LJI 10:6 solvitur ambulando
My client's family is taking her and her boyfriend to Disneyland just before Christmas. But because of her CP, she's began to dread the trip instead of looking forward to it.
"I told my dad I could walk just fine and go on rides with my nieces and nephew, but he is insisting I have a wheelchair," she grouses to me as I drive her to her job, sorting mail at the post office on base.
"And he keeps yelling at me to do my stretches but it hurts," she continues, talking over Sheryl Crow as she sings about cold beer on a Saturday night. Her father, who I met once at the ER, is a mild mannered, easygoing, athletic ex-Marine who is now a PA. She says he's a hard ass, or used to be.
Often she accuses her parents, her boyfriend, other staff, her bosses at work, you name it, of yelling at her. I sense the "yellimg" is more of an forceful tone. But after six months plus working with her, I know which issues to press and which ones to let slide. Dealing with someone who has BPD teaches you this. Quickly.
"I just want to be NORMAL! I miss my old self!" she has exclaimed in frustration, more than once. At least twice a week she nostalgically remembers how she was before getting gastroparesis. How she would go-go-go all the time. And weighed 115 lbs. And didn't have to care about what she ate. No foods were off limits then.
She knows I hate the word "normal". I tell her that's a dryer setting.
I pull up to the Visitor's Center.
She sticks her expensive purse inside her Ed Hardy backpack, which is red and adorned with a drawing of a dog. The dog, if he were human, would chain-smoke and yell about warm beer in a way that would tremendously please Dennis Hopper's character in "Blue Velvet".
I open the hatch and take out her walker. Her boss requires it as a safety measure.
She hates it.
People smile sympathetically at her when she has to use it in public.
"My sisters don't have any disabilities," she has said often. "I'm the broken one."
Hearing this kills me. I also have CP, though not as severe.
She is not broken.
I see the grimace and strain on her face as she lifts a foot onto the sidewalk. Her heel cords are tight. Often her determination to not require assistance causes her to fall or get hurt.
She wishes she could walk like everyone else.
And if she could, there would be no need for the wheelchair on the Disneyland trip.
No "extra time while boarding" needed at the airport.
No stiff and tight heel cords.
No walker needed at work.
No help needed getting onto the sidewalk.
Then all her problems would be solved.
Just by the simple act of being able to walk with no pain and needing no assistance.
"I told my dad I could walk just fine and go on rides with my nieces and nephew, but he is insisting I have a wheelchair," she grouses to me as I drive her to her job, sorting mail at the post office on base.
"And he keeps yelling at me to do my stretches but it hurts," she continues, talking over Sheryl Crow as she sings about cold beer on a Saturday night. Her father, who I met once at the ER, is a mild mannered, easygoing, athletic ex-Marine who is now a PA. She says he's a hard ass, or used to be.
Often she accuses her parents, her boyfriend, other staff, her bosses at work, you name it, of yelling at her. I sense the "yellimg" is more of an forceful tone. But after six months plus working with her, I know which issues to press and which ones to let slide. Dealing with someone who has BPD teaches you this. Quickly.
"I just want to be NORMAL! I miss my old self!" she has exclaimed in frustration, more than once. At least twice a week she nostalgically remembers how she was before getting gastroparesis. How she would go-go-go all the time. And weighed 115 lbs. And didn't have to care about what she ate. No foods were off limits then.
She knows I hate the word "normal". I tell her that's a dryer setting.
I pull up to the Visitor's Center.
She sticks her expensive purse inside her Ed Hardy backpack, which is red and adorned with a drawing of a dog. The dog, if he were human, would chain-smoke and yell about warm beer in a way that would tremendously please Dennis Hopper's character in "Blue Velvet".
I open the hatch and take out her walker. Her boss requires it as a safety measure.
She hates it.
People smile sympathetically at her when she has to use it in public.
"My sisters don't have any disabilities," she has said often. "I'm the broken one."
Hearing this kills me. I also have CP, though not as severe.
She is not broken.
I see the grimace and strain on her face as she lifts a foot onto the sidewalk. Her heel cords are tight. Often her determination to not require assistance causes her to fall or get hurt.
She wishes she could walk like everyone else.
And if she could, there would be no need for the wheelchair on the Disneyland trip.
No "extra time while boarding" needed at the airport.
No stiff and tight heel cords.
No walker needed at work.
No help needed getting onto the sidewalk.
Then all her problems would be solved.
Just by the simple act of being able to walk with no pain and needing no assistance.