Jazzy Hands

Cue theatre people everywhere throwing up (or out) their (waving and sparkling) hands in disgust. "Jazzy hands? Um. It's 'jazz hands.' Gawd."

Today's choreography session brought to you by the Shat himself.

Last week, I went back to teaching. It wasn't nearly as soon as I wanted it to be, yet still a week sooner than my surgeon recommended. But I really wanted to get back to it. I love teaching. I miss it when I can't do it.

I am not, however, a complete and utter moron (title of this post aside). I knew that walking around campus in my then-current state would be less than ideal. So... I rented a Jazzy scooter.

Clarification. Actually, clarificationS. One, it wasn't really a Jazzy scooter. It was some other brand that I can't remember. Don't care. As far as I'm concerned, it was Jazzy. And B, I didn't rent it. My mom did.

Yes, my mom. Shut up.

Srsly, folx. Just do it.

I have both photographic and video proof of my scootering experiences that I've been tasked to share with you. Apparently, my wife thinks it's all very funny.

I look like a grandpa.

Whatever. I was having fun.

I got pretty good at it. Within the first day, I realized there was a knob that adjusts your speed (turtle on one end of the dial, rabbit on the other--apparently none of those eejits have read "The Tortoise and the Hare"), and I cranked that sucker all the way past "rabbit."

I was pretty speedy.

A couple of things dawned on me. First, how much of a struggle daily life is for those confined to a chair or walker. It's bad, y'all. The handicapped accessible stuff is often hidden, almost always out of the way, and rarely works the way it's intended. I was able to ditch the scooter after a week (just to be clear--I didn't want to--the scooter was awesome), but for anyone dealing with a permanent condition, the world basically says "you're not important" all the time. It's like everything around you is designed to make you feel less than.

It's not a pleasant realization to make.

B, just how dangerous an aging man in a scooter can be.

We'll mow you down like it's nothing.

I began to take perverse pleasure in terrifying professors and students exiting their classrooms without looking. Take that, you able-bodied jackass! How's that Achilles tendon feeling now, jerkface?

"And mobility scooters!" Huh. Doesn't quite have the same ring to it.

I barely recognized myself.

Have you noticed that it always comes back around to Arrested Development?

Now, I'm relegated to the ambulatory masses once again. It's... fine. It's... whatever.

It's... meh.

I'm tired all the time. I hurt all the time. The pain has gone down quite a bit. It's now more of a background static kind of thing that occasionally flares up into... what? Kidney pain? Non-kidney pain? I'm not sure how to describe it. I hurt where my kidney used to be. Happily, the hand-assist incision in my belly (see previous post) isn't nearly as bad as it was at first.

The real problem I face, as usual, is me.

I want things to be clear-cut. Well-defined. Black and white. But that's not how healing works.

If it's clear that I need to be in bed resting, I'm fine. If it's clear I'm better, I'm fine.

Somewhere in between is just hell. Well, purgatory. Actually, limbo. I'm not sure. Catholic friends, help a guy out here.

I don't want to have to assess how I'm feeling moment by moment. That sucks. Yes, I understand that knowing where we are in any given moment is a step on the path to enlightenment, but I don't want enlightenment right now. I just want to be better.

Delicious, aren't they?

I have taken good health for granted most of my life. I suppose these are good life lessons that will teach me empathy and compassion and blah de blah blah. So, the fact that I'm frustrated is a sign of how much privilege I actually have.

And, with all that, I am still frustrated. I'm tired. I'm upset that I'm being forced to really pay attention to my body, my emotions, my mental state.

That's the grind that so few people with chronic illnesses talk about. And they don't talk about it because they know that almost no one will get it. It's that need for constant diligence that never lets up. Ever.

I have an end date for all this. That end date could change, of course. My health could tank. It's even possible (although not very likely) that I'll die. But this experience will end at some point. That's not the case for so many others. ALS. MS. Crohn's. Lupus. Rheumatoid arthritis.

Okay. Fine. I get it, already.

As much as I may chafe right now at my limitations, they are teaching me kindness and patience. Understanding.

And that's worth it.

I suppose.

But I could really do without the nasty chemo-mouth.
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Up next--an in-depth look at dark comedy as a coping mechanism.


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