Posted in Developmental disability, disability rights, Self-advocacy

When I suddenly can’t do something I could always do, SOMETHING’S WRONG.

Right now my baseline walking ability is pretty damn good for someone with spinal stress fractures. On an average day I can take my walker out in the hallway and do seven laps in a row. I get sore but I could usually push on further if I had to. I am not even necessarily out of breath after all that.

One day recently I did two laps with extreme difficulty and then my legs got wobbly and almost gave out. It felt similar to a congenital myasthenic syndrome sort of thing, muscular and not back related. I’d also been feeling weird all over my body, and getting disoriented and having unusual emotional reactions.

I did what I’ve been taught to do. I reported all this to the nearest medical professional. I don’t remember who she was, not that it matters because the point of this post isn’t to put her on the spot. But her reaction was very typical of medical professionals in general when dealing with me. Some of it was a general attitude people have towards patients, but watching how others are treated, I get more of it than other patients who don’t have developmental disabilities. So there’s extra biases at work for me.

Anyway, when confronted with this situation you’d expect a medical professional to ask if I was okay, or ask further questions to figure out how I was feeling, or try to find out why I suddenly couldn’t do something that was coming so easily most of the time these days.

Instead I got, loosely paraphrased, “That’s what happens when you stay in bed all day.” Lest anyone think I’m some kind of hospital couch potato, I’d been in bed that day because I felt sick, not because I’d been making a long habit of it.

Let me put this plainly: This is a dangerous level of rudeness. It turned out I had low potassium. This was one of the first signs. It is almost always true that if I have sudden extreme difficulty doing something I could do easily just one day before, something is going wrong with my body. It is wrong both factually and morally to, within a matter of seconds, jump to the conclusion that I just need to work harder or that I’ve done something to cause the problem.

It’s also mean and puts me in danger. It’s dangerous because it makes people less likely to look for whatever is really causing the problem, which is often something that could turn serious untreated. It’s also dangerous because it makes me less likely to ask for help or inform anyone next time. And it’s mean because it treats me different than you’d treat a friend or expect to be treated yourself if you suddenly had trouble doing something you can always do.

There’s very little compassion in the response I got, but it’s pretty standard towards DD people with health problems. It’s one reason that rather than slacking, we tend overall towards pushing ourselves until we drop. Many end up in the hospital. Many die. Often from conditions that are treatable if caught early. That’s one reason I take these dismissive responses so seriously. It might not seem like a lot but the overall consequences can be extreme.

So please, if I say I’m having trouble, treat me like I’m having trouble and try to find out why. Don’t treat me like I must’ve done something to cause it and need to be pushed to work harder. And as always, I’m saying this on behalf of whole classes of people who get treated this way, not just myself. It applies to all of us. But I’m asking for myself, too. I don’t deserve to be treated like this either.

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Posted in Being human, disability rights, HCBS, medical, Self-advocacy, Values & Ethics

I’m in the hospital and everything has gone haywire and my life is chaos and I can predict nothing.

I can’t write everything at once so here’s what I’ve got for now. It’s factual medical stuff because that’s the easiest thing to write at the moment. It’s not all the factual medical stuff. It’s not everything I want to say. But to write anything suitable for blogging is harder than fuck right now so I’m doing what I can.

I’m in the hospital. Many things have gone wrong.

One of them, or a lot of them, is related to osteoporosis.

I have severe osteoporosis. Mostly from having to take lots of hydrocortisone, as far as we know. I have to take it, so I can’t get rid of it, I’ll be on it for the rest of my life.

Originally they told me my bones would be normal if I were various ages between 95 and 115. I am 38.

Right now my back is broken in two places. They’re called compression fractures. One is at T11 and one is at T7. T11 is stable. T7 is not healed. They are caused by a combination of osteoporosis and moving the wrong way, generally. With severe enough osteoporosis, moving the wrong way can be as simple as sneezing or bending forward.

I have kyphosis now as a result of the compression fractures. This is common in osteoporosis as well. Kyphosis means bending forward, sometimes known as hunchback. Some amount of kyphosis is common but a lot can be a problem. I have enough to be a problem.

My bone density was just tested using the gold standard testing and is worse than before. The osteoporosis clinic are holding off on doing my Replesta (a yearly osteoporosis treatment) until we can meet jointly with my endocrinologist who prescribes the hydrocortisone (steroids) to figure out a plan.

Right now the endocrinology team have been lowering my steroid doses as much as they can, but they feel they’ve done as much as they’re comfortable lowering right now. My doses are extremely high because we figured out last year during a month-long hospital stay for C Diff, that I needed that amount between the severe adrenal insufficiency and the probable-POTS (I’ll just refer to it as POTS from now on regardless)1. There are many good reasons to suspect that the kind of hydrocortisone I have to take and the way I have to take it in my tube are causing me to not absorb it all, hence the extremely high dose needed. But we’re always looking to reduce for obvious reasons. Hydrocortisone is my most important med and my most dangerous one at the same time. It keeps me alive, I would die without it, but it also eats my body alive and is causing prediabetes and severe osteoporosis.

I am having a lot more problems.

My back doesn’t work right anymore. Any time I stand up or sit down, it hurts like hell and feels wrong in a way I can’t describe easily. That wrong feeling seem more important than the pain in telling me I’m doing something disturbing to my body.

All the things that were difficult before have become impossible now. They used to be difficult things that will damage my body. My body is now well and truly damaged and won’t even do half those things at all.

They are telling me that I can’t go home until my bones knit.

They are telling me that will take longer possibly, because I’m on steroids and have osteoporosis. I have trouble healing in general in other areas so I hope not but I suspect they’re right.

They are telling me different amounts of time but amounting to “weeks and weeks”.

They are telling me to go to rehab until I heal. Which I know full well can turn into rehab / nursing home / ICF-DD / etc. forever, not rehab-temporary and go home.

Rehab is saying the developmental disability agency should handle it. Which is ridiculous.

I am having huge tube issues. Leakage mostly. Lots of it. Nurses here can’t manage it properly. I can’t manage it anymore. It’s terrible. Doctors say they don’t know what to do.

My entire future is up in the air.

My entire future is up in the air.

My entire future is up in the air.

Vermont developmental disability policy — in ways that violate federal Olmstead law — made this worse. It appears to be a statewide problem but Howard Center Developmental Services are the ones I deal with.

There is no pleasant or acceptable way to put this: They made me scrub tables and countertops and mop floors with a broken back. I can’t sugarcoat that turd and I refuse to try anymore.

They have a new policy that people with developmental disabilities who want to remain in our own homes must physically participate in activities of daily living in order to get help with them. They have lied to me and said this has always been the policy. Everyone knows it’s new, especially when applied across the board to all clients regardless of things like additional physical disability. But it’d be wrong even without physical disability for lots of reasons I don’t have the words for right now.

They have taken advantage of me.

I take pride in physical work. I always have. There was a time when I was quite good at it, even though I’ve always had physical impairments. I have not always had osteoporosis. At any rate, I enjoy it, and I enjoy having done it, and I prefer to do things for myself. These things have been deliberately and manipulatively used against me. They have been used to encourage me to do more than I can actually do. They have been used to justify things that are unjustifiable.

For example, my main blog picture that I use a lot of places is a picture of me being violently assaulted. But it’s also a picture of an activity that I take great pride and enjoyment in: Weeding the garden. It is not too hard to get me to weed a garden because I love the feel of my hands in the earth. I love the work. I love seeing the results of my work. That’s just my personality and preferences in the world.

But.

People with severe osteoporosis in their spine should not be weeding gardens. It combines virtually everything that endangers your spine to a stress fracture. Bending forward in that way is just bad for osteoporosis of the spine. They’ve told me bending and twisting my spine are two of the worst things I could be doing. They’re certainly two of the most painful.

So.

It’s easy to push me to do this. It’s very easy. There’s so many buttons they can just push, easily, to make me obey their rules. Which at the time, for the program I was in, meant that I could not get help weeding the garden without weeding it myself. I could not participate in a safe way according to them. I had to participate the exact same thing as the staff was doing. So if I was not weeding staff could not weed. And even trying my best that meant the garden never got weeded fully.

Mind you if they wanted participation at the time, I could’ve been holding the hose and watering, or doing something else that wouldn’t strain my back. But I wasn’t. And all of that can either cause a stress fracture or cause other damage that can lead to stress fractures getting worse or becoming more likely later. It’s not good. Ever.

And they had other rules like if I started to show symptoms of heat exhaustion, which I’m very prone to, then if I tried to sit it out in the car then all help in the garden had to stop for the day. So again my garden never fully made it off the ground and I never got to eat what I grew. And not everything grew that could’ve grown.

But they said because I liked gardening all this was okay. No. That makes it less okay. That means they took advantage of my interests. They took advantage of my pride in my work. They took advantage of a lot of things. To force independence theater down my throat until it fucked up my back something awful. Again there’s no good way of telling people they had me scrubbing tabletops with a broken back.

That’s just one example.

Now it’s everything around the house.

I’m allowed to do something else. Like, I can’t do dishes, so I’ve been washing countertops while someone else does dishes. That was an improvement and I let them do it. Felt like a compromise. Was and remain terrified of losing my apartment over this. Because their definition of independence is completely fucked up. And because they force this policy on all of us. So it’s so easy to get pushed into it. One part by fear, one part by pride in your work, they know how to push all our buttons and they do.

I am proud of what I do.

I enjoy work.

I am scared of being taken as lazy.

I am scared of losing the life of my own I’ve fought so hard for.

All those things.

They use.

They use them on purpose.

They hurt us with them.

It don’t matter — whether we have osteoporosis or not. It does and doesn’t. Because this is wrong to do to anyone.

But with osteoporosis it’s also doing physical violence.

It is violent to work someone until their back breaks twice and then work them some more after you know.

Violent.

This is violence.

They hurt me.

This is not okay.

Nothing can make it okay.

Even by their definitions of independence — which they claim this is all about — they’ve made me lose independence, not gain it.

When I got to the hospital I couldn’t walk to the bathroom on my own.

My arms don’t work the same as they used to. They’re way more of a problem than walking.

I can’t sit anymore without lightning fire shooting up and down my back until I can’t concentrate on anything.

How is this independence? Even by the messed-up definitions they use?

They’ve taken away my ability to do shit for myself.

Their idea of independence is all about doing shit for yourself.

That’s not how I define it.

But they do, and by their standards, they’ve taken it away.

By my standards they’ve taken it away too. By making me dependent on them to make decisions about what I should and shouldn’t do with my body.

But by their standards, which are about being able to do shit, they’ve really fucked up any chance I have. I’ll be really lucky if I can fulfill their terrible and illegal requirements to keep my ability to live on my own.

There’s hundreds of other clients in the sort of programs I’m in. We are mostly shunted into either the independent living programs with these requirements and the ability to live in our own home, or the shared living programs where you have to move out of your home and into a staff’s home. Where it’s staff’s rules and you don’t have as many rights but you can supposedly get more care. (Often it’s more like nursing homes, no more care but everyone feels like you’re safer.) Based partly on your ability to do all this shit that didn’t used to be a requirement to live on your own.

And I’ll point out again this is massively illegal.

We have very few places to turn.

We are isolated from each other and it’s hard to organize even when we want to.

The state has a huge bunch of programs that say they’re there to protect us and give us legal assistance when our rights have been violated. They’re almost all bullshit. They look good on paper. We are shown the back door and told to leave when we manage to get in at all. Or we are given services but as badly as they can manage. The “protective” system is really hard for anyone with a cognitive disability to navigate.

So don’t tell me all the right numbers to call. I’ve called them all. Or my DPOA has. It don’t work like that. I wish people understood that. I wish people understood all those organizations serve themselves, not us. People with developmental disabilities are left in the cold, period. When we’re not, it’s sheer dumb luck.

People are also being pushed out of services. A chaplain told me her DD friend started doing really well at the independence theater so they told her she didn’t need help anymore and removed all her services. She needed and still needs them. Being able to appear to do some things some times doesn’t mean being able to do all things all times when they’re needed. People can die from lack of services. People can suffer. It’s not okay for so many reasons.

I feel like I’m trapped in a maze I’ll never see the outside of again.

Lots of things I want to do with my life.

Including show people this is happening. To me and others.

But I want to do things. Say things.

I don’t know if I’ll ever do any of them.

I didn’t even know if I’d be able to write this. Or anything bloggable.

I don’t know anything about my future.

My cat is living with someone else for indefinite. I want to be with my cat.

I want to be able to be with my cat.

I want to be able to crochet.

What they’ve done to me has taken all that away for who knows how long.

Rehab, I’m told, won’t even let cats visit. Dogs yes cats no. WTF?

Wheelchairs are torture devices now because they require sitting and sitting is the enemy. Sitting hurts my back and makes my tubes leak.

My ostomy is not healed even after a year.

My new J-tube may be ruined.

My surgeon told me when he put it in that it may be the last one he’ll ever allow me to have.

I need a J-tube to survive.

I have a gut feeling there are solutions and nobody’s finding them.

Other things there may’ve been solutions once but they may be gone by now.

I don’t know yet which is which and where is where.

My future is a big fuzzy unknown.

I don’t fear death but I want badly to be alive. There’s so much I want to do.

I want to write things that are important to me.

I want to fulfill the promise I made to make a video about feeding tubes. Even with all the complications I can’t possibly recommend them higher. I love what my feeding tube has given me. It’s given me life. I want to tell people that. I need to tell people that. It’s given me life. Life is what I want. I promised myself if it saved my life I’d make a video explaining this and that’s become too hard.

I want to do and say a lot of things about a lot of things.

I want to crochet.

I want to live with my cat.

I want to be a human being I want to be a human being I want to be a human being.

Practically nobody treats me as human. I treasure everyone who does.

Even now people act like it’s a surprise my back is broken.

Even now people act like it’s a surprise this has consequences.

How many times do I have to break my back?

How much kyphosis do I need for how long?

I have other curvature too.

Someone who has watched all this happen, really close up, for years…

They told me something.

They said, in an ordinary family, if someone gets sick or breaks a bone, the rest of the family does more of the work so that person can rest.

Going to the hospital is the first rest I’ve had in ages.

And it’s the first my abilities have improved.

And I’m working my ass off, mind you.

I do a little more work every day for physical therapy.

They’re telling me, I need to learn to feel my body.

I’m learning to feel my body in ways I didn’t know.

They said nobody can do it for me, I have to figure out what “too much” feels like.

I’ve been taught never to obey “This is too much” from my body. Never to feel it, never to obey it.

Howard Center has practically made it a crime. It goes against “independence” to ask for help when something’s too much.

They could’ve kllled me.

This kind of thing might still kill me.

I will no longer say yes to everything.

My arms don’t work in so many ways.

Everything’s haywire. It’s like having a whole new body.

I’m having to learn a whole new body.

It doesn’t move the same, it doesn’t react the same, it doesn’t feel the same.

Everything is different.

My back sends me signals I can’t even compute.

My arms do weird things every time I move them.

I have trouble getting enough air.

I have new muscle spasms.

All triggered by random-ass things I can’t predict.

And no notion of whether rehab is gonna be an ability to recover for awhile, or an exercise in frustration as they tell me to do shit that’s bad for me and don’t believe me when I tell them what I know about my own body. Whether I’ll stay a little and leave, or get trapped in their system or some other system.

And people think this is normal.

People think this is okay.

People even think this is good.

If they say it’s not good for me, they still sometimes think it’s good for everyone else. It’s not. This is wrong to do to someone. It doesn’t just hurt you physically. It hurts you all kinds of ways. All in the name of helping.

And meaning well doesn’t make this okay.

Nothing can make this okay.

THIS IS WRONG.

THEY’RE HURTING US.

IF THEY CAN SAY WE LIKE IT, that MAKES IT WORSE, NOT BETTER.

My fucking back is broken twice and even after the x-rays happened they still kept going.

My fucking back is broken twice.

My ribs have been broken so many times they don’t count it on the x-ray.

My hip has a healed stress fracture.

My body is falling apart.

Some of that is just osteoporosis.

But some of that is being forced to do shit I can’t safely do.

Also please remember that in a person with adrenal insufficiency, a broken bone can trigger a life-threatening cortisol drop or adrenal crisis.

We often don’t catch the broken bones as they happen. They show up on x-rays or CAT scans later. Often while looking for something totally different.

This is a stress fracture of the thoracic spine:

This is kyphosis stemming from an osteoporosis-related stress fracture:

I’ve got both of those going on.

My sodium has been tanking worse than it ever has since my ICU stay where I stopped breathing due to sodium and potassium deficiencies. I’m on fluid restriction to try to get it back up. I have milder potassium issues right now and right now all my electrolytes but sodium are mildly abnormal. This is all tied to the tube issues.

When I came to the hospital I was delirious. That morning I had been in my chair doing something active and engaging, and next thing I knew I woke up across the room on the floor. I’d shit myself bad enough my pubic hair was saturated with shit. I’d aspirated antacid that’d come up from my stomach. I couldn’t pull myself off the floor. I spent a couple hours dragging myself around until someone came in and called 911. I don’t remember everything clearly but I’ve been in the hospital ever since.

People think this is normal, inevitable, okay.

I’ve been watching hospital roommates get talked into rehab, nursing homes, into not going home.

I don’t see any choice but saying yes to rehab. I know what rehab is. I still have no real choices in this system.

The night before the hospital, Howard Center told me they couldn’t have anyone stay with me in the emergency room. VNA had told me I wasn’t acting like myself and wasn’t thinking straight and that my sodium must be very off. It was. But since nobody could stay with me, I opted for coming home with the woman who took me at the end of her staff shift. That meant missing the medical treatment I needed.

My friend visited me recently. They said they walked by Howard Center and wanted to just go in and scream at someone. They didn’t, fortunately. But it’s a common feeling among people who know me well. They’re angry. I’m angry. Over what happens to me but also that it’s happening to others. The numbers are such it’s impossible my situation is unique. I wouldn’t be as motivated to tell people all about this if it was unique.


Graph showing sodium levels for the past several years. The first huge dip is my ICU stay when I went alkaline and was admitted for respiratory arrest with oxygen around 60. Other large dips are often hospital stays, often involving going alkaline. The series of dips towards the end is recently. Recent dips is the lowest it’s been since the ICU stay.
Thoracic spine, 2 views 5/8/2019 12:06 pm
Clinical History/Comments:
K94.13-Enterostomy malfunction (HCC-CMS)-ICD-10; J-tube site leakage, r/o constipation

AP and lateral views of the thoracic spine are compared with the prior examination dated April 21, 2019. The images are underexposed because of body habitus. There is mid thoracic kyphosis resulting from veritable plans involving T7. There is also moderate wedging deformity of T11. these regions are very poorly seen on the last examination, and I am unable to determine whether there has been progression of deformity. Overall kyphosis looks very similar.

Impression: Compression fractures of T7 and T11, suboptimally seen because of diffuse osteopenia and body habitus.

An x-ray report describing compression fractures at T7 and T11, and kyphosis. The “body habitus” stuff is a medical way of saying I’m fat and they didn’t expose the x-ray long enough to compensate. There’s people a lot fatter than me who get good x-rays, so I don’t know why they don’t just adjust things the way they’re supposed to sometimes.

Here’s a webpage about compression fractures of the thoracic spine if you’re interested. It has a lot of information about how they work and what to do and not to do. The drawings on this blog post are from there. It’s the University of Maryland Medical Center website.

When a bone in the spine collapses, it is called a vertebral compression fracture. These fractures happen most commonly in the thoracic spine (the middle portion of the spine), particularly in the lower vertebra of the thoracic spine.

There is not one single cause of compression fractures, though the word compression would indicate that the fracture occurs because of too much pressure being placed on the bone. If the bone is too weak to hold normal pressure, it may not take much pressure to cause the vertebral body to collapse. Most healthy bones can withstand a lot of pressure and the spine will bend to absorb the shock. However, if the force is too great for the vertebrae to sustain, one or more of them can fracture. To understand a fracture, think about bending a pencil. If you place pressure on the pencil, it will bend a little then go back into place when the pressure is gone. However, if you bend the pencil too far – past its breaking point, it will crack or break apart. Similarly, the amount a vertebra collapses/fractures depends upon the amount of pressure it has to withstand.


A common cause of compression fractures is the disease osteoporosis. This disease thins the bones, often to the point that they are too weak to bear normal pressure. The thinning bones can collapse during normal activity, leading to a spinal compression fracture. In fact, spinal compression fractures are the most common type of osteoporotic fractures. Forty percent of all women will have at least one by the time they are 80 years old. These vertebral fractures can permanently alter the shape and strength of the spine. The fractures usually heal on their own and the pain goes away. However, sometimes the pain can persist if the crushed bone fails to heal adequately.


In severe cases of osteoporosis, actions as simple as bending forward can be enough to cause a “crush fracture”, or spinal compression fracture. This type of vertebral fracture causes loss of height and a humped back – especially in elderly women. This disorder (called kyphosis or a “dowager’s hump”) is an exaggeration of your spine, that causes the shoulders to slump forward and the top of your back to look enlarged and humped.
Trauma to the spinal vertebrae can also lead to minor or severe fractures. Such trauma could come from a fall, a forceful jump, a car accident, or any event that stresses the spine past its breaking point.

If the fracture is caused by a sudden, forceful injury, you will probably feel severe pain in your back, legs, and arms. You might also feel weakness or numbness in these areas if the fracture injures the nerves of the spine. If the bone collapse is gradual – such as a fracture from bone thinning, the pain will usually be milder. There might not be any pain at all until the bone actually breaks.

Treatment


The most common treatments for a thoracic compression fracture are: pain medications, decreasing activity, and bracing. In rare cases, surgery may also be necessary.


Pain Medications


Mild pain medications can reduce pain when taken properly. However, remember that medications will not help the fracture to heal. The medication is simply to help with pain control. 
To review the types of pain medications used for back pain please review:
Medications for Back Pain


Decreasing Activity


You will most likely have to limit your normal activities. You should avoid any strenuous activity or exercise. You will definitely need to avoid heavy lifting and anything else that might place too much strain on your fractured vertebra. If you are elderly, your doctor might also put you on bed rest. Older bones take longer to heal and are typically thinner and weaker than younger bones. Treat this fracture as you would any other broken bone – carefully and seriously!


Bracing


Another common form of treatment for some types of vertebral compression fractures is bracing. Your doctor may prescribe a back support (often officially called an orthosis). The brace supports the back and restricts movement; just as an arm brace would support a fracture of the arm. The brace is well molded to conform tightly to your body, like a cast for any other fracture. The brace used to treat a compression fracture of the spine is designed to keep you from bending forward. It holds the spine in hyperextension (meaning more extension, or straightening, than normal). This takes most of the pressure off the fractured vertebral body, and allows the vertebrae to heal. It also protects the vertebra and stops further collapse of the bone.
Vertebral fractures usually take about three months to fully heal. X-rays will probably be taken monthly to check on the healing progress.


To learn more about the different types of braces available to treat compression fractures you may wish to review the document entitled:
Back and Neck Braces


Surgery


Surgery to fix most spinal compression is rarely needed. With vertebral fractures, surgery, or internal fixation, is only considered if there is evidence of sudden and serious instability of the spine. For instance, if the fracture leads to a loss of 50% of the vertebral body’s height, surgery might be necessary to prevent damage that is more serious to the spinal nerves. 


If your doctor feels that surgery is necessary to treat your fracture, he or she will probably suggest using some type of internal fixation to hold the vertebrae in the proper position while the bone heals. If there are signs that there is too much pressure on the spinal cord, the bone fragments pushing into the spinal cord may also need to be removed.

Several specific complications can occur with a vertebral compression fracture. If you notice or suspect a complication, please contact your doctor immediately. 


Segmental Instability


If a fracture leads to a vertebral body collapse of more than 50 percent, there is a risk of segmental instability. Each spinal segment is like a well-tuned part of a machine. All of the parts should work together to allow weight-bearing, movement, and support. A spinal segment is composed of two vertebrae attached together by ligaments, with a soft disc separating them. The facet joints fit between the two vertebrae, allowing for movement, and the foramen between the vertebrae allow space for the nerve roots to travel freely from the spinal cord to the body. When all the parts are functioning properly, all spinal segments join to make up a remarkably strong structure called the spine. When one segment deteriorates, or collapses, to the point of instability, it can lead to localized pain and difficulties. The instability eventually results in faster degeneration of the spine in this area.


Kyphotic Deformity

Though the thoracic spine is supposed to be curved (or kyphotic), if the curve in a person’s thoracic spine is more than 40 to 45 degrees, it is considered abnormal. Sometimes this deformity is described as “round back posture” or “hunchback”. It is a common disorder in elderly women who have osteoporosis and frequent fractures. The front of the vertebrae will collapse and wedge due to the lack of normal vertebral space. This condition leads to a more rounded thoracic spine.


Neurologic Complications


If the fracture causes part of the vertebral body to place pressure on the spinal cord, the nerves can be affected. There is some space between the spinal cord and the edges of the spinal canal. However, this space can be reduced if the pieces of the broken vertebral body push into the spinal canal. The bony tube of the spinal canal cannot expand if the spinal cord or nerves require more space. If anything begins to narrow the spinal canal – such as if the vertebrae protrude into its space, the risk of irritation and serious injury of the spinal cord or nerves increases. 
The narrowing of the spinal canal due to a compression fracture can either lead to immediate injury to the nerves of the spine, or irritation of the nerves later. If the irritation on the spinal nerves comes later (even after the fracture has healed), it can cause pain and problems with the nerves not working right. The lack of space can also cause the supply of blood and oxygen to the spinal cord to be reduced. When the spine needs more blood flow during increased activity, the blood vessels may not be able to swell to get more blood to the spine. This can lead to numbness and pain in the nerves that are affected. The nerves also lose some of their mobility when the space available to them is reduced. This leads to irritation and inflammation of the nerves. This condition is called spinal stenosis. For more information on spinal stenosis, you may wish to review the document, entitled:
Lumbar Spinal Stenosis


All of these conditions may lead to the need for surgery in order to reduce pressure on the spinal cord, or to stabilize the spine. Surgery might also be necessary to reduce pain and/or the danger of neurological problems.

-University of Maryland Medical Center, Thoracic Compression Fractures

So that’s a bunch of quotes from the website that explain how serious this is and what it can mean and what to do about it and what not to do. Note how weeding gardens falls under the “worst crap you can do to osteoporosis” category. I’ve never been offered the opportunity of a garden since then. They can’t appear to deal with the idea of helping me in the garden without forcing me to break my back in the process. Like I can do nothing but the things my body shouldn’t. Like they should determine what I can and can’t, should and shouldn’t, do, and then force me to do whatever it is.

Right now?

Chest pain whenever I breathe.

When I stand up or sit down, my breathing goes wonky. Sometimes can’t catch my breath. Sometimes everything spasms and vibrates.

My bedsheets are full of bile from my J-tube stoma. (The tube is not leaking, the stoma is, it’s an important difference. The tube has been behaving wonderfully, it’s something around it not working.)

Moving my arms can range from painful to making things in my back move that shouldn’t.

Lots of these things cause a ‘warning’ feeling, like ‘something ain’t right here’ that’s more disturbing than pain.

There’s a lot of pain though.

Not just in my back.

And I can’t sit anymore. So wheelchairs are my only option for distance yet make me feel like 20 kinds of hell until I’m ready to collapse from pain but can’t.

Can’t reach behind my back.

Can’t bend forward.

Arms are weird.

Back is weird.

Breathing is weird.

Breathing HURTS.

Nobody explains fully.

People say I need to understand for myself.

Never been allowed to.

Rest is better.

Not rest all the time. Supposed to be a balance.

But getting any rest is a novelty.

Any at all.

They all say I’m working really hard.

But I feel like I’m resting a ton.

Even one day of rest I was gaining abilities instead of losing them.

One day.

One fucking day.

I haven’t had one fucking day of rest.

Even though I got fucking pneumonia.

Even though I been having seizures.

Even though, even though.

One day of rest.

Not that the hospital is safe.

But it’s safer than home.

Knowing what the hospital is like that’s scary.

They often ask, “Do you feel safe in your own home?”

No, no I don’t.

I feel manipulated.

I feel taken advantage of.

I feel like I’ve given everything just to get what everyone with a developmental disability deserves.

Given everything until it broke my fucking back and even then they wouldn’t let me rest.

They made me scrub shit.

Even when they knew.

Even when they fucking knew.

Even when they knew that moving my arm across the midline was making horrible things happen in my back.

Even after I told them.

Even apparently after other people told them.

Because I’m not the only person who stood up for me.

People who’ve known me a long time are furious.

I haven’t been furious enough.

I’ve been letting them.

I’ve been letting them parade me around do independence theater just to get the services I’ve always gotten.

Independence theater is physically violent.

It probably broke my back and it definitely made it worse afterwards.

How many times does my back have to break before it matters?

How many people have to get injured or suffer or lose services or lose their homes?

How many people participate in or justify what I call a crime against humanity?

Because the way disabled people are forced out of our homes is a crime against humanity. It doesn’t matter whether it’s recognized as one. It is one. It’s like the Victorian poorhouse. It doesn’t have to exist but people in the societies in question think it does. Doesn’t make it any more okay. In some ways makes it worse.

I’m not someone who can’t accept the inevitable reality of being disabled.

I’m someone who refuses to accept something that isn’t inevitable or right at all.

I’m so sick of seeing people who have perfectly natural reactions to this situation treated as pathological.

I had a roommate who was being shunted out of her family and into rehab.

One of many, but this one…

She objected by stating every day that she was going home.

There were all kinds of reasons she said this.

I didn’t learn till she’d been sent to rehab, that they considered this a sign of disorientation.

I’ve been disoriented since I’ve been in the hospital.

She wasn’t.

It had nothing to do with not knowing where she was.

But that’s what they do.

They call it pathological, when we resist in any way.

And they think this way automatically. It’s not a deliberate attempt to manipulate necessarily. It’s just where their minds go.

I have been delirious. This makes me vulnerable.

I am scared about my future.

I don’t know where to go. What to do.

I have weird ideas about what I want from life these days.

Part of me wants to move to the San Joaquin Valley. Yes, I know what it’s like, I’ve lived and worked there, and I’m not kidding.

But I can’t get out the hospital door, let alone on a plane.

I want to crochet lots of things.

A desert scene in tribute to my friend’s dead cat.

Something showing water and not-water in a particular way I have mapped out in my head.

A tribute to California landscapes that mean something to me.

Places where my bones seem to resonate with the land and the bones under the land in some places.

Things about my ancestors.

I want to publish the letters I’ve been writing to Cheryl Marie Wade. Which is a thing about my ancestors, actually.

Things about what’s happening to people.

Things that are just about being a fucking human being.

I want to be human.

I want to be human.

I want to be human.

If you know what I mean by that.

I want to be human.




1It’s hard to diagnose. So we’re almost certain I have it but not quite. It’s just easier to say “I have POTS” than “I have what’s probably POTS but we don’t totally know” every single time. Here’s some information on POTS if you care what it is. It basically means my body responds to standing as if it means I’ve been running uphill. So among other things I get weak and out of breath from standing sometimes. Like my gastroparesis, it could well be related to the neuropathy that runs in my family.

Posted in Developmental disability, Developmental disability service system, disability rights, HCBS, medical, Self-advocacy

Best hashtag ever: #GetYourBellyOut

#GetYourBellyOut is the best hashtag ever,

I’d better backtrack.

I had an ISA meeting.  That’s Individual Support Agreement.  At the last second, they brought a Surprise Administrator.  That is what I am calling the lady who showed up at the door to the meeting even though I’d been told that the only people present would be Laura (my DPA and soon to be adoptive mother) and my two case managers.  Surprise Administrator (SA for short) was someone who works in the Howard Center administration.  Surprise because they didn’t tell me she’d be at my ISA meeting until she was at m

The ISA is Vermont’s version of a person-centered plan.  It, of course, just like in other states, does not have to be either a plan or person-centered to qualify as a person-centered plan.  The meeting was certainly not very person-centered.  It degenerated into a shouting match mostly.  And a lot of it was the Surprise Administrator telling me that I was off-topic.  At my own ISA meeting.  When attempting to explain my ISA goals.  Which were “off-topic” because they didn’t like

So it was good that there was a moment of comic relief in all that because otherwise it was just a shitshow that went nowhere productive.

This moment of comic relief came at an unexpected time.

I had defined my first goal as survival.

I meant it.

I actually had specific, concrete actions I wanted taken in order to get to that goal, but the Surprise Administrator was busy telling us that this was impossible.

So at some point an exchange very close to the following took place between Laura and the Surprise Administrator:

Surprise Administrator: Survival isn’t a goal.
Laura: Yeah it is!
Surprise Administrator: It’s a vague goal.
Laura: What’s vague about it? If her heart keeps beating…
Surprise Administrator: Yeah but some people define survival differently than others, like some people define it as being hooked to all kinds of tubes and vents and stuff.
Me: (silently but firmly pull shirt up to show two feeding tubes and an ostomy bag)
Surprise Administrator: OH MY GOD I DON’T NEED TO SEE THAT PUT YOUR SHIRT BACK ON RIGHT NOW!

After the amount of sheer bullshit that went on in that meeting, I can’t even try to make myself feel bad about the amount of giddy, giggly, juvenile pleasure I got out of that incident.  Especially given how sleep-deprived I was at the time.

So later on I discovered the best Twitter hashtag ever: #GetYourBellyOut.

It’s the complete opposite of the Surprise Administrator’s hashtag, which I imagine would be #PutYourShirtOnMel.

The idea is people with ostomy bags are supposed to pull up our shirts, take selfies, and post the pics on Twitter under the hashtag #GetYourBellyOut.

It was started by a guy with a colostomy.  The point is to reduce shame and stigma around colostomies, ostomy bags, stomas in general, etc.  It’s mostly about colostomies but can apply to anyone with similar things.  My ostomy bag goes over a healing jejunostomy stoma after the tube was removed, and I’ll continue to need an ostomy bag to catch the bile until it heals.  Which could be months.

So this is the picture I posted to #GetYourBellyOut:                                               

#GetYourBellyOut

Which is basically, in the above picture, roughly the same sight the “PUT YOUR SHIRT BACK ON” comment was inspired by.

I’m just… highly amused there’s a hashtag for exactly what I did spontaneously out of frustration.

Anyway here’s a Get Your Belly Out website for Crohn’s and Ulcerative Colitis.  I don’t have either of those things, but I love their website picture, which is a bunch of bare bellies with stomas and ostomy bags! 

STOMA BELLIES!

I’m a huge fan of anything that makes people realize that bags, tubes, holes in weird places on the human body, and the like are a normal part of life for a lot of people. And not a cause for excessive bellyaching (oh come on, I had to say it) about having to see it…

Posted in Death & Mortality Series

Medicalizing eating and drinking is more sinister than it sounds.

In my last post, I discussed the way food and water are medicalized when you get them through a feeding tube.  But the way I discussed it could’ve given the wrong impression.  I discussed it mostly in terms of its emotional effects.  The way it changes your relationship to food.  The absurdity of having to argue with doctors about how much water you’re allowed to drink.  When you have no medical reason for fluid restriction or any other actual excuse for them to act like they have a right to control something so basic.  The importance of eating food that you enjoy, even if you’re eating it through a tube.  The importance of food being emotional, sensory, cultural, all kinds of things besides medical.

Mel eating by holding an orange feeding syringe with an olive-green soup mixture going into a J-tube on hir belly.
Eating.  This is one way that I eat. That’s soup made from putting beans and vegetables (black beans, butternut squash, spinach, and guacamole, I think — possibly with some soy sauce and Sriracha) in a blender.  I’m eating it with syringes because there’s a clog in the line on my feeding bag, or I’d be eating it with a feeding pump.  Either way, it’s just eating, not medical treatment.  Food is not medical treatment no matter how the food gets into your body.

But in all of that discussion, I never discussed the most sinister part of food and water being considered medical.

When food and water become medical treatments, they become optional.  They become something you can refuse.  They become something a doctor, or an ethics committee (what an Orwellian name, given the way they so frequently treat disabled people), can decide is futile or unnecessary or medically inadvisable or something else along those lines.

In other words, when food and water become a medical treatment, then it becomes much easier to kill you by withholding them.

I filled out a living will awhile back.  Living wills are disturbing in all kinds of ways that most people don’t appreciate.  Most people see living wills as a wonderful way for people to indicate their future choices about medical treatments.  Most people don’t see the ways they’re set up to make it much easier to choose death than to choose life with a disability.  And to subtly nudge you in that general direction.  They’re not the value-neutral documents most people assume they are.  They already have values built into them that may not be the same values as the person filling them out.

I could obviously go on at quite some length about living wills. I’m not going to do it here though.  I want to talk about something very specific.

The structure of the living will I filled out basically went like this:  “If you needed this treatment in order to survive, would you want to die?”  The part that goes this treatment starts out with fairly noninvasive stuff.  And progresses through a series of medical treatments, in order from what the creators of the document consider least drastic to most drastic.

Anyway, the first treatment I remember having to answer questions about was a feeding tube.  Which does make sense within their structure:  Feeding tubes are pretty noninvasive and completely reversible.

But it disturbs me.

It disturbs me that a feeding tube is considered something you should have to decide whether to live or die about.

It disturbs me that food and water are medical.

Because that’s where it all starts.

Where food and water are medical.

Mouth Magazine reported once on a woman who’d had a stroke.  She had a living will saying she wouldn’t want continued medical treatment if she had brain damage.  She changed her mind once she had brain damage.  She wasn’t considered competent to change her mind.  They decided food and water were medical treatments — in her case, she didn’t even need a feeding tube.  She tried desperately to get food and water, but they prevented her from doing so, saying they were honoring her wishes and that she was incompetent to make her own decisions.

Mouth Magazine had this to say about itself at one point:

During the last ten years, it is fair to say, Mouth has lowered the level of discourse on the subject of the helping system. About time, too.

Mouth brings the conversation down to street level, where well-intentioned “special” programs wreak havoc in the lives of ordinary people. People talk about calling a spade a spade. We call Jack Kevorkian a serial killer. And when maggots outnumber nurses’ aides at what others call a “care facility,” we call it a hellhole. We say it out loud: if special education is so darned special, every kid in every school ought to have the benefit of it.

About Mouth Magazine

In that spirit, I will call what they did to that woman exactly what it was:  murder.

All the bullshit about honoring her wishes is bullshit.  She clearly wanted to be alive.  To declare someone incompetent to decide they want to survive, to declare someone incompetent to fucking change their mind… that’s some high-order bullshit.  Dangerous bullshit.  Deadly, murderous bullshit.

And this bullshit, and this kind of murder, happens daily.  One person I know who worked in the medical system said the disturbing thing to her was that she was complicit in at least one murder without being aware of it.  Because of the ways they warp your thinking to make it seem like something, anything is going on other than the intentional killing of another human being.

Except it is the intentional killing of another human being.

And often, it starts with the medicalization of food and water.

Food and water are not medical treatments.

Food and water don’t become medical treatments just because they take an unusual route into your body.

A feeding tube is just like having another mouth.  It’s just that the mouth is located in an odd spot.  That’s all it is.  It’s a mouth that opens directly into your stomach or your intestine, instead of going down your esophagus first.  (Then there’s NG and NJ tubes, which do go down your esophagus, but they’re still just another slightly unusual route for food to take into your body.)

There is nothing about a feeding tube that truly makes food and water medical treatments.

There is nothing about disability, including brain damage, that truly makes food and water medical treatments.

This reclassification exists in part to make it easier to kill us.  Not that every single person who medicalizes food and water has that in mind.  But that’s part of the point behind the reasoning’s existence.  And even when it’s not initially intended that way.  Anyone who wants to use it that way can easily just pick up the situation and use it in exactly that way.  Once food and water become a medical treatment, starvation and dehydration become withholding medical treatment rather than starving or dehydrating someone.

You can’t even have an honest conversation about the issues involved here, when everything’s replaced with a medical euphemism.  Because we’re actually talking about murder (the intentional killing of another human being) and suicide (someone intentionally killing themselves).  And you can debate the ethics of murder or suicide in various circumstances till the cows come home.  But you can’t even hold the debate in an honest or straightforward fashion when murder and suicide or even just killing are replaced with withholding medical treatment.

And when food and water are only considered medical treatment for a certain class of person (usually some subgroup of disabled people), I call that deadly ableism.  

So medicalizing food and water is never just an annoyance or nuisance.  It’s like a weapon:  Someone can absentmindedly carry it into a room and leave it lying around for some reason that has nothing to do with killing.  But then someone else can pick it up and seriously injure or kill you with it.  So it’s never not sinister, disturbing, and dangerous. 

And that’s important to always keep in mind:  Once something fundamental to survival is considered medical treatment, it can always be withheld much more easily without raising many eyebrows.  Hell, people who advocate withholding it can paint themselves as champions of your human rights rather than people trying to prevent you from exercising your human right to, well, food and water.  It makes it way easier to turn everything on its head without anyone noticing what’s going on.

Mel with headphones on, smiling and holding up a green coffee mug of kombucha with a feeding syringe sticking out of it.
Drinking kombucha and listening to country music doesn’t become a medical treatment just because a feeding tube and syringe are involved.

This post is part of my Death & Mortality Series.  Please read my introduction to my Death & Mortality series if you can, to understand the context I write this in.  Thank you.

Posted in medical, Speech

A (sorta) funny emergency speech story…

This post is part of a series of posts on the topic of speech.  Please read the first post in the series, New Blog Topic: Speech, to give you some idea of the backstory here.  99% of the time I’m completely unable to use speech as a primary mode of communication, and that is still true.  But this speech blog topic is about both my baseline level of speech these days, and an emergency speech mode that sometimes makes me fluent without any conscious control over the process. 

…well it’s funny when viewed from a certain perspective, and in hindsight mostly.  And it illustrates a serious problem of inconvenience with emergency speech.  It also happens to be the shortest period of emergency speech I’ve ever had1.

So one day I decided to go to the farmer’s market. Someone would drive me there and I’d walk home. I didn’t take a lot of mobility or communication equipment I really could’ve used.  I wasn’t expecting to need it.  Mistake.

A bunch of booths at the Burlington Farmer's Market in City Hall Park, Burlington, Vermont.
The Burlington, Vermont farmer’s market. I don’t know exactly what I was expecting. In California, farmer’s markets as I knew them were roadside stands where fresh produce was sold cheaply and mostly poor people (including the farmworkers) shopped there because it was cheaper than the grocery store. That is… so far from what a farmer’s market is around here that I found myself quite surprised by it all. I did find some amusement though — there were Anaheim sweet peppers with no spiciness to them at all, not even a tingle, labeled with a spiciness warning. And even the best hot sauce I could find wasn’t that hot. It made me realize how Californian my food tastes are.

Anyway, I tried to walk around a very long line at one of the booths, and hit a slippery patch of mud. I took one of the most spectacular falls I’ve ever taken.

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen someoone W-sit. I’m hypermobile and such a posture comes naturally to me. (It’s considered horrible for you but if your joints are loose it’s a very stabilizing sort of posture.) Normally, W-sitting looks kinda like this:

wsitting_850px_10-600x600.jpg

So just imagine that I’m lying flat on my back and my legs are kind of in that W-position except somehow they’re folded so they’re underneath my back, and you’ll get the general idea.  I’m at that point in excruciating pain.

So I yell — with total clarity and fluency and no trouble at all making myself understood, nor any pre-planning to what I was going to say — “WILL SOMEONE PLEASE HELP GET MY LEGS OUT FROM UNDER ME!?

And someone runs over and does it.

The sharpest of the pain vanishes instantly.

And then I can’t talk anymore.

And at that point there’s paramedics, and a lot of information I have to give them, and talking would be really convenient at that point.  But nope.  No fluent speech available.  Barely any non-fluent speech available.  And I’ve got several broken ribs and two sprained ankles.  (They concentrated so much on the ankles that none of us even noticed the ribs until later after I’d got home.  Fortunately(?) because I have osteoporosis, I’m used to broken ribs and knew what to do.)

It ended up okay, but this is a good example of the way that emergency speech is largely outside my control.  And how it doesn’t always have a lot of rhyme or reason in terms of convenience — it would’ve been nice if it stuck around for the paramedics, but it didn’t.  My brain has a mind of its own when it comes to the occasions it decides fluency is gonna happen.

I don’t remember exactly when this happened, other than that it was the same summer I was in the ICU, after my ICU-acquired emergency speech2 had gone away.  I also remember that they actualy discovered the many healed broken ribs, along with a stable stress fracture to my T12 vertebra, the December after this.  They’d been doing a lung x-ray and my lungs were fine but other things were clearly not.  So this would’ve been the summer of 2016, I just figured out by checking some records.

But… yeah.  Apparently my brain decides when fluency is medically necessary, and it doesn’t always agree with me on the matter…


1 Understand I haven’t had this happen that many times. But the amount of time I’ve had it stay on more or less consistently has ranged from seconds to a few months. Right now I’m in a very weird period where it’s trying to stay on longer than it ought to due to a huge amount of medical crap happening, and the speech trying to turn on even past the point it can sustain itself… it’s causing all kinds of mayhem in the process. And by mayhem I mean actually dangerous to me.

2 This speech had been longer-lived than just a sentence, and lasted my entire ICU stay and then a little after I got out of the hospital. It began sometime in between when I had a long series of seizures, and when I stopped breathing. The existence of speech was actually one of the factors that caused people to call 911.

Posted in Death & Mortality Series

“Are you at peace with your decision?”

This post is part of my Death & Mortality Series.  Please read my introduction to my Death & Mortality series if you can, to understand the context I write this in.  Thank you.

What do you imagine is happening when you see this scene:

I am lying in a hospital bed, very ill with aspiration pneumonia and starvation.  I have a visitor from out of state, someone who recently lost her father to pneumonia and wants to see me just in case.  A doctor walks in.

This is a teaching hospital, so he’s not alone. He’s followed into the room by a line of assorted med students, residents, and the like.  I call them ducklings, because they followt he main doctor around in a line.  Someone online said “Not ducklings, doclings.”  So now they’re doclings.

So the pulmonologist — not my pulmonologist, just a pulmonologist — walks into my room followed by a gaggle of doclings, who fan out around my bed.  And the first thing out of his mouth is a solemn, “Are you at peace with your decision?”

I say yes.

He repeats his question, “Are you at peace with your decision?”

I say yes.

This keeps happening until he solemnly leads the doclingsgout

What would you assume was going on there?

Because I’d assume that I’d chosen to end my medical treatment and go home and die, or something along those lines.

But that’s not what he was doing.

His question was about whether I’d be at peace with getting the feeding tube that ultimately saved my life.

Guess what, doctor?

I’ve had feeding tubes for six or seven years now.

I’ve had my share of complications.  Infections, abscesses, a tube wrapping around my intestine.

I.  Still.  Want.  My.  Tubes.

My tubes are life, not death.  When you get a feeding tube, nobody should ever treat it as if you’ve just chosen to die.  But they do.

For my 38th birthday dinner, I had soup:  Sweet Pea (sweet peas) and Super Greens (spinach, broccoli, green peas, and coconut).

Mel eating green soup through hir J-tube.

Then I had kombucha.

Photo on 8-16-18 at 1.25 AM #2

I enjoyed all of it.

And I’d never have reached the age of 38 without my feeding tubes.

So the answer to the question is still the following:

Yes, but your question and the way you’re asking it could get someone killed.

Stop treating people choosing to live as if we’ve chosen to die.

Posted in Being human, joy, medical, music

Who am I when I can’t do…?

Mel wearing headphones with shadows falling over parts of hir face.
Mel wearing headphones with shadows falling over parts of hir face.

I hate being reduced to a pile of medical problems.

I don’t care what guise it comes under, either. I’m not your intriguing case. I’m not a two-dimensional prop in your medical detective story. Or your medical melodrama about brave people who buck the system and discover the truth. Or your very private psychodramas you want to act out with me as little more then a living doll.  And that includes “positive” versions of originally medical ideas — if you reduce me to any diagnosis, no matter how positive you think you’ve changed it into, you’re still reducing me down to something I’m not comfortable being reduced down to. It’s why I’m not comfortable with communities that’ve basically grown out of a single medical label, no matter how they believe they’ve transformed it.  At any rate, if you want to reduce me to medical crap, whether you think it’s good or bad — I’m not fucking interested. If you reduce me or my life to medical issues you’ll rapidly find yourself being ignored or tolerated at best.

But sometimes it seems like things close in, and all there is time and energy to think about is the next medical thing. And I start wondering, is this all there is to me? Is my life just one medical crisis to the next and holding myself together with strings and baling wire in the meantime? You don’t want to know the sanitary conditions I’m living in right now, the compromises I’ve been forced to make for survival. If you’re physically disabled you probably have some idea either from your own life or that of your friends. The shit we do to survive and live free at the same time. It’s criminal that we’re forced to live this way. I have an elderly family member I probably inherited my congenital myasthenia from, they describe crawling around the house when they can’t walk, and can’t get up off the floor, and you don’t want to know how they drive a car sometimes. They’ve coded before, I worry about it happening far from help next time.

Anyway, eventually the world closes in and all you can think about is medical shit. Explaining it to people over and over again. Doing medical shit you need to do to survive. And it feels like there’s nothing left, nothing left to you, everything’s gone.

It’s scary.

And it doesn’t help when that’s essentially how lots of people see you. As just a pile of flesh with a lot of medical problems. You start to go crazy. You start to wonder if there ever was anything more to who you are. Medical shit can fuck with your head in huge ways.

The medical way of seeing us is incomplete. It doesn’t include the things that make us people. Those core things that really matter. So if this shit gets into your head, you can’t see those things about yourself either.

The important parts of the world never go away. They are literally everywhere, embedded in everything. Including us. When we can’t feel them or perceive them, it’s always because something is blocking our view. Not because they’ve gone anywhere.

It’s easy to get caught up in the bullshit we are fed, too. Like that we aren’t real people, not the kind that matter, unless we can make a contribution that fits in with capitalism. Like something that pays money. And people with lots of medical shit that takes over our lives to this extent are seldom fully employed. So that can eat at us too, that knowledge that whatever we contribute to the world will never be good enough to count.

But we do contribute valuable things to the world. Just existing is its own contribution, but people contribute more than our existence. Each one of us is uniquely positioned to make very specific contributions to society, whether we are trying to or not, whether we are aware of it or not. Real contributions often go unnoticed even by the people making them.

And we get so caught up on what we do, that things get unpleasant when all we can do is whatever it takes medically to ensure our continued survival. Who am I when this is all I can do?

At first I fall back on connections to place, people, family, culture. I am a child of Redwood Terrace. I am an Okie and a Minnesota Swede. I am a Californian. The landscape of California, from the cliffs and ocean of the Monterey Bay to the bare yellow grass hills with oak trees, to the redwoods of San Mateo County and Santa Cruz County to the converted swamp / desert / farmland of the San Joaquin Valley to the paved-over orchards of Silicon Valley, these things are burned into my DNA almost, they go in so deep. The graves of my recent ancestors, in Shafter and Wasco cemeteries, places likely to become uninhabitable soon. My father’s grave in the Siskiyous. All the objects my father gave me that point like a giant beacon to who he was, who he is now that he’s merged with love and become something different.

These things are important. Connections are important. And no matter how difficult and dysfunctional our families get, family is always a part of you, a connection you can’t sever, part of who you are. I try to remember my grandfather’s violin, to remind me family is family and the worst things about it can still yield surprising moments of love and beauty.

I’m still the bleakest optimist I know. I can look into a pile of shit and find something worthwhile, but I still don’t shy away from it being a pile of shit. This confuses people. I continue to believe this skill will become vital to the survival of lots of people in the world today, though. Discounting the good or pretending the bad isn’t there will lead to disaster.

Anyway, family, culture, place, they all provide a firmer foundation than what you can do at any given moment. No matter how messed up that family, culture, or place is. But there’s something far more basic and far more important:

You are a small piece of the world. A very particular small piece of the world. You have a place, that’s specific to you and who you are. Everything from your best qualities to your worst faults are part of this. You are connected to everything and everyone else. Who you are and what you do, matters. You are always, always connected to the deepest parts of reality. They are a part of you, you are a part of them. You may not be able to feel that at any given time, but all that means is something’s obscuring your view. This is always there.

You are always so fucking much more than a set of categories, shitty circumstances, or ideas. And more than a set of medical problems or any other kind of problems. You are exactly no more and no less than a tiny expression of the deepest and most beautiful parts of the world.

And if we have anything we are meant to do, it’s to express that the most clearly with the least bullshit obscuring it as we can, which may be the most difficult thing in the world to do, but also the most important. But that’s not something we can or should be constantly freaking out about. Just something to keep in mind.

And sometimes the hardest times bring out the most depth of beauty in the world in weird and unexpected ways. Other times they’re just hard. But the world is a strange place. And you do have an exact and important place within it that nobody else can fill, no matter what anyone tells you, even yourself.This little piece of the world is who you are no matter what you can or can’t do. And this little piece of the world may be little but it’s also important.

I was writing this post, it’s taken me days. And I came across the perfect song to express part of what I’m talking about. I’m a huge Grace Vanderwaal fan for reasons. And she wrote this song that’s about those amazing parts of the world we can just forget are there entirely. And — those amazing parts of the world — we are a part of them, they are a part of us, and that’s who we really are, who we remain, regardless of what we can or can’t do at any given time.

So here’s the music video then the lyrics:

Sit right here, chillin’, level low
Close your eyes and just let it flow
Right next to me I hear your heart beat, beat
When the dial turns up and the music starts playing
We don’t realize in this society
Doesn’t matter how your hair looks or what they are thinking
Just, just what we are finding

Tap your foot and listen in
Ignore the world, let the music cave in
Close your phone and breathe in the air
You’ll soon realize that there’s something that is
So much more than this
It is what it is
So much more than this
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh (hey)
So much more than this
It is what it is
So much more than this
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh

The whole crowd seems to like me now
‘Cause they think I’m cool but back when I was in school
They found it very easy to hate me
Funny how always these times are changing
Back then it was so easy to shatter
But now in the end it doesn’t really matter

Tap your foot and listen in
Ignore the world, let the music cave in
Close your phone and breathe in the air
You’ll soon realize that there’s something that is
So much more than this
It is what it is
So much more than this
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh (hey)
So much more than this
It is what it is
So much more than this
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh

All of the talk, and the talk from ya
Won’t even matter when the lights come up
All of the talk, and the talk from ya, hey
Open your eyes and just wake up
Do all the things that will matter to ya
Open your eyes and just wake up, woah

Tap your foot and listen in
Ignore the world, let the music cave in
Close your phone and breathe in the air
You’ll soon realize that there’s something that is
So much more than this
It is what it is
So much more than this

You’ll soon realize that there’s something that is
So much more than this
It is what it is
So much more than this
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh
So much more than this
It is what it is
So much more than this
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh

Wow, that kid has more kitten wisdom packed into her than you normally see in a child.  She reminds me so much of Igor, right down to the ability to unfailingly be exactly who she is, even when she doesn’t appear to know.  (Kitten wisdom is what I call the kind of wisdom that often comes with youth rather than the kind that sometimes grows with age.  And Igor and Grace Vanderwaal have a ton of it.  And remind me of each other in ways I can’t articulate.  Also some of her dancing in that video is perfect.)  And I love that she writes songs about being a child her age rather than just singing artificially weird children’s songs written by adults, or just adult songs.  It’s weird, though, that this should be unusual enough to comment on.

Mel wearing headphones.
Mel wearing headphones again.

Anyway, that place that’s so much more than this is always right here.  And we are always so much more than this, so much more than we’re told we are, so much more than a role or a category or a collection of frigging problems and labels and crap.  Because we’re not separated from that place, ever, we just sometimes feel like we are.  But it’s always there, and we’re always part of it.  The stuff that makes us think we’re not, is all confusion and illusion of various sorts.

redwood terrace fungus 01
A tree with moss and fungus in Redwood Terrace photographed by my best friend.

Posted in medical, Uncategorized

Hippie food

So I’ve been struggling to keep my potassium at normal levels even with supplements.  I’m losing fluid continuously out a hole that has to wait a long time to close naturally.  Combined with the fact I had cellulitis and ended up on antibiotics (yeah this surgery has sucked donkey balls with the complications, it was a simple surgery that went awry in a million ways) which did… things… to my digestion, I’d been losing so many fluids I went alkaline and all my electrolytes ended up askew because of that.  Even after the antibiotics stopped, still losing lots of fluids, still going alkaline.  (I have other risk factors for that but never actually go alkaline except when losing a lot of fluid.)

So my potassium was going low and staying low.  Not as low as it’s been in the past.  No stopping breathing, no seizures, no lab results marked “LL” for super-low instead of low, nobody telling me it’s critically low like at my last hospitalization.  But low potassium is too low potassium, and even with supplements it wasn’t staying up.

The nutritionst learned I like to go to the cafeteria and grab things like V8 to get some nutrients that aren’t in my tubefeeds.  She thought this is great.  (She seemed thrilled to have a patient whose main food craving is vegetables.  She must not get that a lot.)  Anyway she told me that they wanted to see if adding food sources of potassium would help me in addition to the supplements  So she gave me a list of high-potassium foods, which happened to mostly be foods I was already getting.  She also said I should try kombucha as a probiotic because it’s easier on my guts and on my tube than yogurt.  I’d never heard of kombucha but it is easier to digest and it smells good.

And she also gave me this nifty pass that allows me to buy anything in the cafeteria for free as long as I am a patient here!

Photo on 7-26-18 at 2.37 PM
My free food cafeteria pass!

So I go in there and the highest-potassium food in the cafeteria is coconut water.  Which comes in the most ridiculous hippie-oriented packaging.  So I’ve been stocking up on coconut water, kombucha, V8, and whatever other random liquids they have that are on her list.  But mostly coconut water because it has the highest potassium.

And it works, my potassium is up.

But I feel ridculous someimes with my cafeteria tray filled to bursing with hippie food:

Photo on 7-26-18 at 2.36 PM #2
Kombucha, coconut water, and V8. The kombucha and the coconut water feel like I’m eating hippie food.

But my potassium is up and indeed this morning my electrolytes were totally within normal range for the first time since I got here.  So the hippie food works!

So I guess I will be eating  lot of hippie food for a while.  If the hydration and potassium help keep me out of alkalosis, I’ll eat damn near anything.

But the hippie food… wow.  My friend wanted to go to the gift shop and get me some kind of stereotypical hippie items to go with my new food preferenes, but she couldn’t find any tie-dyed scarves or anything so she gave up.  She has been attempting to tell me that my plan to eventually create a prebiotic and diabetes-friendly vegetarian diet using regular food (i’m high risk for diabetes because steroids and my tubefeed diet is not good for that, and the prebiotics help prevent c diff which I’ve gotten already this year and am high risk for, meamwhile vegetarian because easier to hang in feed bags without worrying about rapid spoilage) proves that I have been a closet hippie all along who believes in natural organic everything and thinks my food choices make me one with the earth and karma and all sorts of ridiculousness.  (She gets very elaborate with her teasing but it’s all friendly.)

But in this case the hippie food is working, so I’ll put up with any jokes.  I find it kind of funny myself.

SERIOUSLY look at the packaging on that coconut water…

Posted in Death & Mortality Series, Developmental disability service system

When powerful people don’t care if you live or die…

umbridgewithteajpg
Dolores Umbridge might be the ultimate representation of Nice Lady Therapists at their utter worst…

This post is part of my Death & Mortality Series.  Please read my introduction to my Death & Mortality series if you can, to understand the context I write this in.  Thank you.

Not all of my thoughts on death and mortality are purely personal.  Although this is certainly born out by personal experience, this is much more in the ethical/political realm than my personal relationships with Death itself.  And is just as important to the whole picture of how I approach death and mortality, and one reason I’ve been so reluctant to post my actual experiences of Death being a benevolent and friendly force.

If you are disabled.  If you are cognitively disabled.  If you are developmentally disabled.  There are people who literally do not care one way or the other if you live or die.  And there are people who actually kind of wish you’d die — some more fervently than others.  And there are people in positions of power who will either fail to act in ways they would normally act, or actively push things a little more in the direction of your death (sometimes obviously, sometimes more passively with plausible deniability).  And to be unaware of this is to be unaware of serious danger.

These people can work in the medical profession.  Many do.

These people can work in agencies that are supposed to give you support.  Many do.

These people can work in any major position of power over you.  Many do.

And I’m not talking about serial killers, although they take full advantage of some of these situations in all kinds of ways.  I’m talking about people who mostly think of themselves as kind of normal.

But they can still kill you with apathy, indifference, and even varying degrees of malice.

My developmental disability agency just announced to me last night things that confirmed the warnings I had been receiving from friends that this kind of thing was at work right now.  They want me suddenly doing things I have never been able to do even at my physically healthiest (and they have ample documentation of my inability to do these things), things they have been doing for me for thirteen years without incident until my DPA filed a medical neglect complaint against them.

This is part of an attempt to railroad me into a service model (which requires moving out of my own home and would not get me any better care) that they prefer for me.

This is part of retaliation for filing the complaint, before which there was no talk of railroading me into this service model.

But they know.  Perfectly well.  That I was struggling to stay alive and stay out of the hospital with the amount of services I was getting.  (I have had recent unexpected cascade-effect complications from a surgery and have been going alkalotic at the drop of a hat.  Long story.  But it’s taken everything I have and every skill I have to stay out of the hospital and alive as long as I have, and I’ve been back in the hospital since Friday.)  And they knew that the reduction in services caused by a staff vacation/staff shortage contributed to my ending back up in the hospital.  They knew all this.

Then they sent me a letter saying I am no longer entitled to have anything done for me, that I must physically participate in everything.

They know, in detail, that this is not possible for me.  They know, in detail, that this would be dangerous for me on multiple levels even without a severe, acute health crisis.  They have documentation of every single reason in more detail than they probably care to know, that even moving my body through the motions is physically dangerous to me.

They know these things.

So the only conclusion I can reach when they insist that these things happen anyway, is that whether I live or die doesn’t matter to them.

The fun part is if I do die, I’m sick enough they’ll probably get away with it even if they’re very culpable in the events leading to it.

But my friends have been telling me I might not live out the year the way this agency has been treating me, when I probably would otherwise.

When I say I accept death, it does not mean I accept THIS.  This isn’t death that just happens.  This is some toxic combination of apathy and malice, and the worst part is I don’t know precisely where it’s coming from.  But people have warned me about it just before this happened.  And when I spoke to medical professionals about it, they told me this kind of thing is very real and something to always keep in mind.

So this is happening.  Now.  I am in the hospital.  And I got a letter that started out with a basic “Sorry you’re in the hospital” thing and then a “But we’re gonna try to make you do shit that’d probably kill you or land you back in the hospital to try” thing.  Which makes the “Sorry you’re in the hospital” part feel completely phony.

I was starting to feel a little better and look forward to going home sometime soon, maybe not as soon as I’d like, but soon.  But I can’t go home to being expected to physically do crap I couldn’t safely do on my best day.

And I can’t stress how much someone at some level is perfectly aware what this means that they are asking this of me just now.

And that they don’t care the risks to me (even if they think it’ll just push me into accepting their bullshit program) tells me they really don’t care deep down if I live or die.  Because people who care if you live or die don’t dangle you over a cliff (or even pretend to do so) to get you to do what they want, even if they think they have a good hold on you.  Ever.

And the fun thing is even if you see this, and even if those around you see this, and you see the patterns enough to know what’s happening, you can’t necessarily tell who precisely they are.  They may be someone you never meet directly.  But people who explicitly range from apathetic to malicious abour your continued existence are out there.  And unfortunately in our culture of familial and caregiver benevolence, nobody who hasn’t seen it for themselves wants to believe it, even though it’s something well beyond commonplace.

So you can’t always just point to an Umbridge.  Even if there’s an Umbridge, or a small army of Umbridges.  (Umbridge got into this post because someone referred to this, after reading the letters, as “Dolores Umbridge-level fuckery”.)

And for the record, accepting death as a whole does not mean I accept this kind of death for an instant.  If I die because I’m expected to do crap I’ve never been able to do and is now physically dangerous for me to even be walked through the motions of, that’s not just dying because I’d die anyway.  And there’s a huge difference.  And I hope I don’t have to explain that difference to anyone.  I’ve long said that dying because I’d die anyway is fine with me, but dying out of someone’s apathy or stupidity or malice will leave me the world’s most pissed-off ghost.  If I had any intention of being a ghost, which I don’t (not sure it’s possible but very sure that trying would be destructive).  But you get the idea.

Posted in Death & Mortality Series

I saw Death another time.

Yesterday.

She made her usual offers, silently.

Silently, I said not yet.

Silently, she turned away.

She is patient. She can wait forever. This happens often.

[Originally written sometime last week or the week before. In between two hospitalizations involving alkalosis.]

This post is part of my Death & Mortality Series.  Please read my introduction to my Death & Mortality series if you can, to understand the context I write this in.  Thank you.

A woman sits next to a grim reaper in a laundromat, both reading books looking bored.
When your relationship with Death becomes this casual…