Hearing

One evening last week, during a seemingly endless stretch of hot, muggy days, I was reading at the dining room table with the widows wide open when I heard a cat crying outside.

Our neighbors have two cats, and they often prowl around our back yard now that Ginger is gone. I looked out the window and saw the yellow tabby curled contentedly in their upstairs window, enjoying the meager breeze, silent.

Mrroww, mrroww, mrowww, cried the mystery cat.

Where could it be? This didn’t sound like your ordinary cat commentary. I went out the kitchen door and looked around. No cat.

Mrroww, mrroww, mrowww, cried the mystery cat.

I walked up the path to our front drive. No cat. I walked back to the kitchen door. No cat.

Mrroww, mrroww, mrowww, cried the mystery cat.

Then I realized that the cry seemed to be coming from our garage. I opened the back door. There was our neighbor’s white cat, hiding among my older daughter’s furniture, in storage until she moves to a new apartment in September.

It did not take much to coax the cat out of its self-imposed prison. I have absolutely no idea how it got in, since I’m not parking in the garage while the furniture is there. A mystery, indeed.

The cat ran back home, and I was quite thankful that I’d been around to hear its cry.

So, you may wonder, what does this have to do with living with scleroderma? Well, Dear Reader, it’s all about speaking out when you need help. That kitty knew how to get attention (how long it waited to complain, I have no idea—it probably snuck inside somehow to escape the heat) and kept asking for attention until someone paid attention.

Speaking up for yourself when you need help, without any shame or embarrassment, is a crucial skill when you live with any kind of disability, including the physical limitations that are part and parcel of scleroderma. In this Sunday’s New York Times, Rosemarie Garland Thomson articulates it beautifully in her essay, “Becoming Disabled”:

As we manage our bodies in environments not built for them, the social barriers can sometimes be more awkward than the physical ones. Confused responses to racial or gender categories can provoke the question “What are you?” Whereas disability interrogations are “What’s wrong with you?” Before I learned about disability rights and disability pride, which I came to by way of the women’s movement, I always squirmed out a shame-filled, “I was born this way.” Now I’m likely to begin one of these uncomfortable encounters with, “And these are the accommodations I need.” This is a claim to inclusion and right to access resources. . . .

Becoming disabled demands learning how to live effectively as a person with disabilities, not just living as a disabled person trying to become nondisabled. It also demands the awareness and cooperation of others who don’t experience these challenges. Becoming disabled means moving from isolation to community, from ignorance to knowledge about who we are, from exclusion to access, and from shame to pride.

Unlike Garland Thomson, I wasn’t born with my disabilities. I can still remember what it felt like (barely, it’s been so many decades) to have fully functioning hands. It’s taken me many years of living with scleroderma to assert myself with strangers when I need help. But I’m no longer afraid or ashamed to ask. Much as I want to do for myself, I also realize my limitations. It’s good to know, more often than not, there’s someone willing to open that door, pop that tab on a soda can, or hoist that carry-on bag to the overhead luggage rack—who’s glad to be of assistance.

If a cat knows how to get the help it needs, when it needs it, then surely, so can I.

Evelyn Herwitz blogs weekly about living fully with chronic disease, the inside of baseballs, turtles and frogs, J.S. Bach, the meaning of life and whatever else she happens to be thinking about at livingwithscleroderma.com.

Image: “Cat and Mouse” (1975) by Robert A. Nelson, on exhibit at the Worcester Art Museum

When you live in a home long enough, stuff breaks. A doorknob loosens, a faucet drips, a burner element wears out on the stove, a toilet leaks, a chair leg cracks, a lock fails. The list is endless.

If you’re handy, fixing stuff around the house can be a satisfying hobby. If you’re not, it’s a cumulative nuisance. And if you can figure out how to fix it but your hands won’t cooperate, it’s truly irritating.

I used to have extraordinary fine motor coordination in my hands and could do just about any kind of detailed manipulations. I watched my father fix all kinds of objects around the house and build bookcases to hold thousands of tomes, and I imagined being able to do the same someday. But now that I have my own home, I can’t do the kinds of repairs that I wish I could because my hands simply won’t cooperate. Al, by his own admission, is not Mr. Fix-It.

So it was with great satisfaction that we finally found a handyman who can do just about any repair for a reasonable price. Our list has been growing for a long time, but the problem that finally drove us to seek him out was the ladder to the attic, which broke about a year ago, making it impossible to access our luggage. We are planning more travel in a few weeks, this time to Italy, and we needed to get up there.

And so, over the past few days, Marc has been fixing stuff: He replaced the ladder, fixed the impossible leaking toilet, repaired the drippy kitchen faucet and spray hose, reattached the spring on the outer front door that fell off the other day, wired a new front light, replaced some shakes that had been bored through by woodpeckers, and mended two broken chairs and the leg on our coffee table.

As these things go, nothing was as simple as it seemed. Bees were investigating the holes bored by the woodpeckers. The toilet needed several adjustments, as did the kitchen faucet. The attic ladder was a challenge because the original door had been built in the wrong place relative to the upstairs hallway and staircase. But Marc figured it out, spicing his efforts with some colorful language that reminded me of my dad’s cursing when things didn’t go right, and demonstrated an admirable ability to sort through the challenges and solve each one.

While he was working here on Monday, I was faced with a different kind of fix-it problem—trying to get the scanner on my printer to work again. I had an important document to scan, and the printer would create the image, but continually refused to save the file. I tried reinstalling the driver twice, only to have the same result. I groused to Marc, who cracked a sympathetic joke.

I was ready to give up and take the document to an office service store, when I took a break for a late lunch. Marc was up in the attic, adjusting the length of the new aluminum ladder after a particularly difficult battle with the old wooden one, which had twisted and tangled in its ancient spring. If he could persist and figure it out, so could I.

So I read through old printer documentation, tried a different way of getting into the scanner software, and—lo and behold, found the problem—a save option that had not been activated. The scanner worked. “I did it!” I shouted to Marc. He cheered.

I may not be able to do what Marc does with fixing stuff with my hands, but I sure learned a good lesson about persistent problem-solving. When he left Monday afternoon, he told me to start making “another little list.” I already have a few items noted down for after we get back.

Image Credit: Ciska Wesselius

Evelyn Herwitz blogs weekly about living fully with chronic disease, the inside of baseballs, turtles and frogs, J.S. Bach, the meaning of life and whatever else she happens to be thinking about at livingwithscleroderma.com.