Inward Bound

Sometimes I wish I had an ordinary garden-variety disability. One where the path has been trodden at least a few times ahead of me.

Recently I’ve been hoping I’d be able to attend an Outward Bound course designed for people with disabilities. The nurse encouraged me to apply, and tried her best to work out a way to support me through the 8-day program. Today, though, she called to concede that they just don’t have the equipment that would enable me to participate. She even admitted that she didn’t really know what that equipment would look like. I told her I’d call if I ever figure it out.

I suspected that I probably wouldn’t make it to Anakiwa, but I’m hugely disappointed. I liked the idea of going and proving to myself that I’m capable of anything, despite my limitations. Apparently this is what happens when you go on OB. Plus, it’s the story of pretty much any famous disabled person (would you just look at what they’ve achieved against the odds!). I’d like to be that girl, but first I need to figure out which equipment will enable me to spend less of my time horizontally, which is proving rather difficult.

I’m glad, though, that the nurse was pragmatic enough to see that pushing me through the course in pain would have been a miserable thing to do. Glad, too, that my absence from Outward Bound allows my presence at a certain supper-dance celebrating my sister-in-law’s thirtieth. Vintage dresses are really more my style than safety harnesses.

In hope of wheels

Because I was late today (because it took me three attempts to back down the driveway), my OT met me at the door of the hospital with a wheelchair. I don’t think that’s part and parcel of the Enable Wheelchair and Seating Outreach clinic, but it was a nice touch.

Enable NZ are contracted by the Ministry of Health to assess for and purchase disability equipment. These folk are going to put together an application (to MoH) for approval for me to trial two wheelchairs; one of which is powered, and one I’ll propel with my feet (shuffle shuffle). If my application is approved, Enable will source the chairs, which will take two or three months. If the chairs are a success, they’ll put in an application for funding to buy them. If that’s approved, I’ll have chair(s) by early next year.

Today was great. I came away feeling like someone with the right knowledge and authority is going to try, on my behalf, to get me what I need. Bonza. What’s frustrating is that it took ten months, and a lot of effort on my part, to get to this point. I know mine is a common story, and that others with far more urgent needs than mine have suffered worse, but I thought I’d share the circles I had to tread to make it this far.

1. Despite my symptoms and family history pointing towards FSH, it took three attempts (and three months) to persuade my GP that I should be referred to a neurologist.

2. Another month, (and $500) later, I had a clinical diagnosis, but no advice on how to manage my condition. When I asked about adaptive equipment, the neurologist said that my GP should organise an occupational therapist.

3. Back to the GP: she was unclear on the purpose of seeing an OT. But referred me to one when I insisted on it.

4. After spending two months on the waiting list, then seeing an OT three times over another month, she told me I was unlikely to meet the criteria for wheelchair funding. Could my Dad (who is involved with furniture design) or the Muscular Dystrophy Association help?

5. The MDA advised that my OT should apply for funding through Enable NZ. When I asked my OT to refer me to Enable, she said I need to be assessed by a different OT first. But I’d need to be patient, because that would take a few months.

6. Minor tantrum via email.

7. Another month, another OT, another assessment.  I was finally referred to the wheelchair clinic. A month away.

It’s incredible that it’s taken this much time and energy just to get the start of the application process. And I still don’t know whether I’ll get funding – apparently I fall through somewhere in the gaps between the eligibility criteria. Sometimes it feels as though I’m not a valid invalid because my legs still work, because my invisibility cloak hides the fact that each step is still a struggle. But today I met two people who knew better, and, without question, accepted that a wheelchair could very possibly be the key for me to access more of life again. And for that I am truly grateful.

It’s a very good place to start.

I have a list of potential blog-posts somewhere, but have been putting off writing them because I feel like I should start by bringing you up to speed on my present situation.  Of course, speed isn’t really my forte these days, so it’s taken me a while to write this little background piece. I hope you’ll bear with my snail-paced postings (maybe I can spark a slow-blog movement?).

Last October I found myself unemployed, and the Wellington public service grapevine came to my aid; an ex-colleague had a month of work for me.  The timing was excellent, as I had a few weeks to kill before starting as a volunteer ranger on Matiu/Somes Island for the summer. The work seemed simple, basically just sorting and shifting papers, which sounded heavenly after the stress of working at Corrections. As it turned out, my ‘simple’ summer job consisted of a lot of lifting, a lot of standing, and a lot of repetitive strain. After a couple of weeks my back, shoulders and neck hurt so much that I had to quit.

At first I thought I just needed a bit of rest, and that I’d soon be ready to trot off to the island to start searching backpacks for possums. But after a couple of weeks, I realised wouldn’t be trotting anywhere. In fact, I was struggling to stand, walk or sit unsupported for more than a few minutes. I couldn’t make a cup of tea, hold a book or write an email without the pain returning.

I had an sinking suspicion that Muscular Dystrophy had a role to play in all of this. Fascioscapulohumeral Dystrophy runs (well, walks) in my family. My Mum has it, and my brother Dave has been pretty badly affected since he was at uni. I’ve always had a weak shoulder, but never had cause to think about it much until recently. I was examined by a neurologist in February, who concluded that my symptoms + our family history = FSHD. Probably. I’ll know for sure after genetic testing later this year.

There’s no treatment for FSH, and no way to tell whether or not I’ll get better. There have been times over the last year when I’ve improved and gained strength, but I always regress and lose it again. So I’m learning to slow down, limit my physical activity and rely much more on other people and mobility equipment. It’s incredibly frustrating, but it means I can mostly keep the pain at a manageable level.

The last year has been a bit like a game of snakes and ladders, with a few Chance and Community Chest cards thrown in for good measure. Sometimes it feels like I’m always landing back at square one. But at least now I know that the ladders aren’t wheelchair accessible.

Awkward introductions

My disability has an invisibility cloak. It’ll sneak right past you in the hallway and you’ll barely turn your head. It doesn’t introduce itself, and it doesn’t leave a calling card. So I either:

a) introduce it:  “and this is my invisible friend Muscular Dystrophy…” or,

b) pretend it’s not there (people don’t need much convincing; I’m much better company than my disability).

I’m finding more and more that neither approach is ideal.  If I do talk about it, I’ve got to figure out how to put it all into words, which is tricky when I’m not even sure exactly what my diagnosis is, how to treat it, or what my future might look like. Then there’s trying to describe what it’s like to live with it, without downplaying it/crying/killing the conversation. Followed by the awkward bit when people don’t know what to say – unless they happen to know someone who knew someone who cured their MS with catholic healing and it was amazing and I really really should try it.

On the other hand, if I don’t talk about it, you don’t get to see what’s really going on for me, and how much has changed since I stopped being able-bodied. I won’t be able to explain why I can’t come to your birthday party, or how it helps if you carry my bag for me. Also, since most of my time and energy goes to managing my disability these days, I don’t have much other conversational material (and can only recount so many episodes of Masterchef before you start counting the sugar packets).

So I thought I’d try writing a blog about living with a disability, where I can be self-indulgent if I want (it’s kind of mandatory, right?), and you can read what you like. Maybe my stories will help you understand a bit better, or help other people with disabilities, or maybe it will just help me out with a bit of cathartic ranting.

Why This Thing’s Got Legs? Well, you see, I’ve got great legs. They work perfectly, and probably will for quite a while. I’ve also still got a brain and a heart and courage and a yellow brick road to walk them down, even if I’m going slower than I’d like. And I figure I’ve gotta keep that in mind.