A year ago this week my nephew was in town on leave from overseas deployment in the US MARINES, as I left my apartment in my wheelchair with Zeus the service dog on handsfree waist leash a group of local gangbanger wannabes circled around us on skateboards aiming straight at Zeus and in the melee I was thrown out of my chair slamming into a right angled steel gate post. The sharp right angled crease of the hard steel slammed my left shoulder, the impact causing a 97% tear of my rotator cuff and fractured my shoulder blade and crushed two nerves to my left bicep and right there in that moment my active productive “who the fuck is disabled not me” life screeched to a screaming fucking halt!
I wrote many times about the five month struggle to find a surgeon who gave enough of a shit about the disabled to operate, most saying they did surgery to give back quality of life and in their opinion in the case of the disabled we had none in the first place so surgery was a waste of their precious coveted hospital privileges?
On February 4th this year I had all the above repaired except when the bandages were changed the surgeon forgot to suture one of my five surgical wounds! Yes and he replied “oh shit my bad”
I was promised “3months and you’ll be better than you were pre injury” eight months later and I can barely lift 5 lbs with that arm but 150 with my other?
The other injury to my life that day that surgery can’t touch was the injuryto my soul! That morning I was s 275-280lb 6ft4 excellent disabled “adaptive ” climber who hated staying home did 10 mile rolls in my hybrid off-road wheelchair for fun and climbed rocks like a spider.
Month by month with searing pain reducing me to a power chair and being house bound and nothing but my depression daytime tv and the fridge my depression agoraphobia and waistline all held a race to see who reached maximum growth first.
It was I think a draw, in eight months I won’t answer the door unless I absolutely have to, I won’t leave the house without Ella and it’s absolutely necessary my PTSD rules both my waking and sleeping(when if ever it comes) and depression understudies for it when it doesn’t come knocking and these days I am weighing in the 350lbs and hopefully losing.
It’s a vicious circle,I can’t climb because my arm is fucked I won’t climb because I’m too fat I can’t climb because I have to leave my safe studio apartment in flushing to do it and on the days I think I might try PTSD and depression toss a coin and it doesn’t matter which wins ultimately I don’t so I toss a coin between the tv the laptop and the fridge but fuck why choose there’s room for all but if these days keep up there ever increasingly less room for me so then I worry over my waist line and that’s just one more piece of shit to totally fuck my days!
All because the ” kangbangers” (Korean teens who think they’re the bloods and the crips if they rolled on skateboards and swapped soul food for kimchee!) chose to pull there shit on me and Zeus that October day.
Yes they might have done the physical damage but they have no idea the mental and emotional spiral it caused? I was never someone who used the wheels under my ass as an excuse but these days the cats ride my chair more than me and Zeus while still alerting to seizures is more a lap dog than active chair pulling outdoors dog he usd to be.
I hold on for my final move to New Mexico there at least even being housebound means acreage and sunshine and fresh air , the world it serms just keeps building walls between us and the move, walls that would make trump jealous.
I know things will get better I hope at least physically I should it’s just undoing the damage this year has done is harder than any route or cliff I ever climbed and as I get closer to 60 than 50 taking the weight off is so much harder than I ever remember!
So sorry for not writing for so long but the fog had to clear long enough to form a cognitive concept and even this had to done in an iPhone because my laptop got waterlogged.