Are We Disabled or What?
Do you ever wonder at what point you are (a)
normal or (b) disabled?
I think the words (a) handicapped or (b)
Next Martini you are sipping on; please ponder
your view of self, in light of
Tee hee.... I know this can go much deeper,
but I gotta run.
Ed's Response: I always love to hear from you, Ira-Jane. A profound poem is a double treat. But now I must answer, and if I were completely reciprocal I supposed I'd do it in haiku, but I'm broke, time-wise, and burdened by pockets full of prose only.
You do have a knack for raising just the right issue at just the right time. I hadn't thought about the disability-ness of my P for some time. The last time I thought about it, it was in the context of semantics (see Don't Call it a Disease in the Archives). But this Spring I went through a frightening bout with psoriatic arthritis (PA). My skin P has occasionally been so bad that I was emotionally disabled, but being unable to walk unassisted, or to drive a car, redefined for me, personally, the concept of disability. From hence forward I'm disinclined to think of my lesions as disablingunless they take on new terrible characteristics I've yet to experience.
Also ... Yesterday I read Jean-Dominique Bauby's The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. I would imagine many of you have read this as it has been on the international best-seller lists. It is a small book by a man paralyzed by stroke at age 43. He wrote the book by blinking out code with one eyelid. He died two days after the book was published in France (his native country). It's an amazing read that I heartily recommend. For those of you addicted to Amazon.com (like me), the paperback is available for about $9; $12 when shipped. It would be impossible for me to consider myself disabled while still under the spell of that book.
Also ... If you're not fed up with my self-aggrandizing, yet, the article "My Role Model" further considers my relationship with self-pity.
Write more often, Ira-Jane. I never get tired of your Canadian accent! -Ed