this parody of Baywatch. (And my freakin' pants FELL off! Twice!!! Well, really, three times... again at the airport later that evening for the Indian cab driver. San Diego, I'll definitely come back. This was too much fun!)
Friday, October 15, 2010
Miraculous Healings Still Happen
My friend whom I hadn't seen in a few months stopped by the other day and ended up leaving my house in tears. (I have that effect on people, you know!)
At the end of our visit, just as she was standing to leave, somehow the conversation came around to my legs. She saw my legs and her eyes instantly became awash with tears.
Let me set the context for this: M is the friend who helped a year and a half ago to take the derailed train wreck of my life and get it back on track. With her amazing skills as a nurse, she did triage to assess first steps and helped break it all down into manageable little baby steps. The first step was to get treatment at the Wound Center for the deep, decubetous wounds on my lower legs. She drove me to EVERY appointment (once or twice a week) for months, she sat in and asked questions, she made sure I had the knowledge and the resources to follow aftercare instructions, she took me to lunch. In short, she was the hands and feet and heart of Jesus for me, and her love was a catalyst of empowerment within me for my ability to be stronger and healthier. She allowed me to be in control of the process but was always gently making suggestions, asking questions, providing assistance in a non-judgmental manner. It was a partnership. A lovely, life giving partnership of saving a life.
Back to the present and the tears: Not only are the wounds a very distant memory, but the skin on my lower legs is dramatically better. I'll spare you the details of the former skin quality, but now it is beginning to look like normalish skin. The swelling that resulted in the former skin breakdown is well under control and markedly less.
Last year, my lower legs were so swollen that I literally could not find any shoes that I could wear. They looked like small tree trunks. Today, they look normal. Last year, I struggled with wrapping them every night with ace bandages. It literally took an hour to wrap both legs and it was with great difficulty. Today, perhaps as a result of losing weight combined with stronger legs and greater flexibility, I am able to wrap both legs in about 10-15 minutes and it's a breeze. Today, I have a cute pair of ankle boots I love to wear with tights and a mid-thigh length skirt.
M took one look at my legs and with emotion said, "Lynna, this is a miracle."
I think she's correct. Healing miracles still happen, although not always the way we expect. I know in my case, I prayed, "God, please heal my legs." and hoped to look down to see instantaneous changes. Instead, God answered that prayer, I think, by sending me people who could help me heal my life (emotionally, spiritually, relationally, as well as physically), and gave me the desire to begin doing MY part to take care of me and to affect the healing process by eating well, laughing more, and moving my body (some people call it exercise).
I hope to never forget and never to stop being grateful for the healing grace that is poured out on my life through the inner working of the Holy Spirit and the external workings of Christ through people who serve. (I have about a hundred posts rattling around in my head that need to be written to express gratitude to individuals who have made a difference. Hopefully, you know who you are!)
At the end of our visit, just as she was standing to leave, somehow the conversation came around to my legs. She saw my legs and her eyes instantly became awash with tears.
Let me set the context for this: M is the friend who helped a year and a half ago to take the derailed train wreck of my life and get it back on track. With her amazing skills as a nurse, she did triage to assess first steps and helped break it all down into manageable little baby steps. The first step was to get treatment at the Wound Center for the deep, decubetous wounds on my lower legs. She drove me to EVERY appointment (once or twice a week) for months, she sat in and asked questions, she made sure I had the knowledge and the resources to follow aftercare instructions, she took me to lunch. In short, she was the hands and feet and heart of Jesus for me, and her love was a catalyst of empowerment within me for my ability to be stronger and healthier. She allowed me to be in control of the process but was always gently making suggestions, asking questions, providing assistance in a non-judgmental manner. It was a partnership. A lovely, life giving partnership of saving a life.
Back to the present and the tears: Not only are the wounds a very distant memory, but the skin on my lower legs is dramatically better. I'll spare you the details of the former skin quality, but now it is beginning to look like normalish skin. The swelling that resulted in the former skin breakdown is well under control and markedly less.
Last year, my lower legs were so swollen that I literally could not find any shoes that I could wear. They looked like small tree trunks. Today, they look normal. Last year, I struggled with wrapping them every night with ace bandages. It literally took an hour to wrap both legs and it was with great difficulty. Today, perhaps as a result of losing weight combined with stronger legs and greater flexibility, I am able to wrap both legs in about 10-15 minutes and it's a breeze. Today, I have a cute pair of ankle boots I love to wear with tights and a mid-thigh length skirt.
M took one look at my legs and with emotion said, "Lynna, this is a miracle."
I think she's correct. Healing miracles still happen, although not always the way we expect. I know in my case, I prayed, "God, please heal my legs." and hoped to look down to see instantaneous changes. Instead, God answered that prayer, I think, by sending me people who could help me heal my life (emotionally, spiritually, relationally, as well as physically), and gave me the desire to begin doing MY part to take care of me and to affect the healing process by eating well, laughing more, and moving my body (some people call it exercise).
I hope to never forget and never to stop being grateful for the healing grace that is poured out on my life through the inner working of the Holy Spirit and the external workings of Christ through people who serve. (I have about a hundred posts rattling around in my head that need to be written to express gratitude to individuals who have made a difference. Hopefully, you know who you are!)
Monday, October 11, 2010
Cheekbones Romance the Narcissist
Gazing in the mirror hasn't been my thing since I was a teenager. Yet, the other day, I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror, and had to stop and marvel. I sat there mesmerized by the reflection, turning my head this way and that, wondering where the extra chin(s) had gone, observing tendons in my neck, enjoying the reappearance of cheek bones after a long hiatus. I thought I looked pretty and it felt so very, very good to enjoy looking at myself.
Until I glanced away and noticed that the truck traveling in front of me had stopped to turn left! Instantly, I knew I wouldn't have time to stop. With oncoming cars in the left lane, and a steep drop-off and drainage ditch to the right, there was nothing to do but slam on the brakes and plow into the poor, hapless Ford truck. Significant body damage resulted to both vehicles. Significant!
Cheekbones, I love ya! Truly, I do. But did you have to choose that mirror to turn on your flirtatious charm?
PS Adding an addendum to say that I am perfectly fine, as was the other driver. Could have been bad, though, and I am grateful it was only twisted steel and smashed glass. Damn mirror.
Until I glanced away and noticed that the truck traveling in front of me had stopped to turn left! Instantly, I knew I wouldn't have time to stop. With oncoming cars in the left lane, and a steep drop-off and drainage ditch to the right, there was nothing to do but slam on the brakes and plow into the poor, hapless Ford truck. Significant body damage resulted to both vehicles. Significant!
Cheekbones, I love ya! Truly, I do. But did you have to choose that mirror to turn on your flirtatious charm?
PS Adding an addendum to say that I am perfectly fine, as was the other driver. Could have been bad, though, and I am grateful it was only twisted steel and smashed glass. Damn mirror.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Fashion Conundrums
I am growing addicted to shopping at thrift stores! I love finding bargains and being creative in putting together outfits on a dime. Ever since I learned how to load my wheelchair by myself, with the resultant freedom to go places by myself, and since I've lost weight and look so much better, I find myself ENJOYING shopping. (For the past ten years, it has been torturous... like having one's toenails ripped out. When I was still trying to ambulate, I had very little stamina to shop and, more often than not, I'd just grab something and make it do. Since there were very few clothes in my size that were truly attractive, it didn't matter very much. I wore alot of black pants and simple sweaters or blouses.)
My one difficulty in this, however, is that I am a little bit fashion schizophrenic. I can't settle on a style. I love them all... Bohemian, classy Chanel, frills and ruffles, pencil skirts and twinsets, BIG jewelry, simple pearls, short skirts and tights with ankle boots and a low cut top, business suit. WHO AM I???
I'm at a strange and exciting time in my life. Essentially, with fashion, I have the opportunity to project an image and I'm not sure who it is I want to project or what I want to project that impacts the world the way I want to impact it. (So many people with disabilities pay little attention to grooming and dress and that perpetuates negative stereotypes of disability. I want to be different. I want people to see me and do a double take and think to themselves, "Wow, maybe disability is different than I thought. Maybe it's not tragic or ugly or asexual.")
So, I am in the midst of a vast experimental phase, trying new things, and trying to find who I am in the midst of tensions. For instance:
1) Trying to dress stylishly without looking like a teenager or a matron. I'm at an in-between age that seems to be in fashion no-man's land. Too old for Junior styles, too young for the (ugly) Women's department. I am erring on the side of dressing younger, rather than older, and hope it doesn't look silly. (My 18 year-old daughter finds my new clothing a bit disconcerting. I can't decide if she is a good fashion consultant and I need to listen to her or if she is just discomforted by change and wants me to be familiar, old mom.)
2)Dressing to be alluring without dressing trampy. (A little peak of cleavage is a good thing. Too much cleavage, however, is hoochie mama. How much is too much??? Who decides???)
3)How do I wear dresses/skirts without exposing the goods? Anybody watching while I'm getting into my SUV might get more than they bargained for. Since I'm wearing tights, there really isn't a possibility of anybody seeing anything, but it would still have the feel of being provocative and exhibitionist. How do I get around that? (Or do I exploit it? Ha. Just kidding!)
It's going to be fun to experiment with styles as I discover my fashion sense and to observe how people respond to different images. Gotta go. More shopping.
My one difficulty in this, however, is that I am a little bit fashion schizophrenic. I can't settle on a style. I love them all... Bohemian, classy Chanel, frills and ruffles, pencil skirts and twinsets, BIG jewelry, simple pearls, short skirts and tights with ankle boots and a low cut top, business suit. WHO AM I???
I'm at a strange and exciting time in my life. Essentially, with fashion, I have the opportunity to project an image and I'm not sure who it is I want to project or what I want to project that impacts the world the way I want to impact it. (So many people with disabilities pay little attention to grooming and dress and that perpetuates negative stereotypes of disability. I want to be different. I want people to see me and do a double take and think to themselves, "Wow, maybe disability is different than I thought. Maybe it's not tragic or ugly or asexual.")
So, I am in the midst of a vast experimental phase, trying new things, and trying to find who I am in the midst of tensions. For instance:
1) Trying to dress stylishly without looking like a teenager or a matron. I'm at an in-between age that seems to be in fashion no-man's land. Too old for Junior styles, too young for the (ugly) Women's department. I am erring on the side of dressing younger, rather than older, and hope it doesn't look silly. (My 18 year-old daughter finds my new clothing a bit disconcerting. I can't decide if she is a good fashion consultant and I need to listen to her or if she is just discomforted by change and wants me to be familiar, old mom.)
2)Dressing to be alluring without dressing trampy. (A little peak of cleavage is a good thing. Too much cleavage, however, is hoochie mama. How much is too much??? Who decides???)
3)How do I wear dresses/skirts without exposing the goods? Anybody watching while I'm getting into my SUV might get more than they bargained for. Since I'm wearing tights, there really isn't a possibility of anybody seeing anything, but it would still have the feel of being provocative and exhibitionist. How do I get around that? (Or do I exploit it? Ha. Just kidding!)
It's going to be fun to experiment with styles as I discover my fashion sense and to observe how people respond to different images. Gotta go. More shopping.
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