Anniversaries and Losses

July marks several anniversaries for me.

July 3, 2000 found me starting a new job at the omnipotent megalith hereafter known as The Bank.  I have told this story in a blog before.  Whilst I was in orientation with the HR person, I was informed there was no early leave at The Bank.  My initial thought was , “Why are they talking about retirement when this is my first day?”  I found out that since July 4 was a holiday, I could not leave early.  Really?  My manager sent me home at half past two o’clock.  My plan was to stay a year.   I live outside of NYC but NYC is my place to work.  Unfortunately, most people have a bad sense of both geography and commutation.  It takes me less time to get into the City than people who live in the other boroughs.  I needed a year back in to quash the naysayers.  Overall, I was there more or less for 15 years!  My mother used to say, “Do two, maybe three, strive for five.”  My parents were totally anti-corporate which also means no pension, no benefits.  I started.  I hated it.  I tried to get another job immediately.  The Bank had surveillance cameras throughout its offices.  No one knew if they really worked.  I am sure they must have as literally hundreds of millions of cash and checks passed through there daily.  When I first started there people could actually make cash deposits.  I remember seeing a 25 million dollar check being casually processed.  Back to the cameras.  So, every morning I would look up at a camera and carefully enunciate. “I hate working here.”  No luck.  I went on a business trip to California with my manager and his manager.  I am a technical trainer so I was training the staff on how to use technology that did everything a real teller in a bank could.  Due to space limitations, the managers had to be in the room with me.  They loved my approach.  In a last ditch effort, I told the senior manager that most days I felt like a square peg in a round hole.  He told me he felt the same way.  So, instead of becoming my ticket out, it became my ticket in.

2001 arrived and I made ready to move on. September 11 happened.  And here are parts of the reason I never liked The Bank.  NYC on September 11 was an odd place to be .  I was in Midtown but no knew what was really happening. People started leaving.  The Bank’s policy was to never expense employee meals unless travelling.  Even then they had a global policy of $45 daily for everything if you w ere travelling.  By the afternoon, one of the managers said he would buy pizza for everyone still there in our department.  He was admonished and advised he would not be reimbursed.  I ventured back into NYC on the 13th.  I had been due to teach a class on loans.  I felt that needed to be placed on hold as people adjusted to our changing world. I went to the floor where the students sat.  It was just past 9 A.M.  And the first day back in Midtown for many of us.  You could have heard a pin drop as people sat at their desks, heads down, working furiously.  I still refused to teach the class.

I worked in the IT area and was hired specifically for my non-techie self.  Someone there told me I would like “The Big Bang”.  It’s because some of the people were just like that.  Despite all this, I stayed even after my group was let go.  I was brought back as a consultant for another 11 years.  It worked.  I was mostly on my own.  Despite the lack of benefits, I made nice money.  Almost too much money as it were because it was difficult to get something similar.  I worked alternate hours 7:30 – 4:00 or 4:30.  Eventually, I worked  7:30 – 3:30 but I was always available before and after hours.  In fact, due to my West Coast following, I took calls and emails till 9:30 or so. I also worked remotely on Fridays as commuting became dangerous for me.  I also worked remotely in bad or hot weather.  This was the job where my mobility began to give out.  My standard line (feel free to use as you see fit) was, “It’s not contagious. It’s not cancer.  It’s not terminal.  And, there is nothing wrong with my brain.”  For the OMG! OMG What happened to you crowd, I would laugh. “I am just falling apart.”

It all ended badly.  My reasonable accommodation was removed.  I was made a truly insulting offer to become an employee which was totally unacceptable.

I struggled to find work.  I was a woman of a certain age who had been at a company too long and walked with a cane and the spectral leg aka brace.  Hey, my canes were seasonal and pretty.  I finally found another position more than a year later.  Enormous pay cut and more responsibility and work.  So, this represents another July anniversary.  On July 14 last year, Bastille Day, Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite,;  I walked out. I could still do that.  I had the misfortune to work for a mean girl from high school.  I loved the company and the people.  It hurts.  I had more personal interactions there in 5 months than I had in the 15 at the Bank.  People miss me both places.

My feeling, rational or not, is that losing these two positions has severely impacted my health.  And I hate the phrase, “losing a job”.  I know where it is.  It’s not lost.  At the Bank, I walked 10,000 easily and often.  The building was a city block and I walked to Grand Central , walked through Times Square Station and then Penn.  The next job had much less walking but phenomenal people.

So, this week I am marking a year without working.  I have become officially disabled and un officially retired.  This is so not what I wanted or envisioned.  It’s hard.  I miss getting dressed – clothing is my life. I miss people.  I have been demoted to a walker.  It hurts me to look at it.

All losses are relative.  July was bad before the Bank.  If you have read me before, you know I have left a swath of dead boyfriends and other lovers behind me.  Bobby was one of my favorites.  Once, I was asked in therapy, of all the guys I had been involved with, who would I have liked to marry.  Immediate answer – Bobby! Uh, a small problem, bisexual?  Well, he left me for a man. But… But we went to the same school and bore similar scars; we liked to cook and eat out; we loved to shop; we loved Dylan’s Black Diamond Bay; we walked in Washington Square on warm evenings; we loved to go to the movies and theater. Big missed hint and clue:  We saw American Gigolo three times and we had to get tickets to Bent.  He died of AIDS before his 30th birthday which was July 7.  It’s hard to imagine that he’s been gone longer than he was here.  I wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral as his parents blamed me for his death.  He used to tell me if he ever married me, it would kill his parents.

July 7 also marks the day my childhood friend, Julie died.  Again, way young.  She died around 40.  She was real and funny and loyal. You always knew where you stood with her.  She arranged for her father to take the photos for my first wedding because I hate those forced, frozen, fixed photos.   Her husband had diabetes.  She used to tell him, “Chuckles, I am going to dance on your grave when you die ’cause you didn’t take care of yourself.”  Ovarian cancer.

So, to put it in perspective, what’s the big deal with not being able to walk.  How can I possibly measure not working against not living?  Well, it’s my pity party and no one else is invited.  Mourning is mourning. Respect  for all deaths and departures.  And then?  Then there is summer and its warmth.

Vice Presidential Aspirations and Disability

What did you want to be when you grew up? I was about ten and I sent away for career brochures.  I think it was from an insurance company.  I thought lawyer looked interesting and different.  Girls just didn’t become lawyers then.  I also really, really wanted to become an actress.  Also, write books.  My father was a writer so it’s in my DNA.  And I probably couldn’t do it because my father was a writer.  He did tell me before he died that I should write and not let him stop me. It was a gift from him to me.

As I grew, practicality intruded.  I have a facility for language.  I decided to be a multi-lingual secretary.  My mother was a secretary.  She was excellent, well-paid and powerful at times.  I was told in high school that I wasn’t fluent enough;  native speakers would receive precedence; I was that smart that I should have my own security. Reality?  After Hopkins, I applied for a secretarial spot that wanted someone who spoke English, French, Spanish and German, and who studied Latin America and Africa in that order. All checks.  I didn’t get the job because my typing wasn’t fast enough.

Moving on, again with the practicality. OK, if I couldn’t be a multi-lingual secretary, I would major in International Relations at Johns Hopkins and become Henry Kissinger.  Well, that didn’t work.  Economics and I were a nonstarter.  I did attend a job placement interview at Hopkins.  When asked for my aspirations, I said I wanted to wear Vogue clothes.  The counselor was mildly taken aback but assured me with a Hopkins degree I could do anything.  NOT!!  See above for starters.

Attempting to be logical, I determined if I wanted Vogue clothes, I needed to work in clothing.  I had thought  about this in high school but fashion was a trade and I was supposed to be too smart.  And I didn’t draw.  Uh, all work in fashion is not design.  Hopkins?  So, not working.  I was on my second job as assistant office manager in a major construction company when the receptionist turned me on to FIT Continuing Ed.  I was off and running.  Sundays 9- 5 and two nights a week till 9:30 or 10:30.  And I received an A in my art class.  My new ambition?  I was gonna be Calvin Klein.  In later years, I was questioned as to why I always wanted to be men.  Duh, that’s where the power was and is.

I started out as an assistant at Bobbie Brooks.  Why I got the job?  I was the only candidate with personal stationery; I am a Libra and they thought because of Hopkins, I knew psychology.  I decided I wanted to be a merchandiser in my own right.  Five companies later, I did it!  So, then what?  I wanted that VP title but I was just a “girl”.  This “girl” negotiated a licensing agreement with a major French fashion company.  Girls didn’t get to be vice presidents in that company.  The fashion press referred to me as vice president merchandising but not the company. Yes, they  merged with another company and gave my job to a male VP.  I definitely was able to buy and wear Vogue clothes so I did fulfill that ambition.

Back to the drawing board and I started working in financial services from the bottom up.  I had a facility for it.  Who knew that a fashionista could be successful in banking?!  Complications.  I was up for an AVP but was let go.  I came back as a consultant for another 11 years.  Same story – perceived as VP but no title.  I wanted to end my career as a VP.

Unemployed again, over 50, mobility issues, not happening.  In the last three years I have applied and applied.  I  began to realize that I could no longer commute into Manhattan.  If you want to be a VP and a woman on Long Island, you have no life.  I tried anyway.  I was told three years ago to apply for disability.  Me?  I am not disabled.  I just don’t walk well.  I am no longer the woman who wore three inch heels ,carried pocketbook, laptop and projector but disabled?

I finally succumbed last November and applied.  It’s like when I obtained the handicap sticker 5 years ago.  It was a “just in case”.  I thought it was temporary and I would be me in 5 years.  I am worse.  Cane, walker. Everyone said if anyone deserved it, it was me.  I have fought so hard.  I only did it because of economics.  This is a title I do not want.

Last Thursday, I received a letter saying I was medically qualified but the non-medical was still being evaluated.  This makes no sense.  Friday, there is a check in the mail.  I am officially disabled.  It is bittersweet.  The wolf at the door is being held back.  This is not a title I ever aspired to or even wildly imagined. WTF happened!! This was not what I wanted to be when I grew up.  I am coming to terms with the fact that my career life is over.  I am NEVER going to get that title, again, something outside the sphere of possibilities.

It’s reinvention time, Tresswann rising.    What do I want next?  What am I going to do for the rest of my life?  Well, the great Carib-American novel is possible but probably not publishable. I need to walk.  This gives me the opportunity to focus on getting back to walking.  I feel a little lost but I shall regroup.  I did originally want to write so maybe…

What did you want to be when you grew up and what happened along the way?

 

Mourning Clothes

I know it sounds trivial but I am mourning my clothes.  The weather has  snapped and I need heavier clothes.  The way my house is structured there is only one real closet.  We do have armoires upstairs, keyword – upstairs.  I have enormous problems going up and downstairs without having anything in my hands.  I used to work in the garment industry and from time to time in retail sales.  I know how to carry tons of clothing over my arm.  I used to do it without even thinking about it. Now, I have problems hanging one suit in the closet.  Plus, I am dependent on T to get up and down the stairs and carry things.

So, this morning we go up and I want to bring my winter things down.  I’ve already brought down most of the casual stuff – the sweaters, the cords.  Today is for the business and dress stuff.  Each season change, it’s like running into old friends.  This year,  there are new and different options.   I weigh less so fit into different things.  And since I constantly have to use a cane instead of making the spectral leg visible, I have more options.

I bought some beautiful suits and pieces when I returned to work last year.

I start making a pile for Tom to take downstairs.  “Where are you going to wear all this stuff, really.”  Rub it in.  I worked from mid-February last year.  And the winter before that, I interviewed heavily.

We brought the clothes downstairs.  I don’t want to give them up.  I have always had a definitive sense of style.  I express myself through my clothes.  I do not want to live in sweatpants and jeans.  It’s not who I am.  I miss my dresses! Forget the party stuff.  I left all that black velvet upstairs.  I haven’t been to a party in years.  I was down to one holiday luncheon or dinner a year.  It’s hard for me to navigate.  NYC is out of the question.

People barely dress any more.  It is depressing to see all the faded jeans worn by faded people.  Where’s the sense of excitement?  Where’s uniqueness.  Let me date myself further by saying I sound like Hermione Gingold in both Gigi and A Little Night Music.

 

I have more pants than ever.  I was brought up in a household where ladies don’t wear trousers.  However, I need them for interviews  so I don’t terrify potential employers completely.

Today, I am realizing who am I kidding?  I have had 1 in-person interview since July.

I want to get up most mornings and wear my clothes. I want to preen like a peacock.

This condition is trying to destroy my soul.  It’s tried to take so much from me.  I have to draw a line in the sand, somehow.

Visibility Disability

I have always been visible.   Part of it from an early age has been because of being interracial.  Especially when I was a child, people look at you and your parents.  I come from a strong maternal line.  My cousins and I range from blonde to deep brown.   We have the same face.  On the rare occasions when we were together as teens, people would do double takes.  The eyes processed what the brain could not.reima-1959-grandma-made-the-dress

My mother, being a colonial of a certain age, brought me up with certain attitudes and expectations.  A lady did not leave the house without hat or gloves.  So yeah, there I was in NYC, in the summer, in the subway, with gloves.  And a hat.  Actually, not such a bad thing.  I have to tell you though those gloves were a bitch to keep clean!  The hats.  I love hats and used to look really good in them.  My mum wore them, too.  So, we could be out, at the grocery or mall, hatless and someone would walk up to us and say “oh, you’re the ladies (girl) with the hats.

Fashion has been my life and consuming interest. I used to work in it and have been privileged to attend pret a porter.  Can I tell you, I was noticed there, too?  Very proud of that one.  I used to go to Europe regularly for a job.  I went after losing it and had a call when I returned home from a former colleague ” You were in Spain and Italy a few weeks ago”  Yes, I was noticed.

Another thing I am known for is my smile.  I like to share my joy.  When I returned to another job  I  was approached numerous times because my smile was missed.

So yes, I am used to being noticed but now is different. Now, I am noticed because of the cane  ( I hate that word) and the spectral leg.  That has become what makes me stand out.

When I was still working,  I worked in a JP Morgan Chase building.  The security guards watched out for me.  One used to see me walking in the morning and help me cross the street.  It made me feel like a fragile little old lady which I am so not, at least in my mind.  If I went out to lunch at the rear of the building, he’d make sure I got on the escalator safely then run down the stairs to help me when I came off.  Another one, a woman, who went to another building, would see me crossing and yell at cars and people and help me.  One that saw me in the building  always worried  when I was on vacation or out for a few days.   She too, would help me up the stairs.

I have been out of work in NYC for over a year.  As I said, the newspaper hawker was glad to see me a few weeks ago.  In December and January, I had to go in and take the same bus and train that I used to.  My husband was overwhelmed by the people who came up and spoke to me and were glad to see me.

I don’t like being visible in this way. To me, It’s not positive. I don’t like being recognized for disability; I’d rather be known for my smile or my style.  I understand that people respect and admire my grit and determination.  This too, is hard for me.  I am just living my life the only I know how to and the only way I can.  It’s not inspirational; it’s just life.  My issues are visible.  Others confront much worse things just not as publicly.

I guess I need to continue because I demonstrate the possible.  I can be a voice and a face against discrimination.  I hate when people speak loudly to me.  I want to say, “It’s my legs, stupid.  There’s nothing wrong with my brain.”  I suppose if my visibility with disability helps others, it’s worth it. Visibility is here to stay.

Doctor’s Visit

I bit my nails until a few years ago.  I mean chewed them.   I used to commute with my mother and she used to smack me when I bit them.  This was odd because not only was I an adult but we were different colors.  A few years ago I just made up my mind and let them grow. It was the look my mother had always wanted to see – long thin painted fingers.  She had passed away by the time I accomplished this.  It has become part of who I am.  At the salon, they told  me my nails were very strong .  Apparently, this is the case for former biters.

This past summer in August , my youngest stepson was married and I had them done.  They were perfect, no cracks.  They kept on growing.  I had talons.  They were uncomfortable.  We couldn’t cut them at all they were that hard. So, back to the salon.

What does this have to do with my condition? Well, almost three months ago I started megadoses of  biotin.  Biotin is used to strengthen your nails and hair. Also. maybe myelin repair.   Guess what?  My nails are snapping like crazy.  They are back to short.  My thought,  if this is happening to my nails, what about my bones?   My hands don’t look like me, along with others parts of me that are changing.  This was a little vanity for me.  The doctor said it wasn’t the biotin but the steroids still in my body from the Rituxin.  Guess that’s the little weight I’ve gained.

Recently , because of changes in insurance, it became necessary to cut  Ampyra to one time a day.  Frankly, we thought it wasn’t really working.  Well, quickly found out one a day impacted me badly.   Luckily, insurance sorted out with a day to go.  I  was so scared.

My right leg is the one with  the problem but lately my left knee has been killing me.  Did I say that I did go to an orthopedist last year for my foot – more on that below and wore beaded capris during the scans?  He was fascinated as he didn’t know what those little things were.  He couldn’t help me with the foot as he only does knees and hips.  He said the top of my knee was mildly arthritic.  Well now, somedays it is excruciating. It also  collapses unexpectedly.   My doctor says it’s not the condition.  The collapsing thing I thought was.

I did do my usual timed walk. It was AWFUL.  I really hadn’t changed my pace prior to this.  This time I walked like a toddler!  I told the doctor that and she said “But you are an adult.”  Exactly.  No comfort.  Apparently, part of the problem  is that I am hyperextending my left leg.  Her verdict I need an orthopedist.  Me – knee brace via Amazonprime.  In February 2008 I walked into that office in high heels.

More aches   and pains.  Recently and inexplicably, I have had sudden cry out loud stabbing pain.  Her verdict? Some nerve thing, you should see an orthopedist.

Next issue.  Since last winter I have experienced a burning sensation in my right foot, particularly when I wear tied shoes.  The GP suggested it was a condition thing.  I was also told it’s in my mind.  I only know that it feels like my foot is on fire and if it happens in the car I can barely drive.  Another suggestion was the spectral leg wasn’t fitting. To me, it has felt like a deep blister.  Well, I played around with corn removers and wart removers.  It’s not in my mind.  I took a picture which I will not share which is truly disgusting but shows that I have what looks like a deep bruise and bleeding.  Verdict:  Orthopedist!

One thing that I realized during this trip to the doctor is that at this point, I can no longer work in NYC.  This is devastating to me. I make more money in the city.  It’s more open.  There’s a vibrancy there.  Okay, this time I could drag myself up onto the bus without help but I couldn’t really walk by myself.  If my husband hadn’t been with me, I would have been pushed or fallen.  My world narrows.

On the upside or at least I am looking on it as an upside, the newspaper hawker called out to me.  “Good to see you again baby.”  This is the woman who picked me up off the sidewalk in front of the station about four years ago.  People recognize and support me in my struggle.

Also, on the positive side my doctor has offered to come into work early for my next exam so I lose less time at work,  See above – support in my struggle.

Old Girlfriends, Postal and Rituxan

What a difference a day makes!  An update on the postal situation from yesterday.  I placed calls to his landlord, psychologist and the VA.  The VA was helpful.  No calls from the others by 4 p.m. so I call K back.  He’s very cryptic and said the situation has been settled for $400.  He doesn’t sound right.  “Are you on drugs?”  “Of course.”  I finally am able to get his cousin’s name and phone number out of him.  Bombshell.  K has checked himself out of facility and told them and cousin that he is coming to live with me.  This is not possible on so many levels.  He appears to grasp this and states his intent is to check into one of the cheap, tawdry motels on Montauk or Sunrise.  In fact, there is one within walking distance of my house that I call the Pedophile Motel as a year or so before we moved in there were legal issues as it appeared the town and county were housing all the pedophiles there. Alright, I tell him we’ll deal and get him situated.  I tell him that I have called the landlord and will call him again.  My husband is livid over the situation and thinks the landlord has K’s belongings.  He wants to drive over, get everything before it’s tossed then drop the dime on the illegal rental.  K says don’t call him again.  He’s spoken to him today and landlord was very cold. He also tells me to say nothing of his plan to his cousin. Now whilst I am having this conversation with K on my landline, I hear other calls coming in and my cell is ringing too.  I see one call on the cell is my neurologist so husband picks that one up.

I hang up and see the landlord has called me.  I ring back.  Wow.  K has played us all.  I worked for years on a phone so I am really good with voices and lies.  Landlord is a straight up guy.  After I saw K just before Labor Day weekend, he rapidly deteriorated and was falling several times a day.  It culminated, ironically, enough on September 11, when landlord S’s children heard yelling. K had fallen facedown for 10 hours.  K was refusing help.  S told him paramedics or police.  He was hospitalized for 5 or 6 days.  During his episode, he had crystallization of his blood.  K was released to an assisted living/rehab facility.  Ironically, my husband and I drive by there all the time.  He was there until the end of September when the insurance ran out.  The cousin P was called.  The facility told him that K could walk 160 feet with a walker.  However, he had degenerated so much during this period that he was not allowed to use the bathroom on his own.  S had looked into the apartment with a view to making it handicapped accessible.  K had lived there almost 11 years.  Apparently, he has not had control of his urine or bowel for sometime.  The apartment/room needed fumigation and a new floor.  S also determined that he could not assume the responsibility nor have his children exposed to the consequences of falling,  S drove him to the cousin P in Maryland.  He had to help him in the bathroom on the way down.

The first night at the cousin’s he fell repeatedly.  The cousin called an ambulance.

I have a call into the cousin.  The cousin takes care of his nephew who as far as I can ascertain on the phone has at minimum a significant speech impediment.  I call twice leaving messages.

In the meantime, the psychologist has left a message for me on my cell.  All three of these men know of me as an old girlfriend, not my name,  just an old girlfriend.  The psychologist, B, and I have quite the conversation.  He has treated K for years.  In fact, he has retired and is very old.  He sounds ancient on the phone.

B never knew that I knew K at the time of the original postal  incident.  I had to go into therapy because of it.  I couldn’t handle it and left K for someone else.  K stalked me and threatened me when he found out.  I know, atrocious taste in men.  At that time in the late 80’s, there wasn’t the awareness or sensitivity to domestic violence there is now.  The police told me there was nothing they could do until he actually hurt me.  Their suggestion was for me to move.  In Suffolk county at that time there was a rash of domestic killings in a few months. I know because my girl friends, their mothers and my parents all cut out the clippings for me.  And yes, I went back into therapy once his meds were stabilized and I started interacting and seeing him again.

I give B the cousin, the landlord and the facility numbers as I explain he will have more weight than I do.

 

P calls back.  “Thank G-d you called.  I have been trying to get K to give me your name, number and address!”  He told K that he wanted to talk to me before he dropped him here  today. K has even told him I have been married twice.  P questions whether my husband will accept him.  K refuses to give up my address but instead tells P how to get my house from his room.

We have a most illuminating conversation.  P also knew of me as the old girlfriend, no name.  But he knew of my diagnosis, my two marriages and that I went to Hopkins.  Unless people tick me off, I don’t usually tell them I went to Hopkins but say I went to college in Baltimore.  I did the same yesterday and all three men said “Yeah, I knew you went to Hopkins.”  P found out from me the truth of the postal incident.  No, he didn’t hit 3 -4 guys.  They did try to provoke him to do so but instead his blood pressure rose so high he nearly stroked out and was taken out by ambulance.  I thought K’s father and mother were both evil and I do not use that term lightly.  K is older than me and his teachers reported the father for child abuse.  In that era you could just about kill your kids.  There were 6 brothers.  At least two are dead and one has been institutionalized for years.  Despite this K kept in touch with his father who ended up living in an SRO.  When he died, his mother refused to have anything to do with the burial.  Only one brother came.  That’s one of my gripes against the mother.  She was a lay minister in the Catholic church and would not separate or divorce the father.  She sacrificed her sons.  I do not believe in that kind of G-d.  P told me as soon as they were old enough each son beat the father up.  K broke his jaw.  He also shared my opinion of the mother and told me more stories about her.

All three men and I shared stories of K’s increasing paranoia and remoteness. I bought a computer for K once when I had a huge bonus.  Good fortune is meant to be shared.  A few years later he returned it to me saying it was broken,  Maybe,  but apparently was truly paranoid about it.  He wouldn’t use one at the library either.  He only recently had a cellphone and I believe it was through a program.  Caller ID displayed LI Spinal Foundation.

P can’t fight him any more and told K he will take him anywhere he wants to go.  He will leave him at a motel, wait an hour and call 911.  I beg him to let me know and I will call if necessary.

Oh, and the call my husband answered on my cell?  It’s my doctor’s office asking me to come in today.  I have been approved for the Rituxan.  I don’t even register this or remember it till after 8 p.m.  This is huge.  This drug could literally change my life. I can’t even process this.  I keep on forgetting!

 

My husband wakes in a rage this morning.  How could anyone dump K?  I repeat our 911 plan.  Smack forehead.  Of course, the police will come before ambulance.  We anticipate his resistance and see jail in his future or else due to late father’s influence (top police lieutenant) K being able to stay in motel to die.  He was able to get out of a traffic incident this summer dropping names.

I call the VA again this morning.  They suggest the cousin drive him directly there.  He is technically homeless and they have a shelter on the property.

The Catholic hospital nearest me said if there were mental health issues, they couldn’t take him.

I call the psychologist.  He has had no luck with the cousin.  He said P was adamant K was going to New York.  He and his wife also had the same serious reservations about the 911 plan.  B then revealed that K was so paranoid that for five years he would only meet B at diners or restaurants away from where they both lived.  His opinion was that K cannot survive in a group situation. Also, none of us must have any guilt   as we all have done much more than could be expected.  We are all good people.

At ten of two this afternoon, the phone rang.  It was P.  He went to get K at 8 and asked where are we going?  K said I’ll let you know in 4 hours.  P refused.  They went to 7 -11 for an hour and a half.  For now sanity has prevailed and K has agreed to stay and sign on a contract to live there. He says he doesn’t want to die in Maryland.  The cousin says who wants to die?

We all agree that this is very sad.  It is.  I agree we all tried to do the best we could. But I am looking at it another way.  We have all known K for decades.  We knew of each other – the old girlfriend, the cousin, the shrink, the landlord.  He reduced us  all to the role he wanted us to have in his life. We all do that.  K is just more extreme about it due to his emotional issues.

Ok, not guilt but I am so questioning myself.  How did I let myself so eagerly be a part of this.  K and I never officially lived together.  I have been married twice, lived with someone and had numerous affairs.  Through all this we have been constants in each other’s lives.  We have been “in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer.”  I need to process what it means.  I sense that somewhere along the way, we all failed him.  And I, I failed myself.  Why can’t I let go?  Why have I maintained a relationship with a man capable of hurting me physically? All relationships involve hurt.

If this crisis had not occurred, we all would still be in our roles.  How do we as a society perpetuate these situations?  We are all so close and yet so distant.

Disabilities, Limitations or Issues

I am having problems with the whole disability concept.  I know I really can’t walk well anymore.  Actually, I usually forget until I try to stand or move.  I told my doctor a few weeks ago that I think and feel I am me until I try and stand.  Her response was that I am me.  No, this is so not me.

I have been out of work for a year. People have been saying to me for much longer than that, that I should go on disability.  Why?  I am not disabled. I just do not walk well or fast.  But especially now when it is clear that I have lost out on jobs because of my mobility issues, the disability question is raising its ugly little head again.

In the past when I didn’t have what I call a job-job, I temped or worked  retail.  Those avenues are closed to me now primarily due to the mobility issues.  So, I can’t supplement my lack of income.  It’s getting serious as I am living off my life savings which were not much to begin with.  Most of the time, mobility should not be a factor in what I do.  I am a technical trainer by trade.  I show people how to use technology to do their jobs.  In addition to the mobility, I am a woman of a certain age (double whammy); I was at my last position for 15 years; and I have now been without gainful employment for a year.

Now, I am not going down without a fight.  I have either been blessed or cursed with grit and resilience.  I consulted a career counselor and her advice was to network in my professional associations.  I might be able to find out what other factors might be impeding me from working and of course, I might be able to network myself into a job.

My doctor told me to apply for the disability. This will not pay my mortgage let alone anything else.

So, I am fighting back.

Did you know that October is Employer Disability Awareness Month?  Who knew!  Through the HR society which I recently joined, there was a session this week on Disability Etiquette.  My plan?  Hike my disabled self with seasonally coordinated cane there and interact.  What a perfect opportunity! Wrong!  The attendees definitely did not want to deal.

However, the presentation was very thorough and informative.  He raised the issue that we are people, not disabilities.  In fact, the presenter stressed that we are people that have some limitations or issues.  I love, love this way of identification.  It makes so much sense.  I do usually refer to myself as someone with mobility issues.  I have always maintained I was trendy and ahead of the curve.

I did have a conversation with someone in the elevator on the way out.  She disclosed she had RA.  She loved my positive attitude.  Being negative takes too much time and energy.

And yes, I came up with another Plan B based on this meeting.

And with that group of people, who had the limitations and/or issues?  Me? Or them?