Sometimes my job offers up to me, on a silver platter lined with the most delicate of silks, the most horrible, tragic stories.
Well, Ok, let's be honest. My job does this to me on a frequent basis. It's amazing I've still got my wits about me, and granted, this is claim is highly dubious. But sometimes the stories are tragic enough to stick with me for a while.
I met a lovely woman last week who used to be a dancer.
That phrase there? "Used to be"? Foreshadowing.
She has a masters degree in fine arts. She was a regular performer in a dance company in my town. She was a dance instructor at the university. She had a husband, a child. One day, for some inexplicable reason, her legs felt a little funny--a bit off. Six weeks later she was in a wheelchair. Four months after that she was a quadriplegic. This was three years ago.
The reason? Well, apparently there is none. She's been poked and prodded. She's had CAT scans and MRI's. She's had every blood test imaginable. She's had extended stays at the Mayo Clinic plus three other rehab centers in the country. Not a rip, tear, fracture, fissure, puncture, hole, organism, disease, or little spinal fairy can account for her condition. She's had antibiotics, physical therapy, occupational therapy, cognitive therapy, vitamin therapy, acupuncture, hypnosis, massages, and various homeopathic interventions. All to no avail.
Her body one day just hurled itself on the ground like and angry toddler and said "Oh, HELL no." And never got back up again. The village of doctors involved can give her no rhyme or reason as to why and furthermore, they can't fix it. All they can offer up is that something happened along the spinal cord.
In the interim, her friends have scattered like roaches in the neon light, her job is gone, her husband is gone (and no, we can't get all sanctimonious and call him a churl because they divorced a year before this happened to her), her teenager has been avoiding visits with her the past several weeks, and she lives in a nursing home where she is decades younger than all the residents. And half of them have dementia, so they forget who she is from day to day.
The staff? Well, they're nice enough, but the turnover is high. When she needs to void, about 40% of the time someone whom she has never seen arrives to help her. Many of them are from another country so there is often a language barrier. Sometimes she has to wait for 20 minutes before someone will arrive to help her with her toilet or other personal needs. If she complains? Well, then they'll make her wait longer. Her days consist of lying in bed or sitting in her chair. She's able to go outside at times.
This woman is not even close to 50-years-old.
Feel like complaining about your lot in life today? ->
Read the complete post at http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogspot/tXCM/~3/422453162/oh-fate-you-cruel-vixen-you.html
Posted
16 Oct 2008 4:22 AM
by
Trench Warfare
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