TRIALS OF ST TIMMY'S 38

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                    THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S --
          The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation
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This is episode 38.

Sat, 24 Aug 1996 20:51:19        misc.handicap
Re: Looking For Suggestions

> I just found out from the doctor that I'll be sitting in a
> wheelchair for mobility from now on. I've had to use one
> shopping or electric carts but this is all new to me. I guess
> I'm looking for suggestions on ways to start adjusting my life.
> I'm really serious and really scared.

I was beside myself a couple of years ago when I was going to be
'drop kicked' out of a rehab facility owned by the Long Beach
Memorial Hospital.  I broke my back and could only walk a few
feet with a walker at the time.  My only place to live was up 22
steps.

[Sounds familiar.  I lost my apartment of 18 years because it was
impractical to keep paying rent on a place up nine steps from the
street and which could not be made to accomodate a wheelchair.]

I was fed antidepresants but I wasn't.

[They tried to get me on mindbenders.  I wouldn't go for it.
Yes, I have bad days, days in which I want to kill everybody.  I
deal with it.]

I had no trouble accepting and functioning in a wheelchair.

[It is often your friends who knew you before who have the most
trouble accepting the chair.]

However, I hated being made to try doing 'wheelies'.

[I would have told them to go fuck themselves.  I never saw the
point in doing this except as a stunt which can get you a
concussion.]

I had a body brace on and could only move at the waist.

I had trouble with being given a really cheap wheelchair by
Kaiser when I got out.  It was unstable going down any grade.
You will need a good chair.

[The chair I got was the benificence of the taxpayers, not my
insurance company -- cheap bastards, who spent lots of money on
other things they claim are necessary but from which I can get no
real use -- such as a fake leg.]

Those are not cheap.

[No adaptive equipment is cheap!  NONE!  The claims of physical
therapists and occupations therapists to the contrary, most
really good and useful adaptives are developed by gimps and crips
who saw the need firsthand.  There is beaucoup price goudging in
this racket as well.  If you go to WheelieLand and price a nice
normal manual chair, you will be told $1500 (fifteen hundred
dollars).  I know where you can get the same thing for about $450
(four hundred fifty dollars).

A vehicle for the chair is also not cheap.

Some state medicaid programs will buy quads a van with a lift so
they can continue to drive.  Others will not, even though they
both can probably get reimbursement from federal funds.  Anyone
who cannot walk and who wants to work or who should work ought to
be able to have a no-nonsense manual chair for use at home and a
reliable but non-luxurious powered chair to get to work in.  It
just makes sense.  Why not spend about $10,000 on me and my
tardhive apartment and put me on my own instead of keeping me in
this farm for at least another six months or maybe even years at
about $3000 per month?  Can you do the arithmetic and see why the
present situation is unfair to everyone?]

Finding a checkout stand that was wide enough was also a
consideration.

[I'm just cussed enough to welcome the obstacles and work around
them.  Use your mind and your wiles and keep them sharp.]

You might find a need to use a Texas catheter and a wiz bag if
you go out in public and can't jump out of the chair and run into
a bath room.

[I'm lucky.  I can carry a pisspot with me and just go park in
the john, hike down my tardpants and stick my business in the
pisspot and go to town -- _all_ my business.  The nurses have
named my pussypitcher "Mouth" beause it swallows all of my nads
during this operation.  Feels good, too.  >slap<  Back to earth,
here...]

You will get the attention of little children.  They soon lose
interest in watching you.

[I might get a lot of strange attention from everyone if I use
the pussypitcher outside of a stall...  Might be a helluva way to
advertise for dates tho.]

You will get people falling over themselves and each other trying
to open doors for you.  An old woman using a walker did this for
me.  She felt sorry for me and I felt sorry for her!

[Doors with closers can be a bitch, but it usually works to go at
them in reverse.]

Some people I know get 'an attitude', a 'chip on their shoulder'
about being helped.   They don't want help unless they ask for
it.  They are like some feminists who have been known to get
'pissed' when a man opens a door for them.

[This is how I feel.  Leave me alone.  If I want assistance, I
will ask for it.  Let me figure out how to do it myself.  Above
all, never never never come up behind someone in a chair and
start pushing them.  You could catch their fingers in the wheels
and do serious damage to their hands.  Never leave anything
behind someone in a chair.  We do NOT have rearview mirrors or
eyes in the back of our head.]

Crashes and falling out is something you may have to learn about.

[Hitting your head means an automatic trip to the nearest ER for
a cranial X-ray.  If you go over backwards, you WILL hit hard.
Voice of experience.]

My best friend is a quad.  He has an electric chair.  Another
friend is younger and has a manual chair and goes out 'pushing'
to keep in shape.  He let me know he was disappointed that I was
able to walk so soon.  He thought he would have someone to go out
with, exercising.

[I suspect there is a comraderie to be built between gimps, but I
am not anxious to make the acquaintance of true droolers, thank
you just the same.]

It was neat going places in my friend's 'cripple' wagon with him.
We went to Fry's, super electronic store together.  I had to push
and he zoomed.

[The friend is also formidably capable of running over the ass of
any snart-mouth dothead clerk in there who gets in the way.
Bravo.]

I am sure you will get more and better advice than that from me.
You will also make friends with 'people on your own level',
others in chairs.

[Looking forward to it!  Ones I already know say PTs and OTs
aren't for shit.  They're too skinny to keep you from hurting
yourself if you are in danger of falling, and they don't know how
to do what you have to do because they never tie an arm or leg
behind and actually live a day or a week with something missing
in order to really fathom what it is like.]

The down side of my being able to walk again is my financial
woes, but that is a dumb thing to complain about.

[Well, dude, just go jump on some political bandwagon and get a
job some hack is always promising.]

If you are in a rural area or in a part of the world where wheel
chair accessability is not advanced, you will be really limited.

[Totally fucked is more like it.]

Since I was sure I would eventually walk again, I was 'stoked'
having the chair to get around in, considering the fact that I
was parylized and had a very slow return of function and
strength.

For a long time after I could walk again, if I fell or knelt
down, I could not stand up again.  I would have to crawl to
someplace where I could pull myself up using my upper body
strength.

I went to the California Pools for the Handicapped in Long Beach
California.  If you have a debgenerative condition, finding a
pool that is 92 degrees (less if you are overweight) you will
find this more helpful than pain pills and muscle relaxer pills.

[I'm fortunate that I don't have real pains from any of this.  I
know those who suffer daily from nerves gone awry.]

It would help if you were very rich!

[What else is new?]

If you are, my little business needs help! (almost, just kidding)

Do make the most of your new adventure!

[Gimps have started businesses because there were needs normals
had no clue about.  I become more convinced all the time that my
mission and the redemption of this personal catastrophe is to
make the public aware in due time and in the correct way of the
massively spammed rehab racket.]

* * * * *

I have my sources.  This was leaked to me recently:

> > He just likes the fur around his mouth to make it look like a
> > pussy.
> That's right.  In fact, if he knocked all his teeth out, I'd
> marry him.

Speaking of toothless fuckers, I had the privilege of visiting an
old folks' home over the weekend, to see a man who posts to the
tasteless newsgroup about his rehabilitation from having one of
his legs lopped off. He's a gifted writer, and his ability to
talk about his disability gains him a shitload of respect in this
piggie's jaded heart.

We had lunch with a 170 or so year old woman who still has a
functional marble or two, and right before we left the room, I
whispered in her ear that if I was ten years older, I'd wheel her
back in the room and lock the door. Nearly causing a cardiac
event, I left to go back and play an 80 minute tape of filthy
jokes performed by a writer for the Howard Stern show. A good
time was had by all, and there's a warm place to sleep for anyone
connected with this past weekend's escapades.

* * * * *

Queen Bee is not going to be happy over that 170 year-old jazz.
She's in her 70s, and she has more than a couple marbles left.
She happens to have damn good legs for a gal her age and she
knows how to spread 'em.  What you don't know, little piggie, is
that the Queen would have taken you up on the offer of a jousting
match.

The ceedee was of Jackie Martling telling feelthy jokes in a
stand-up routine.  I was faimilar with some of them, possibly
from reading Howard Stern's autobiography.  What a filthy and
delightful bastard Stern is.  This is what happens to you when
your mother gives you too many enemas -- you turn into a shock
jock.  I intercut Martling with bits and pieces of Pussy Tourette
and band doing their magnum opus, Fuck My Pussy.  Romanovsky &
Phillips sang their bit for het/fag relations, Some of My Best
Friends Are Straight.

Lessee ...  That awful dyke Bobbi Hatch roared up with her moll
Auntie Lenore in tow, and then came Jim Park and Vinnie!  Why
Vinnie calls himself pigface I dunno cuz he's good enough for at
least one quick shag.  Jim's cute.  Too bad he's 100 percent het
or we couldda had show and tell.  His perfect crewcut would feel
really nice on my titties.  (Does your wife know about this
little trick, Jimmy...?)  I want to buy him a clock for his
Buddha belly.  He can buy me a fake ruby for mine.

Auntie Lenore has seen to my continuing education in sleaze by
loaning a cartoon bad girl art collection, Twisted Sisters.  They
all want to see me get fatter and immobile with French and Welsh
cheeses, Kosher salami, and mm mm mm French preserves.  The
preserves are so rarified they probably won't even stick to this
axle grease margarine.  Thank you, babies, you make self-
destruction such a pleasure.

The throwaway camera they brought had no flash so I flashed them
the Holy Stump out in broad daylight.  Since we were unsuccessful
at destroying the lens, we got the cute cook's assistant (the
_really_ cute one) to take a group picture.  I think he's the one
who wanks in the pot to thicken the Harvard beets.  We all sat in
wheel chairs and tard/gerry chairs except for one (was it Jim?)
who was squatting over a shower chair which has a toilet seat.
Too bad Rochelle, our version of The Nurz, wasn't handy.  She
could've stood behind him and poked his butt with an enema hose.

Every PC group has a ribbon to wear these days.  The red one is
for AIDS and the blue one is for Net Purity or some damn thing,
and the yellow one means Bruce is no longer living with Bubba in
state slam.  We need an A.T. ribbon.  We talked about it and sort
of decided on a combination of grogan brown, piss yellow, and pus
green.  Those who have earned their red wings may substitute
maroon for the brown.  Even now, our contact at the five-sided
house on the Potomac is checking dusty nooks and crannies for a
long-forgotten store.  A lurker personally known to me suggested
a Mobius loop, the never-ending circle of Tastelessness.

* * * * *

An avid reader sent me the lyrics to this song.  He thinks it
speaks to the misery of a tardfarm.  I suppose I could typify
every line of this song with a sight or symbol or "guest" from
ERR or Timmy's.  After careful consideration, I decided not to
revamp the song.  I'll just let it speak for itself:

King of Pain
The Police

There's a little black spot on the sun today
It's the same old thing as yesterday
There's a black hat caught in a high tree top
There's a flag pole rag and the wind won't stop

I have stood here before in the pouring rain
With the world turning circles running 'round my brain
I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign
But it's my destiny to be the King of Pain

There's a little black spot on the sun today
That's my soul up there
It's the same old thing as yesterday
That's my soul up there
There's a black hat caught in a high tree top
That's my soul up there
There's a flag pole rag and the wind won't stop
That's my soul up there

I have stood here before in the pouring rain
With the world turning circles running 'round my brain
I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign
But it's my destiny to be the King of Pain

There's a fossil that's trapped in a high cliff wall
That's my soul up there
There's a dead salmon frozen in a waterfall
That's my soul up there
There's a blue whale beached by a springtide's ebb
That's my soul up there
There's a butterfly trapped in a spider's web
That's my soul up there

I have stood here before in the pouring rain
With the world turning circles running 'round my brain
I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign
But it's my destiny to be the King of Pain

There's a king on a throne with his eyes torn out
There's a blind man looking for a shadow of doubt
There's a rich man sleeping on a golden bed
There's a skeleton choking on a crust of bread
King of Pain

There's a red fox torn by a huntsman's pack
That's my soul up there
There's a black winged gull with a broken back
That's my soul up there
There's a little black spot on the sun today
It's the same old thing as yesterday

I have stood here before in the pouring rain
With the world turning circles running 'round my brain
I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign
But it's my destiny to be the King of Pain

King of Pain
I'll always be King of Pain
King of Pain
I'll always be King of Pain
King of Pain
I'll always be King of Pain

* * * * *

George and I nearly filed for divorce last week.  The first
obnoxious thing he did was open a new bottle of Brut which I
can't stand anyway -- who wants a man who smells like a French
whore?  This time it isn't aftershave, it's full-bore honking-on
cologne water.  He had the room stinking to the point where I
called a nurse to open the patio door, open the hall door, and
turn on the fan in the air conditioner.  I think he was
retaliating for my really smelly BM in the bedpan about a half
hour before.  I don't remember what it was I ate, but it sure was
dead.

The next morning I turned on my teevee, as I am wont, to watch
Bad Morning, AmeriKKKa.  I keep the sound as low as I can and
still hear what cutie Princeton boy Charles Gibson has to say.
(Don't you *love* his dimples?)  George turned on his set and ran
the volume up to stun.  I collected my thoughts, the ones which
had just been knocked out of my head into my lap, and asked him
what the hell is going on.  I'M PISSED! he roars.  Fine, I say,
Why are you pissed?  (We can barely hear each other for the
noise.)  I'M PISSED!  That's all I can get out of him.

I ask him, George, do you want a new roommate?  George reverses
his pinion gears, strips a few teeth and says, YEAH!  YEAH!
Okay, George, I say, I'll see Miss Ralph about it -- but I want
to warn you that you're unlikely to get another who is as
cooperative (I wanted to say 'pussy') as I have been.  Why, you
might even get somebody like Otis.  George's eyes get great big.
He used to have "Odie" for a roomie.  Odie got so tired of
George's shit he popped George one and knocked him right out of
his wheelchair!  Can you imagine two old tards in wheelchairs
having a fistfight?  Must've been hysterical!

In the meantime George has settled down.  Miss Ralph says his
short term memory is hash and not to worry about it.  I watched
the tube this morning again and I stunk up the place pretty good
last night (illegal Mexican food), and George didn't even chirp.
Miss Ralph came in today to tell me what a whore she'd been over
the weekend -- and she had Friday to start in on it.  I'm so glad
I ripped the bitch's closet door off the hinges.  I think she is,
too.  Right now I'm working on birthing a new fagboy from the
pastures of Michigan.  He's managed to come down the pike head
first, but he has got the umbilical wrapped around his stiff neck
a couple of times.  He'll make it, though.  After my mental
vagina gets over it, I will be a proud new gay mother.  Mr Cheez
and MIss Kooky are the midwives.

I owe you all an apology for becoming so much a gossippy old
queen, but this is what is happening right now.  I'm sorry we
don't have any more interesting people raising hell here.  I am
continually assured that as soon as winter hits we will have an
influx.  Cold and rain, the old people's undoing...  In the
meantime, I continue to search out tardhives to apply to and get
on impossibly long waiting lists.  What scares me is I might
actually start to like this place.  When I admit that, please,
Sergeant Zeno, come and shoot me.  They say time flies when
you're having fun.  I say time is fun when you're having flies :)

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