limitations
Since my stroke, I’ve noticed there appear to be limitations on my physical output.
This isn’t something easily understood by the non-brain-injured; especially the intolerant blowhards who noisily insist anyone other than themselves deserves the ice-flow.
To them I may look normal, appear normal, even sound normal; but am just lazy.
I learned about this long ago. We were in a walkathon to support my rehab service, and another client was supposed to be taking pictures of we hikers.
The guy fagged out in about 10 minutes. He couldn’t take pictures any more, even though he wasn’t hiking.
He had multiple-sclerosis, a brain-injury.
My first reaction was to think he was just lazy — after all, he seemed normal.
But then I realized he was “walling-out” like I do; only earlier.
Years ago, when I first returned home from the rehab hospital, I was good for about 10 minutes of shoveling snow. Last year we shoveled out the whole driveway.
I always run up against these limitations. I find I have to take a nap every day. I tried to not do it, since it seemed a waste, but it was unavoidable. When I worked at the mighty Mezz, I’d come home utterly bushed, and have to take a nap. That nap might last until supper-time. It was always getting in the way of doing other things, but I had no choice.
I remember feeling like I’d have to call Linda because I was utterly fagged out and faced with the LHMB (which I’d ridden that morning). But I never did, because I didn’t wanna leave the LHMB in the parking-lot.
So now, despite retirement, the limitation on my physical activity still seems to be in effect.
About six months ago, I (we) had to stake out where the tiny conifer-trees would go. I managed to do it, but had to take a nap afterward.
Last visit to the mighty Curve, it seemed like the hike to-and-from Staple-Bend Tunnel was too much.
So I do what I can. I mow the lawn and do all the bookkeeping (bill-paying). I also unload the dishwasher, make cocoa and mix my juice.
It seems I no longer clean up the dog-poo — although I probably could; but probably at the expense of something else. And shoveling mulch has fallen to the mulch-placer, who knows where she wants it; whereas I’d have to ask.
Years ago, when Jack-and-I were at Steamtown, we were facing a 3-4 hour ride home: a pittance to a non-brain-injured person, but a monster to me.
Jack wanted to chase the steamer to the end-of-the-line where it swapped ends, before going home. But I was looking at a monster — as I would be, being brain-injured. “I just wanna go home,” I said. Jack gave me an exasperated look — indication that he didn’t understand. “How can anyone other than myself not wanna chase a steamer into the ozone? Must be lazy — yep; that’s it! Bingo; we got Bingo! Ice-flow for that guy!”
This isn’t something easily understood by the non-brain-injured; especially the intolerant blowhards who noisily insist anyone other than themselves deserves the ice-flow.
To them I may look normal, appear normal, even sound normal; but am just lazy.
I learned about this long ago. We were in a walkathon to support my rehab service, and another client was supposed to be taking pictures of we hikers.
The guy fagged out in about 10 minutes. He couldn’t take pictures any more, even though he wasn’t hiking.
He had multiple-sclerosis, a brain-injury.
My first reaction was to think he was just lazy — after all, he seemed normal.
But then I realized he was “walling-out” like I do; only earlier.
Years ago, when I first returned home from the rehab hospital, I was good for about 10 minutes of shoveling snow. Last year we shoveled out the whole driveway.
I always run up against these limitations. I find I have to take a nap every day. I tried to not do it, since it seemed a waste, but it was unavoidable. When I worked at the mighty Mezz, I’d come home utterly bushed, and have to take a nap. That nap might last until supper-time. It was always getting in the way of doing other things, but I had no choice.
I remember feeling like I’d have to call Linda because I was utterly fagged out and faced with the LHMB (which I’d ridden that morning). But I never did, because I didn’t wanna leave the LHMB in the parking-lot.
So now, despite retirement, the limitation on my physical activity still seems to be in effect.
About six months ago, I (we) had to stake out where the tiny conifer-trees would go. I managed to do it, but had to take a nap afterward.
Last visit to the mighty Curve, it seemed like the hike to-and-from Staple-Bend Tunnel was too much.
So I do what I can. I mow the lawn and do all the bookkeeping (bill-paying). I also unload the dishwasher, make cocoa and mix my juice.
It seems I no longer clean up the dog-poo — although I probably could; but probably at the expense of something else. And shoveling mulch has fallen to the mulch-placer, who knows where she wants it; whereas I’d have to ask.
Years ago, when Jack-and-I were at Steamtown, we were facing a 3-4 hour ride home: a pittance to a non-brain-injured person, but a monster to me.
Jack wanted to chase the steamer to the end-of-the-line where it swapped ends, before going home. But I was looking at a monster — as I would be, being brain-injured. “I just wanna go home,” I said. Jack gave me an exasperated look — indication that he didn’t understand. “How can anyone other than myself not wanna chase a steamer into the ozone? Must be lazy — yep; that’s it! Bingo; we got Bingo! Ice-flow for that guy!”
Watch carefully, chillen. I predict a torrent of noisy blustering from West Bridgewater, wherein Gramps will call me an “old man,” call me “lazy” (the same guy that farms his lawn out to his wife and/or kid), and trumpet his vast superiority. (“Pride cometh before a fall.”)
posted by BobbaLew at 1:51 PM
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