Whenever assisted suicide comes up amongst my friends and family, they are very pro-assisted suicide. I get angry and quiet and don’t have the energy to explain explain explain, which is unusual for me, but this topic is so vast and exhausting and sometimes I think that no one with a disability is in any position to see the medical industrial complex from my point of view because they have never been treated the way I have in a doctor’s office.
This essay by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg about Amanda Baggs and the pressure the medical establishment is putting on her to turn down life-saving procedures and just die already gets at the heart of why I object to this. Please read it:
“I think that many people feel that they would rather die than to be treated as though they are worthless. And so they put forward legislation that will give them a way out. But they don’t realize that we can fight the idea that it’s better to be dead than ill or disabled — that we can react to it with outrage, and that we can create communities of support so that none of us ends up with our worst fears realized.”
And so did one of my besties!!!!
So, I am going to be in the show Listen to Your Mother, doing a live version of my last MPR commentary on my youngest son whose name isn’t Bob, who turned the tables on strangers who stare at his mom.
I am in quite fine company.
I’ve written a rather uncharacteristically personal piece for MPR this time, about parenting a shy kid when you stand out in the crowd:
I do not think I am overstating when I say that I have handled having an inexplicable, wildly fluctuating, baffling and mysterious disabling disorder with a fair bit of levelheaded calm. Panache, even. Style. (My wheels and my crutches are sa-WEET.)
This is not how I’m handling my concussion. Not at all.
I wonder. Is it because this is Just One More Thing? Is it because I am a big whiny baby? Is it the constant pain? I am unaccustomed to constant pain.
It is almost funny that this small thing — this temporary thing — has left me bowled over and terrified that I will lose my job, my friendships, my vocation; whereas MS is no big deal.
Or it would be funny if I did not find myself in tears of self pity when I see bicyclists on the road. Self-pity is not a good color on me. It does not suit.