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Blue Stripes

September 2012

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Blue Stripes

On my identity as "partially disabled"

I've been asked a few times why I use this self-identifier, and today's an excellent example of why.

I've finally induced someone to come over and clean my kitchen in exchange for these colourful bits of paper with numbers on them. The kitchen had gotten away from me. I can only do dishes in very small amounts, like one or two dishes at a time, max. And sometimes not that.

But since someone was here, and cleaning, my socialized girlguilt took over, and I felt the urge to get some cleaning done. So I cleaned the toilet. Maybe three minutes work, tops.

And now I can't move. I can't lift my can of Coke. I can't sit, stand or lie down without being in excruciating pain, and that's with every med I have deployed to help me (opiates, muscle relaxants, NSAIDS, and a certain smokable herb which can be good for pain-induced nausea).

In a matter of several hours, if it follows the usual pattern, I'll be able to do a couple of stretches, click my SI joint back to where it belongs, and I'll be able to move again. I'll be back to my usual daily 4-7 (on a scale of 10), instead of this mind-shrivelling 11.

Some days, I could make good use of a wheelchair. Other days, the cane is plenty, and other days, I could probably go without even the cane (but I've long since learnt: those days can turn ugly very, very quickly, and then I'll be very unhappy I don't have my stick).

So, "partially" disabled.

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