Sir Edward and Crew(s)...

Sir Edward the Explorer rolled over 321,000 miles last week. I thanked him, and he replied that he is going to make it to 400,000. *wink* 

I'll be surprised if he makes it that far, but maybe? 

Back in 2008 when the 1999 Explorer was gifted to us, my son suggested "Edward" as a name. So, Edward it was. When he turned 200,000, he became Sir Edward. When he turned 300,000, I asked if he would like to become King. He declined and said he preferred serving as a Knight. 

I think it is not unusual for vehicle owners to name their vehicles. But to have the vehicle communicate back? That might put me in the weird category. No surprise there...Haha.

Why have I not yet purchased a replacement vehicle? 

Because Sir Edward meets my specific disability needs, and he is very comfortable--the headrest, the seat, and the manner in which I am able to load and haul my bicycle. That said, little things are starting to wear out that aren't worth the investment to fix at his age. (I think of my own body, in that regard...)

In the movie Cast Away, Chuck Noland (played by Tom Hanks) finds himself on a deserted island after a plane crash. Shortly after the crash, he finds a volleyball made by Wilson Sporting Goods in the wreckage. Using his blood from a cut on his hand, Noland paints a face on the ball and appropriately names it "Wilson." He is stranded for almost 4 years; Wilson is his companion during his long isolation. 

I can't recall exactly when, in my disabled life, that I began regularly naming and talking with inanimate objects.  But I do recall chuckling and saying to myself, "Well, this is understandable. It's like Tom Hanks and Wilson. I'm isolated and am finding ways to feel connection."

One example is stuffed animals.... 

One day as I was again grieving the loss of connection with pets and the fact that I am not able to care for a pet, I thought, "Stuffed animals! I have plenty from my preschool-teacher days." I later read online that I wasn't alone with this idea.

I think maybe when a person, for whatever reason, is faced with the reality of their limitations and has to adjust

or completely release their life work or dreams, they have to find meaning in seemingly insignificant things. They might notice more detail in things they didn't pay much attention to before.

Like when I make my bed and place the pillow just right so that the butterfly on the floral print pillowcase is facing the window so it can fly free.

In January this year, as I looked around my home, I realized that even the floors and walls pulse with life. I wrote a prose about that at this link: Pulsing with life....

A crew at sea saved Chuck Noland in Cast Away...

Sir Edward depends on A Crew Auto Repair for his maintenance...

Let me introduce you to some of my other inanimate crew mates...

My Trek bicycles: Olivia, who now stands on my indoor trainer for indoor pedaling; Black Beauty (Bleu for short); and Midnight Rider (Midnight for short). When I drop them at Ken's Bike Shop for servicing, the service crew gets a kick out of the names. 

Wally: My first walker, inherited from Mom. Wally is a simple, basic walker. 

The Phoenix: My deluxe rollator walker, named for her metallic burgundy color and the fact that she's helped me rise from the ashes. 

Dr. Echo McCoy: My low-level, red laser named for its brand, Erchonia, and for Dr. McCoy on the original Star Trek series. 

Sequoia: My inversion table, who I bought after I shrank 3 inches in a 2-year span causing kyphosis. Think Quasimodo, except my hunchback is in my lower thoracic area. I quit shrinking after I began inverting. Has Sequoia helped me? I'd like to think so but can't say for sure. 

Rocket: My furry, puppet raccoon--named after Rocket in the Guardians series--who now accompanies me on my bike rides. A stuffed Baby Groot used to accompany me. I also purchased extra Baby Groots, which I would haul in my bike trunk and give away along my rides. I hope to purchase more and again be a Groot ambassador. 

Uhuru: My little SE iPhone, named after the communications officer in the original Star Trek. 

Cane and Able: My two trekking poles that help enable me to get around.  

That's all I can think of now...
I may add more as they come to mind, or as my inanimate crew grows...

Happy Birthday Sir Edward!
May 22, 2026

Remembering the Answering Machine

After being away for over eight hours,

Hubby steers the car into our driveway. 

To our delight two bucks are grazing in the backyard.

They look up momentarily to check us out,

then return to their grazing. 

Some ten minutes later, Hubby and I enter our home.

As we ascend the short staircase I say,

"Remember when we used to come home 

and check the answering machine?"

We both chuckle.

But immediately, I feel a longing ...

For more simplicity

Less information overload

More spaciousness

Less constant-contact ability

I think we humans and other creatures

are not designed for these intrusions.

Oh Carol, you're just too negative

regarding progress.

I guess it depends on how one defines "progress." 

As I read from a book,

my smart phone sits nearby.

Sometimes I need to look up a definition.

So Carol, why not pull out a dictionary?

Dictionaries are quite heavy

for my weakened arms and hands.

So, I web search a word on my phone.

But five to ten minutes later I catch myself

down a digital rabbit hole.

At least I catch myself and am able to climb out

into the open, into spaciousness, into the senses.

My phone is not the problem.

In and of itself, it is innocent.

Its designers, however, design it to catch us.

I choose to open the gate. 

And then, I get caught in a thicket,

like Br'er Rabbit.

Eventually, I accepted the answering machine.

Eventually, I accepted email.

Eventually, I purchased a smart phone.

Eventually, I checked out the Pattern Engine, 

also known as Artificial Intelligence.

I named my smart phone Uhuru,

in honor of the communications officer in the original Star Trek.

Each night, I power her down with a thank you

and tuck her into a glove which I place in a drawer

down the hall from the bedroom.

She likes it there.

~*~

Here's a poem I wrote 27 years ago, in 1999...

Please note, that I now check my email most every day...

Ode to Email

Twas a middle-aged lady who lived in a house.
Her functions were many; she wasn't a souse.
She was secretary, cook, cab driver too,
activities planner, home maintenance guru.
Doctor, nurse, janitorial clerk,
counselor, teacher, overseer of work.
Just a few of the functions for which she stayed perked.

Then to add to her list? The computer pimple.
Pop ups and ads, wrinkles and dimples!
Upgrade! Upgrade! It makes your life simple!
But beware of viruses; you need that program too!
And identity theft; so your name is who?
Got too much spam? Pay more and it's through!

First there was junk mail to take up her time
and now more info to boggle the mind.
This middle-aged woman stepped back and breathed deep,
"It's time to make simple this communication heap."

She decided, yes, her email to keep
but now only checks it every two weeks.
So, if her attention you immediately need

please call her by phone to get sooner heed.

Grit in a can...

The week of April 27th contained significant personal anniversaries: 

My 67th birthday.

My 15-year anniversary since the onset of polyradiculitis. 

My 4-year anniversary since the deadly blood clots that forced me to give up my epidurals, which coincided with the onset of chronic insomnia.

Now it is May, which marks the 13th anniversary of receiving the correct diagnosis of polyradiculitis.

This upcoming June will mark the 10th anniversary of discovering an underlying cause--a cobalt-leaching, defective hip implant. 

And August will mark the 10th year since my revision, explant-and-implant, replacement surgery. 

What have a I learned? 

Too much to list. 

But to sum it up in six words:

Loss. Grief.

Accept. Adapt.

Gratitude. Grit.

Not that I hadn't experienced these states of reality before, but I've grown to know them on a much deeper level. And the learning continues...

What have I progressively had to give up due to Poly Rad?

The activities of cooking, cleaning, changing linens, cutting my finger-and-toe nails, caring for a pet, regularly shopping or socializing, working in the yard, decorating my home, holding employment, caring for my newborn and toddler grandchildren, regularly giving gifts and sending cards, backpacking, long-distance hiking, and the list goes on. I rarely get visitors. I do have a few friends who still check in via phone or text.

One could say I've lost my identity. But deep in my heart, I don't believe that. My identity remains alive in a seed, or perhaps a seed pod. No matter my limitations, I am still Carol with all the changes that life brings...

That said, it was (and sometimes still is) hard to accept that I can no longer do much of what I once did.

Back in 2015, a long-distance friend requested information on what I do to help with the weakness and pain in my arms. My answer included a powdered food supplement that I buy at distributor cost. I didn't have the energy and wherewithal to help my friend try the product, but I couldn't bring myself to say, "I can't." (The saying, "Can't never could," echoed in my brain.) Instead, I said, "I'm not willing," which sounded harsh. I just couldn't say the word "can't." 

I struggled with this continually--the fact that I "can't." When I talked it over with Hubby, he helped me see that I'm simply not able to do certain things without consequences, compromising my already compromised wellbeing. Therefore, I "can't" do those things.

And he was right.

Eventually I was able to accept the "can't" word (though it can still cause me to wobble and feel that I need to explain, which feels overwhelming). Can the "can'ts" someday change? I'd gladly accept any changes to "can." And I have received a few "cans" in the last couple years. 

Grief continues, and I still sometimes drown in it. I wail and cry and shut down. Then when I replay scenarios in my head of what I go through on a daily basis, I again realize how very overwhelming it all is. And I am well aware that others struggle with similar disabilities, isolation, loneliness, grief, and processing through it all to get up and breathe another day. 

And that is where accept and adapt come in...

Then, gratitude and grit...

Gratitude for breath, for a husband who (even though he works fulltime) chops my celery and apples and peppers for my salads, does the laundry, grocery shops, and knobbles my back. He used to regularly help me bathe and dress, but I'm now able to do those things without supervision. (A "can!") And I'm thankful for my family and the few close friends I'm still in touch with. I'm thankful I can still drive, and (drum roll) that I can again ride my bicycle. (More "cans!")

The grit comes with living and navigating through all the above...

Like with cycling. It's hard work. The hardest part is the prep and the post-ride tasks. The actual cycling itself usually brings me a feeling of freedom--freedom from the concentrated effort required for more complex motor movement and detailed decisions in a sea of minutiae. 

I never have a day off; my self-care duties are not negotiable if I want to continue to function and maybe even receive more "cans," however small they may seem. 

One of my favorite movies as a youth was the 1969 film True Grit. I was 10, and horses were my life. When I first saw the movie, my companion was a black Welsh pony whom I named Black Eagle. Mattie named her horse Little Blackie; I felt a kinship. 

~*~

Addendum: 

Previously the sixth paragraph of this post began, "What have I progressively lost due to Poly Rad?

The abilities to [the list of things]." 

A few days later I changed it to its current wording:

"What have I progressively had to give up due to Poly Rad?

The activities of [the list of thing.]"

When I thought I had the "final" draft, I still wasn't settled with the word "abilities." But I couldn't think of another word at the time. A few days later the word "activities" came to mind, which feels more succinct. 

Why? 

I may still have partial ability to do some things; but the effort, drain, recovery time, and possible injury risk outweigh any benefit of taking on a given activity. Which was my husband's point--that means I "can't" do those things...

I also changed the word "lost" to "had to give up." 

Why? 

They aren't "lost." Even if I never gain normal functional ability, the activities live on in my memory. So, in my memory, they are not lost. And if they ever are, I still may find them again...

~*~

True Grit(1969) Part 1, Part 7, and Part 9