Today, I learned what feels like to be permanently disabled. And it hurt.
Since I became ill with Covid on Christmas Day 2022, I’ve been disabled. I learned what it’s like to see my body reclaim itself inch by inch, week by week; 60 weeks so far.
But, I was told that there was every reason to believe I would recover, to walk again and resume my life.
Granted it was a changed life. Because I changed. The gratitude journey I’ve been on has made sure of it. I notice things now that never mattered before.
The little veiny lines on the translucent wings of a bee. The sweetness of his tiny body dancing around my face before rejoining his crew.
The trilling voice of a happy mockingbird that perches in the same place each day, facing west. He’s got a great set of pipes and barely comes up for breath. I notice him. I didn’t before.
My Maggie. Her soft little body pressed against mine. Her big topaz eyes studying me, looking for a big smile, “I love you” and the biggest of cuddles. I’m talking cradling her like an infant against my chest for at least 30 minutes. She can hear my heart beating. She loves it. I treasure her soft kisses as I stroke her fur.
When the phone rings and someone I love is on the other end who wanted to talk and picked me.
Seeing my family’s smiles as we enjoy my homemade chicken pot pie and eat until we’re stuffed. Eye rolls, groaning and reaching for seconds. Giggles over jokes and movies.
Joy. It’s the greatest fleeting gift of everyday life and something we all want. Sometimes desperately. I see it now.
I didn’t put that much time into anything that really mattered until Covid. Maggie. My family and friends. They got pieces of me and accepted it. Until I was flat on my back and helpless.
So now I’m walking again. Praise God. But for now I still need a walker to feel steady. Still I’m making tracks. Exciting stuff!
Ok, the walker. I drive a newer VW Bug. The walker goes in the back, in the trunk. I need to hold onto something more angular to keep from hitting the ground. The Bug is round with wheels. Nothing to hold onto. Since I fell and went boom last month while trying to get the walker out by myself, I’ve left that job to someone else. Hubs is usually my wing man.
But sometimes I have to run my errands alone, and need help getting in and out of the car.
Still, I’m only temporarily disabled. I’m recovering.
The only place where I have been treated like an old woman permanently disabled and clutching a walker is at my dentist’s office.
I’ve been going through some big dental repairs as a result of my illness. There was a lot of throwing up in the early months, oral care was minimal at best both at the hospital and in rehab. Add two weeks of oxygen pumped through a tube down my throat while comatose, and extensive dental work is sure to follow.
So here’s why I was smarting earlier today.
The office manager is a tall woman, who looks dispassionately at anyone coming through the extraordinarily heavy front door with an apparatus like mine. Walker, quad cane, wheelchair. All about 12 steps from the desk to the door and she’s never made an effort to help anyone in or out. At least in front of me.
Thankfully the patients always help each other if possible. They open the door and if I’m leaving, they’ll walk me to my car and help me load my walker, which weighs less than ten lbs. Sometimes the dental assistants will do it.
But going through that front door is another story. It weighs a ton and the mobility challenged move slowly. It’s a concussion waiting to happen. There’s a big mat inside for people to wipe their feet on.
Inevitably every time I go in or out, I catch my walker or my foot on the damn thing. I’ve seen other people do it too. In front of the office manager. Who does nothing.
Three weeks ago, I was asked by my oral surgeon if I could come early for my appointment. One o’clock. No problem.
However, because of the last minute change I had no wing man. I went alone. I assumed that if I called, someone, anyone would walk 20 steps from their desk to my car.
When I arrived, I called and the manager answered. Told me to call back at 1:30 because they were closed for lunch. I told her I had an appointment at 1 pm with Dr Sakka, at his request.
She: I’m sorry but I can’t help you. I’m in a meeting and will be going into another soon. I’ll try to catch someone as they return from lunch.
Click.
Did she just hang up on me? I waited a bit and there was no call back. So I called again.
Me: we seem to have been disconnected because I’m certain you would never hang up on a patient.
Silence.
Then…
She (with disdain): I’ll do what I can to get someone out to your Beetle Mrs Mills.
Click.
She did it. Again.
Ten minutes later Dr Sakka’s dental assistant came to the parking lot looking for me. I was still sitting behind the wheel of my Bug.
The manager didn’t send her. The dental assistant knew I was on a walker and came outside to find me. It wasn’t hard. I was parked by the front door and the only car in the lot.
This morning, another exchange with the office manager. I called to reschedule my appointment for tomorrow. I told her I would be coming alone and needed someone to help me with the walker and front door. (Seriously, patient parking is a matter of steps from the building.)
Her: I can’t promise that Mrs. Mills. That is our busy time and there may not be anyone available. You need to start bringing someone along to help you. That is your responsibility.
(There are always dental assistants standing around waiting to be called into service. The practice has an ample amount of folks who can help.)
Me (furious): I’ll do my best to get someone to come along but my husband has a doctor appointment at the VA. If I’m not successful, I’ll call you from my car and wait for someone to help. It may make me late for my appointment, but I’ll be sure to explain to the dental staff including the dentist why I was running behind, along with my original request for assistance given my mobility issues and there was no effort to help. See you tomorrow.
Click.
I’ve been madder than hell all day. I briefly turned into the kind of person I used to be. Angry, seething.
Then I remembered what a colleague and friend told me recently. Everyone has something. Illnesses of loved ones or themselves, divorce, family relationships gone south. If they are thrown into a bag and shaken up, our problems look like everyone else’s. Big.
And often unbearable.
I started thinking about the office manager. She’s a real martinet. An overachiever to the point that she’s abrasive.
I used to be like that. Impatient, slightly arrogant, extremely sure of my ability to handle anything. But deep down knew I was living in a house of cards and my perception of myself was pure crap. I was a mess.
I’d been raised by a brilliant overachiever with mental issues and had borderline personality disorder which brought up spurts of anger that he’d only direct at me.
I was sexually abused by a married member of the staff at our church who was chased off by the head pastor, thus giving him freedom to hurt more girls. In his wake I was slut shamed, and treated like an old man’s Lolita. After all, I nearly broke up his marriage. Of course, men will be men. I tempted him.
I was 12 years old. I barely had lady boobs, and was still playing with Barbies. Yep. I was a real sex machine.
That was the rumor. And it cost me dearly.
So, I became an overachiever, just like the office manager. To make up for whatever I might have done wrong. I became good at everything. Music, especially vocals and piano. Winning state awards, local piano competitions. I was a corporate travel manager and a published author.
I wanted to look like I had my life in order. And I did. Kind of.
Except for the anger ball inside that was ready to launch, along with the grief from my mom’s death. And I was severely overweight. Covering up my shame, one pound at a time, one bag of Lays at a time.
Finally it took me down. I became deathly sick, flat on my back, lost 132 lbs and was forced to take a hard look at my life.
I can now recognize a fellow sufferer, even if the office manager doesn’t see it. I do. Something happened to that woman. And I would be a jerk to look past it, given my own experiences.
So tomorrow I have every intention of putting on my big girl pants and following through with my plan. Wait in the car until it’s safe to go in.
And try to bite my tongue. Perhaps sprinkle some sugar on a sour apple.
Hopefully it will work.
Maybe I’ll make a friend.
Maybe she’ll see the disabled differently. God knows I do. The view is significantly different when seated in a wheelchair looking up.
Perhaps with a bit of encouragement there will be less disdain. More compassion.
It’s worth a try.
Michelle Close Mills ©
