Your responses to Getting the Chair prove a point I have been making, at least to myself. Neurodegenerative illnesses strike all regions of our bodies and compromise many functions in our lives. In the end, however, these conditions become attitude afflictions fought, yes, north of the neck.
Making peace with a disease strikes me as appeasement. That approach did not do so well in the first half of the twentieth century. I imagine plenty of shrinks would suggest that choosing not to fight the unwinnable war is a good thing. Realism in the face of uncertainty will serve us well.
I say, do not go gentle into that wheelchair.
Do I contradict myself? Probably. So what? That was yesterday, this, today. Piss and vinegar can power us forward as well as premium gasoline. All of us play mind games. That is an important part of adjustments.
Our son, Ben, received his MBA from Harvard a few days ago. The university held all commencement exercises outdoors, despite a cold, driving rain and brutal wind. We sat drenched and shivering for hours. It was pure pain. I was in a wheelchair because of the muddy grounds that had to be crossed and the distance from the parking lot. Those of us in those chairs were penned up together like dangerous animals.
I know. Here I go again.
Shivering drenched disabled people spotted Meredith and asked her to get into photos with them. The smile never left her face as she posed with anyone who asked. Those others in wheelchairs smiled broadly and seemed so well adjusted. Happy. Later, Ben pulled my chair out through the mud, and we found warmth in some esoteric library.
My pride had been injured, but I figured the wheelchair had spared me monumental misery. Without it, they might have found my body in the mud sometime around July 4th. I am not making the case for my own attitude adjustment, only for a modicum of common sense.
I wonder if I ever will get over myself.