Consistancy

The not so funny thing about having MS is that I sometimes get the feeling that I have no idea who I am supposed to be. Just as soon as I feel like I accepted my condition it changes. I hate the changes...not steady downhill changes but rather the upward changes. Or the uneven changes. I have secondary progressive MS. It's no walk in the park. I have to be able to wake up in the morning, look in the mirror, and say "so you can't do what you did a week ago and that's ok." I do that and then I have this great sense of peace. It's like I've jumped over the self acceptance hurdle. Taken another small step in my self confidence program.



Then boom. I wake up the next morning and have to say "Holy spotted cow! I can do this and this. I couldn't do that a week ago! Was I too quick to resign myself to another loss? Did I really lose my ability to pour a cup of coffee without spilling it everywhere? Have I been wasting paper towells." The self doubt sets in. Am I deluding myself? Do I make myself weaker than I really am? If I don't suceed at something is it because I have a horrible tendancy to expect failure? What does that make me? or the real question...is it all in my head?



Logically I know that I have MS. It is getting worse. I am not making it worse. I do stupid things that make my symptoms worse. But even if I didn't do stupid things it would get worse anyway. And the so called stupid things are the activities that I want to enjoy now. Those activities will eventually no longer be enjoyable. And sometimes it will be easier. My symptoms will get better. And really, logically, that's part of having MS. But logic doesn't always dictate emotion. There's a sign outside a shop on my very short drive home from work. Right now it reads "Don't believe everything you think." Hmm......Now I am taking advice from signs.



I have always thought of myself as a very physical person...defined myself by my physical abilties. I am a dancer, I am a fencer, I take hikes, walk my dogs, do construction projects, ride horses, and climb rocks. I like adventure and physical challenges. My list of "things to do during my life time" included climbing mountains, biking across the world, learning how to snowboard, and learning how to tango. Hmph. Yes...I can still do these things. Maybe. And certainly not in the very AB manner I imagined. Luckily I did not try to become a professional ballet dancer. I decided to go to school for academics instead and I excelled. But that doesn't stop the memories. The dreams of dancing and fencing. The dreams of running. The dreams of an old me. I wake up with my muscles tensed for a Tour jeté that never comes. Instead my legs are cramping. My heart is cramping. Sometimes I cry. I stretch my legs out. Point, flex, point and flex. Slowly they relax, but I remember. My body remembers. That hurts more than any other part of this bloody condition. Sure the cramps during the day hurt. It is agony. Sure stumbling over imaginay objects on the floor cause some quick recoveries and some slow motion falls. But nothing compares to the feeling of "I used to be able to do that". Nothing can fill the emptiness left by the words "I used to be a very physical person." Because now I am not.

I keep thinking that if I try harder, push myself further, and feel the burn in my legs that I recognize as a successful day of dance, then I can beat back the loss. I encounter more loss. I never learn. I look in the mirror and tell myself, "you can handle it. you know what is coming and you know it is ok." Logic sometimes fails. The emotion takes over and then it is almost unbearable. But what is really unbearable is the knowledge that the next day I might be able to do that which I could not do today. Is it too much to ask for consitancy? Will someone ever tell me to stop trying to do that I know I can't do? I don't think so. It is not their responsiblity. It is mine. I have to be able to accept that some days I will be able to do those things I could not the day before. And I have to be able to give up the things I could do the day before. And somewhere along the journey I have to be able to differentiate between things I can and cannot achieve.

A couple of nights ago I dreamed I was going fast. I acheived the same sense of freedom I remember from partnering in ballet. I felt the air rush by me. I was in my wheelchair. Perhaps it is a step forward?

Apology to a plastic B**ch

This pains me. I owe an apology to someone I have hated for many many years. I have come to understand at least a small bit of her life. And it really kills me to admit it. so here it goes, drum rolls please, oh my God this is hard to think of , much less write.... Barbie- I am sorry. I have always hated you for your perfect complexion, symmetrical features, impossible body, affluent lifestyle and pink corvette. I have never identified with any part of you- but now, gasp, I do. I now know how it feels to be undressed and dressed while lying there practically helpless. And I am sorry because I was never loving, gentle, or the least bit understanding. I ripped your perfect gowns off of you, wadded them up and then shoved you into the closest thing I had to barbie fatigues. I never thought about how it must feel when I pulled up your socks (wait...did Barbie ever have socks?). Or whether or not your underwear was comfortable. And any time I touched you it was with a fascinated revulsion rather than the pure love my husband used while trying to pull the socks over my comatose feet last night.

Last night my husband had to dress me. I lay there making pointed remarks about gray and brown not really matching and how clumsy my stupid legs were. How uncomfortable I was with this new development. And then I thought of Barbie. Shoot...suddenly I have something in common with Barbie.

In case you had not guessed I was not one of those little girls who doted on her Barbies. When I was three I might have thought playing Barbie was fun but by time I was in first grade she was hated. Every birthday...every Christmas...my granny would pick out a new Barbie for me. I tried to be grateful. After all every girl likes dolls (even dolls less freaky than Barbie), every girl wants to be a princess, and every girl likes to play house. I wanted a GI Joe, I pretended to be Thoren Oakenshield from the Hobbit, and I never pretended to be a perfect domestic goddess (after all I was Thoren and dwarfs don't appreciate fine dishes and fancy teas). To me playing house meant you had to pretend the house burned down during a nuclear holocaust and a band of survivors was crossing the unfriendly landscape, dodging enemy combatants, occasionally losing limbs to rockets and the scurvy, and finally staving to death because a vegetarian can't survive in those conditions. To quote Eddie Izzard, I was more of the running, jumping, climbing trees sort of girl.

Barbie I tried so very hard to appreciate. I would use magic marker to paint her face, shredded her clothes, gave her a buzz cut and try and helped her come to terms with her inner soldier. I then used her in warfare...she always got blown up, stabbed, and fell down precipices into raging rivers never to be seen again. I taught my sister the history of the Salem witch trials with Barbie. I demonstrated the use of the guillotine on her elongated neck. I was the perpetrator of many crimes against Barbiemanity. As I lay there last night, watching Scott struggle with my toes (which incidentally tend to curl upwards as they cramp as if I have on a pair of high heels made of air) I thought ....Freakin' Karma. I am sorry Barbie.

This morning I was feeling ever so much me like. I slept a little longer than usual. And seem to have recovered for my latest adventure of "stupid things I used to do but have discovered I no longer can do." I dressed myself. I picked out my own clothes (all good woodland colors...better for blending in with your environment). My feet are not pretending to wear hot pink stilettos. My hair didn't melt when I used the hairdryer. My skin is far from perfect and .... my smile isn't an advertisement for a minty whitening toothpaste that also glues your lips into a perfect smile. So I did not transform into Barbie overnight...good thing since I really have problems with Ken. But it has stayed with me. Karma....So I thought I'd publicly apologize...sorry Barbie. But she better remember this day forever because this is going to be the first and last time in history that a disabled person is going to apologise to the plastic bitch.

Poppin the cheerful bubble

Today, thus far, has gotten about a two and a half on a scale of one to ten. Where ten is the most splendid day imaginable. Two of those points are because my sister got a promotion at work. That half point is for the latte I got after lunch..which I spilled down my front. But the bit of latte I did have was really good. I am having one of those days where I really should sit down and catalog the good things in my life as to regain my sense of proportion and recapture that cheerful Crippled Mary Poppins demeanor I usually stumble around with. So...the good things...
1) My sis got word that she will be promoted. My husband, who works for the same company, learned that he is being promoted last week. This means that they are in the same position and will remain in the same position and that is really cool.
2) I got half of a latte after lunch. Actually I got a whole latte only half of it went in my stomach and half of it in my lap.
3)My brother-in-law took great care of me this morning and even got my wheelchair out of the car and brought it into work (we work together....yeah...sis and hubby work for the same company. Bro and I work for the same doctor who just happens to be his father- confused yet?) And even though I didn't use Ezra for too long I had a lot of fun while I did.
4)My pain is not a ten on a scale from one to ten. That would be the migraine I had where I finally determined that the only way to ease the pain was for my husband to chop my head off (then you can put it on a plate Richard III style..with strawberries). I lived through that-head intact and still attached to my shoulders via my neck. I can live through this. I think it might be only an eight on that very subjective pain scale which means it isn't in the double digits so I should ignore it ( I present to you the perfect example of a run-on sentence).
5) work ends in 2 hours and I am wasting time typing a blog. A blog which I am proud of because it got mentioned on the BBC ouch site thanks to Elizabeth of Screw Bronze fame. Wow...I am so very honored and happy. I feel like I almost have achieved my dream of getting published before reaching age 30. And since I found her blog through that very website this completes a full circle. So very cool. And I have a lot of really awesome virtual friends whose lives I relate to my husband as if I had just talked to them (he is a wise man and pretends to know them too).
6)I am going on vacation in less that 1 month. A real vacation.

So see...lots to be really grateful for (Let's go fly a Kite).

Things to not be grateful for:

1)I have freaking MS. I hurt. My legs are doing their Scarlet O'Hara act and swooning at the slightest sign of difficulty (like a short saunter across the room). The office I work in is not designed for wheelchair users. The weather is making my bones ache. I want to curl up on the couch and take a nice long nap after a good pity cry. I have a headache. This day is taking forever.....in short, all summed up into a nice little package, I have freaking MS.

Well, logic dictates that I weigh the pros and cons and tap into that little well of constant cheerful optimism. Right. And a spoonful of sugar...have I mentioned that Mary Poppins actually scares the hell out of me?

*Is it "A spoonful of sugar" or "A spoon full of sugar"? and does it make a difference?*

Floors. I love floors. I never used to think about what a floor really meant but now it is one of the first things I notice when I enter a new environment. Since Ezra (the wheelchair) has entered my life my entire "floor experience" has undergone a drastic transformation. A new level of a appreciation has been reached.

My family would be quick to point out that I seem to devote a lot of time in discovering how to get as far away from the floor or ground as possible. I just love heights. I love that swoosh in your stomach as you look off the roof, a roller coaster or off a cliff. The swoosh that reminds you that you are mortal and just one small step, one misplaced hand, on moment of questionable balance could result in....catastrophic injury or death. But, with that being said, I have to say that I think the ground (an by extension floors) are often overlooked.

My appreciation for floors is relatively new. I started walking with a cane because my balance is a tad unpredictable. And occasionally my legs decide they don't want to go where I want them to. Or sometimes they decide that massive muscle cramps are in order and sometimes they just say "bugger off...we've been hauling around your stupid trunk, arms and head for long enough" and they slowly crumple. This had caused numerous falls, swoons, and other rather alarming and embarrassing moments while out in public . You'd think that they would at least show enough respect for my tender feeling to only act up in private but alas...my legs are natural entertainers.

I have mastered the graceful fall. I feel my balance going and do a mental check on whether or not there is any way to recover. If there isn't I let myself down slowly and just end up sitting on the floor. I usually manage to fell in such a way that I don't hit my head against anything. I really prefer the stealthy fall that doesn't make everyone around me go into cardiac arrest. Also it means I end up with fewer bruises, aches and pains. And you know what is always there to catch me? The floor. Always. It doesn't matter if I was sitting on a chair, attempting a pirouette, balancing on a desk chair, hopping on one foot, or tripping over the cat (I know most of therse things are stupid things to be doing...but it happens), the floor always catches me. Sometimes gently...sometimes roughly. And for that I am so incredibly grateful.

Recently our relationship has changed drastically. No longer is it a one way affair that consists of me lying with my cheek pressed against the carpet crooning "Lean on me, when you're not strong, And I'll be your friend, I'll help you carry on." Ezra has evened the playing field. Now I look at the floor as something more than a ever present landing pad. Now I roll into a room and evaluate its surface. Smooth tile is the best. Low pile carpet is ok but offers a little too much resistance. Medium pile carpet is like walking across a rain drenched lawn and shag carpet is like quick sand.

I like going to malls, grocery stores and out in public now. Those smooth floors just designed to increase your speed. Going down ramps, cornering and trying to estimate the best way to get through narrow spaces. Dodging pyramids of canned peaches and careful displays of glass bowls. This brings great joy to my life. I am no longer limping behind the shopping cart occasionally sinking to the floor in dignified manner. Instead I am a threat to little old ladies and towers of produce. And beneath my wheels I can hear the floor sing.

Thus ends my tribute to floors.

Senses

When I was in the fourth grade I remember the teacher asking us which of our five senses we could do without. We were studying the senses in health and she really wanted us to think about it. We were assigned homework. All we had to do was go home and think about it and have our answer ready by the next day. I thought it was an odd assignment but agonized over what my answer would be. I was a pretty serious little girl in that dorky bookwormish sort of way. The fact is this is probably the only assignment I really remember from that entire year because it struck me as being pretty insightful. Or it could have been.

I agonized over what to choose. I never would willingly give up any of my five senses. Taste and Smell are intertwined so closely that to give up one is pretty much a two for one deal. Hearing...well my grandfather had been 95% deaf since WWII. He was one of the most amazing people I ever met and he fully expected the rest of the world to accept the fact that he was amazing- not because he was deaf but because he was just freaking amazing. And we did. Pretty cool. But I couldn't stand the idea of losing classical music. I couldn't imagine not being able to follow one instrument line in an entire symphony (I told you I was a really really dorky kid--classical at age 10--I was so misunderstood). The sense of Touch- In my young mind this was the most terrifying sense to lose. Couldn't think of the implications of losing your sense of touch. Eyesight- well, almost as terrifying. But I wore big ugly glasses and had a lot of trouble seeing without them. I am a very visually oriented person. I have been able to read since a very young age and am rarely without a book. I love art. I love museums. I love art history. And I love standing on the cliffs above the ocean and watching the water smash into the rocks. I love looking at plants and birds and people.

So the next day I gave my answer. I was the only person who would choose to give up my eyesight over any of my other senses. My classmates were horrified. But the way I figured it was that I could still read without my eyes. I could still enjoy the paintings if some one else described the (and everyone else would describe them differently because everyone sees them differently). I could hear, smell, and feel the ocean. I can feel, taste and smell plant. I can hear the birds. And people...people are pretty or ugly whether you can see them or not.

It felt like a life changing decision. Odd. Like I suddenly had insight into what people thought was important in life. Nobody understood how I could give up sight and I suddenly understood that the fact that I was a rather ugly child might be to my disadvantage. But I knew, at a pretty early age, why I found life so amazing. It did not matter how I perceived the world around me...what mattered was that I could perceive the world around me. That is part of being human. It doesn't matter if you are disabled or abledbodied. Because the truth was I could go on despite losing one of my senses and it wouldn't ruin my life. I was more than that. We are all more than that. And that's a pretty intense lesson for a ten year old.

I think I remember that health class because that was the year I had my first possible relapse with MS. I had intense headaches, I lost my balance every time I stood up. I couldn't focus and I was sooo very tired. I laid on the couch, did my missed school assignments, read the Narnia books over and over, and saw lots of doctors. My parents were terrified. My doctors had no idea what was going on and I was too tired to care. They ran tons of tests but never even considered MS (I was way too young). Finally they decided I was having a psychosomatic episode. At age ten. Because I was bored at school (because lying at home on the couch was so much more exciting). I finally got better and went back to school, ballet, and hiking. And forgot about the mystery illness and the health class.

I had several other weird symptoms growing up, all to do with my eyesight, and because they had already diagnosed me as psychosomatic the symptoms were ignored by everyone but my family and myself. I always got better. My eyesight worsened but was correctable. My balance and hand-eye coordination were always off but I worked hard to compensate. And because they misdiagnosed me I wasn't protected from doing things I really wanted to do. I danced, I hiked for miles by myself, I climbed rocks, and I lived the life of a normal if slightly eccentric teenager. I was an exchange student to Russia in 1995-6 and then went on to attend college at the University of the South. I was never told that I couldn't do things, always encouraged to push the limit, and pretty much thought I could accomplish it all.

I was a sophomore in college when my foot went asleep and was still asleep ten days later. I figured out, in my fencing class (trying to recover from a Passata-sotto into a fleche- silly stunt), that I couldn't feel anything below my left knee. I had my diagnosis four days later and entered into a new world. A world of limitations...both real and those imposed by society. You know...I think I could still accomplish almost anything but there is a really good chance I'd kill myself in the process. However I am always going to be grateful for that lack of a diagnosis at an early age. It did not effect the progression of the MS and I was never "protected" from things that I really wanted to do.

And my fourth grade health class is remembered. I thought I couldn't survive with out tactile sensation. I was wrong. But the revelations that came to me as a ten year old turned out to be pretty useful for me as an adult. Oh, and I wish to add another set of senses to that list. Empathy, Persistence, Understanding, Inquisitiveness and the all important, often flung around, always underestimated, Love. Those I could not live without.

short lunch

I tried to take the shortest lunch possible today. I live about a mile and a half from work (a very good thing if you can't feel the gas and brake pedals when you drive and are "resisting' getting hand controls for your car). I thought 15 minutes max. I went home, inhaled some cabbage salad and yogurt, and then the doorbell rang. I couldn't pretend not to be home because my garage door was wide open showing the world the contents of my incredibly messy garage (recycling, trash can, two old lawn mowers, shower bench...you get the general idea). So I answered it.

Usually when people knock on my door in the middle of the day it is to deliver a package or to read me a religious tract printed on non-recycled paper that informs me that I am going straight to hell. I don't mind the mailman. Hell, I don't even mind the people toting parts of the Bible around on photocopied pieces of paper that will just get wadded up and thrown away. I figure that if they want to spend part of their day worrying about the state of my soul I should be grateful. My husband will actually spend several hours with them espousing the virtues of different philosophies with regard to one's soul and whether or not the soul really exists. He enjoys it. He quotes Plato, Aristotle, Kant, Aquinas, and Nietzsche. Then he refers to as many religious and spiritual texts as he can ("Girl? will you get all six edition of the Bible, the Torah, the Quoran, and the The Bhagavad Gita for me? They are on the reference bookshelf next to the Gazetteer and the Oxford English Dictionary"). After a couple hours they usually give him, and by extension me, up as a lost cause and by that I mean a lost soul. And then we have to put all the books away.

Honestly I enjoy these exchanges. They are generally less painful for me than the person standing on my porch. And it's human interaction....nothing to complain about. Sadly they rarely come back and I haven't been able to figure out why. So when I opened the door today I was expecting a lecture on the state of my soul (sounds political doesn't it?). Instead it was a man worried about the state of my financial well being...as in a representative for an investment firm. Uhm....what can we talk about? I have no extra money to invest. I have no investments. I barely have a savings account. And by all accounts I am really really lucky.

Since people knocking on my door is evidently a sign from the Almighty (and they are worried about my soul- pah!) for me to deliver a lecture about the state of the world I decided to give him a speech a financial theme to it. I explained that I had no money to invest because I live in a country where we treat people like cars, or houses, or personal property. Where health care is determined by commercial interests rather than human interests. Where my medicine, if I did not have good prescription coverage, is worth twice as much as me($34,000/year vs the $17,000/year I make). Where people are dying because they are encouraged not to see a doctor as it is too expensive. Where the elderly make difficult choices between what medicine the take because they can't afford every medicine they need. A place where the politicians try to tweak the existing system to make it more affordable- not more accessible. A place where it take 4-5 months to get in to see a specialist if you have health insurance and longer if you don't. Yeah...and you know what? I feel better. I feel great. And then, just because I thought he should know, I told him about Brent Martin.

So my short lunch turned into a really really long lunch and I have to really thank that guy...he made my day more worthwhile. Because we engaged in a good heart to heart about an issue that really affects us all (ok-pun was not intended). So thank you for ruining my short lunch Mr. Investment firm guy.... it was actually the best kind of lunch I could imagine

I will fight...

...for my right to be disabled. That sounds really melodramatic so let me explain. Ever since I have been diagnosed with MS i have been urged to keep fighting. "Don't give in- just keep fighting". "It's good to see you. You look good. You're a fighter." "I see you use a cane now...but don't give in- keep fighting." I can pretty much mouth the words along with whomever is speaking. I know ...just keep fighting. That's a load of crap. What, may I ask, am I fighting against?

I took those words to heart for the first seven years of my diagnosis. I fought and fought. I fought with my legs. I fought with my body. I consumed copious amounts of caffeine just to stay alert. I forced myself to do things that my body protested against. I fought. But how do you fight MS? It's not an enemy. Its not an outside unseen force that threatens to overwhelm you and occupy your body turning you into a flesh eating zombie. It's not an infectious disease that a few days/weeks in a hospital bed can cure. It's me. I am the MS. My immune system is doing the damage to my nerves so my legs can't communicate. Fighting this just means I am fighting myself. By not recognizing that I am the MS, by rejecting this condition as an inherent part of me, I am denying part of myself. And I think that might be just a tad unhealthy.

This "just keep fighting" attitude goes hand and hand with "I know/heard of/watched a show on this person with MS and he/she ran a marathon/climbed a fucking high mountain/rode their bike across eighteen different continents/got 25 post graduate degrees/crossed the Gobi desert hopping on one foot with their left arm duct taped behind their back." I resent these helpful stories. They are stories of amazing achievement and personal strength...and they would be if ablebodied people did them too. But for me these stories seem to imply "and if they can do it why can't you?" Because I'm not them am I? I ride my stationary bike 5 miles a day ('cause it doesn't fall over as soon as I look at it much less try to ride it). I have a bachelor's degree that took a hell of a lot of effort, not to mention money, and was well worth it. I like looking at pictures of the Gobi desert and fucking tall mountains. I could partake in a marathon if I wanted to. I would trip, stumble, and do my Captain Jack Sparrow walk for the first 1/4 mile and crawl the rest of the 25 plus miles. Not much fun, hell on the knees and not the best way to enjoy the scenery.

So now... since I have stopped fighting I am happier. That sounds so corny and a lot of people would say that it sounds a bit defeatist but the truth is they asked me to fight a battle I could not win. MS is not something I can overcome. It is with me for the rest of my life. It is my legs. It is the pain. It is the fatigue, the walk, the cane, the wheels, the handicapped parking tag....in short it is me. I can hate my life sometimes. I can yell and cry in frustration. I can remember the good ol'days with fondness but the truth is...this is me. And you know what, despite it all, I really like me.

I am a pacifist by nature. I refuse to fight...I just am. So next time I hear one bloody word about fighting the good fight I am going to punch whoever says it in the mouth.

The ugly truth

I am looking at shower seats to make my morning routine happier, easier and less precarious. Having recently taken a little tumble in my shower I have decided that maybe it is time to consider accessibility in the home. I really suck at this part of becoming increasingly disabled. I like climbing things. I like balancing on the bed while reaching above me to change the light bulb in the bedroom. I have fun climbing on counters to paint the bathroom wall above the mirror. I enjoy storing things in hard to reach places. None of these activities are doctor/husband/family approved. In the back of my mind even I acknowledge that I am being more than a little stupid. But that excitement...that risk...it makes it all worth it.



However, slipping in the shower has made me reconsider the eventual side effects of shaving one's right leg while balancing on the left with a razor blade in the other hand and water dripping in your face. Sure it's a safety razor and if I cut my leg I won't feel it, but think of the embarrassment of visiting the emergency room, buck naked, because my pride did not allow for a shower seat. Or safety handles in the shower. And so I finally bought an electric razor/trimmer. It's pink. It's rechargeable. I can sit on the toilet and shave both legs without pretending to be an elephant balancing on a baseball. And I think I like it. It's pretty.



But this morning I realized that shaving one's legs is not the only time in the shower where one's balance is brought into question. I have questionable balance all of the time. It's just the combination of water and soap and cheap enamel tub that makes showering the ultimate endurance test every morning. And here's the bad part... I already have a shower bench. It lives in the garage and occasionally is pulled into the garden to be used as a seat while weeding. Right now, seeing as it is winter, I believe it is gathering a most impressive collection of spider webs.



It is so ugly. It's grey and big and close to impossible to use. I sit facing forward into the water and soap up. At that point I need to turn around and soap my back. There is no extra room in the tub so I have to turn off the water (so when I open the shower curtain it won't spray the bathroom floor) and haul first one and then the second leg over the edge of the bathtub and back over. So now I have effectively turned my back to the knob that I need to be facing to turn the water back on. I perform this flexible, twisty-no longer have a center of balance move that turns the water on so I can soap my back and rinse. Then I need to rinse my front. So repeat twisty move to turn off water, lifting legs over side of tub, repositioning to rinse and turn on water. By this time I am usually out of hot water, have poured gallons of the stuff on the bathroom floor, have collected an assortment of ghastly bruises on my unfeeling lower limbs and have still not figured out how to wash my hair. Hmm...stand up, remove shower stool, lean against bathtub wall and wash hair. Try not to fall while stepping out of tub. Sit on edge of tub to towel dry. Sit on toilet to put on clothes and shoes. Remove useless shower bench and store in garage because there is no room for it in our bathroom and my husband needs to take a shower (remember...bathroom floor all wet and there is no hot water). You see the dilemma. But even if I found the perfect shower stool, that folded and fit in my tub and had a lazy-susan on top for my butt so I could twirl around with out lifting a foot, the fact remains it would be ugly.



Most medical equipment is just plain ugly. Shower stools are ugly (even the pink breast cancer awareness one). Grab handles are ugly. Wheelchair ramps are ugly. Just look at the medical equipment out there and try to say that it is attractive. Its is functional. And for that I am grateful because there will be a time when functionality wins out over vanity. But not yet. My cane...I walk with a quad cane...is really not attractive. Alfred lives in the coat closet at home because he really is ugly. Trudy, my slightly smaller and more demure quad cane, is slowly being transformed into something more individualistic. But let's be honest. She was ugly when I got her. Ezra, my chair, is really quite handsome for what he is in that sort of the best of a bad litter sort of way. And he is functional. Until I can afford an ultralight wheelchair I have to be happy with functional. And everyone seems fine with this ("it isn't pretty but it is functional and that's what really matters"). You know what? That's complete bull. Why can't things be pretty and functional. Why are pretty thing so much more expensive. Pretty canes (and boy can they be hideous) always cost more than their more functional counterparts. Beautiful wheel chairs are not for a part time chair user like myself. (but there are some really sexy chairs out there). Hell, even wheelchair gloves tend to be ugly. I am a girl that likes pretty things. With the slow deterioration of my body I don't see a corresponding decline in my aesthetic tastes. So...pretty medical equipment...can I please have Marimekko Poppies on my wheel chair ramps and Chagall-esqe (I made that word up) goats on my canes? Thank you.