The Blue Streak

My new ride arrived today. The irony of the name is not lost on me, nor I'm sure the other rolling souls who travel on The Blue Streak.

One swears up a... Which I did during a practice ride when my thumb and the frame of the simple machine met the solid oak doorframe to our kitchen. The color is, of course, a completely obtrusive bright blue. Chosen, perhaps to be as obvious as possible to others while one streaked down some previously unforeseen hill or HC ramp.

The arrival of the wheelchair has not caused as much internal strife as I imagined. Perhaps because I think it will be only an occasional tool used when absolutely necessary. Even as my new bulging disk and ankle burn sharply through the cocktail of pain meds, denial is still only a river in Egypt.

My mom has taken the news of the chair purchase much harder than I have. Her stubborn German determination keeps her walking on ankles, knees and hips long dry from loss of supportive tissues. She views walking as a gift and boldly refuses use a cane, even though each step causes her to grimace. It is the same determination that my grandfather had as an octagenarian whose heart was only working at 10-15% efficiency in the days before he passed. He insisted he felt fine.

I remember my denial of his impending death during my last visit with him in the hospital, where I even joked that the oxygen mask contraption he was wearing made him look like a frat boy with a bra on his head. We laughed long about that. That is the last living memory I have of my precious Grandpa.

Perhaps denial is a family trait that I have inherited, through a long line of strong German farmers. So you fall and nearly rip your nose off (uncle) - 'tis but a flesh wound - tape it on with duct tape and get back to work. So you have Stage IV breast cancer that will ultimately call you home within the month (aunt) but you still attend the party. Certainly one never talks about the affliction! This is where I peel away from the norm.

With medicine's luck and God's great mercy, the Blue Streak and I will travel many roads together.

We are headed this weekend to the Ren Faire, which ought to be a real trick with the coming rains. The greatest gift that I will have on that trip is my little girlfriend, Analise. A woman far beyond her nine years, she isn't mortified by my limitations. At Game Fair, she held my hand by holding my cane. We hobbled proudly, her hand over mine.

Maybe there is some lesson to be learned in her unconditional kindness and caring. At the sage age of nine, she sees in people what the rest of us have forgotten. Behind every cane, walker and wheelchair there is a person that somebody loves, and isn't ashamed to hold their hand in public.

The View from Butt-Level

I have a whole new appreciation for a child's viewpoint. You can't see what's ahead of you, someone is leading (or pushing) you wherever you go, and the view really isn't all that great. The world becomes a sea of backsides.

My right ankle recently decided to join the EDS party, and so we are now looking for wheelchairs. It's really the only way we can envision being able to do the things we used to do that require more walking than a trip to the grocery store.

As I watch my bony, crooked fingers type, I know that I won't be able to roll myself more than a few feet, and I will be dependent on a pusher. I worry what other things will evaporate from my repertoire of independence, and am starting to realize the implications of this disability thing.

An email from my awesome doc at Mayo confirmed that I should begin the process of applying for permanent disability license plates. It's hard seeing your future in the cold glow of the computer screen.

So I think I have my new ride picked out. It's a snappy little blue number.