Stumble and Disdain

Posted on November 20, 2007 by Jamieson Wolf

My legs are continuing to betray me.

I don’t know why they have it in for me, but they do. I wonder if that twin of mine, the one who rests inside my body, has hired my legs to do me in, to take me down.

On my way to work this morning I was walking and then, suddenly, I wasn’t. It felt like I was falling, sinking to the side. I had gone to take a step only to have my other leg give out, give way.

I stumbled, hands out in front of me. I was able to right myself, to straighten up. I could feel the spasms in my right leg and they thrummed and hummed under my skin. I stood where I was for a moment, trying to make sure that I was alright, that I would be okay.

I took a step, my right leg sounding out with a bright flash of pain quickly followed by one in my left leg. Each step hurt but I walked as well as I could until I was able to sit on a bench. Dew and water soaked into my pants, but I didn’t care.

I only knew I had to sit.

I waited for the spasms to pass, for the humming to stop. A woman was watching me and shook her head, whispered something to her co-worker. They had seen the whole thing. I felt myself blush, redden, in embarrassment.

They both passed me, giving me disdainful looks.

I wonder if they thought I was a bum or an alcoholic? Their minds had been made up by what they had witnessed.

Neither asked if I was alright.

Even now, I can feel the thrum of the spasm’s in my legs, my back responding every once in a while. It’s not one to be ignored for too long.

Even now I wonder if I should have said something, explained myself to those two women.

Even now, I wonder if it would have mattered.

Either way, I wait for the pain to pass, for the spasms to settle and think of things that bring me joy.

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Sewing Thoughts

Posted on November 20, 2007 by Jamieson Wolf

I have been negligent in writing lately. This is mostly because I have been doing the most dreaded thing a writer can face: editing! While I know that editing is an essential process, I don’t have to enjoy it.

It’s been an odd experience going through the first draft of the memoir. It’s been weird reading everything and having to relive everything I’ve written down. I find that words are like time capsules: they hold time still for you. They hold time in it’s grasp and, even years later, you can be transported back.

I am glad, however, that the pieces of the puzzle have come together. As I edit and go through what I’ve written I remember more; I am visited by more ghosts. I wonder if I am like a modern day Scrooge to be visited by Ghosts of Christmas past.

I feel as if I’m sewing the pieces together now, giving the chapters and parts a glue and mortar made out of thread that pulls the pieces together, pulls them together to form a cohesive whole.

It’s odd to have my life in a book. It’s bizarre to read my words knowing that others will read them.

It’s also a relief to know that I’ve written everything down. To know that I have embarked on what is a fabulous journey and that I’ve survived to tell my tale.

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Showing Itself

Posted on October 30, 2007 by Jamieson Wolf

The other day at work my co-worker asked me: “Do you take any pain killers?”

I shook my head. “No.” I said.

“Why not? Surely with your Cerebral Palsy, you should be able to?”

I shrug. “I don’t take anything but asprin. I don’t like losing control of myself. I don’t feel like living in a fog. ”

“But is it better to remain in pain?” I could tell she was sincerely concerned for me.

“It’s better to live with it rather than trying to put a band aid on it.” I said. “I have to be able to be aware.” I told her. “There are worse things in the world than living with a bit of soreness.”

“Did you take any tylonol today?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yes, it hasn’t kicked in yet.”

“I can tell,” she said. “You’re walking funny today.”

I wondered later about how things change.

Years ago, people didn’t notice my Cerebral Palsy. People were shocked when I told them I had it.

Now, they can see it. It’s as if it no longer wants to hide, no longer wants to keep hidden and is trying to show itself, to make itself known, whether I want it to or not.

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Glass Slippers and Falling Leaves

Posted on October 30, 2007 by Jamieson Wolf

I feel old lately.

The weeks have not been kind to my body. Every day I feel more and more pain with every step I take. The spasms in my legs have been getting worse and I do not know why this is. I do not know how to stop it, how to ease it.

I lift my left foot, feel a blissful second where there is no pain, and feel it shoot up my leg like knifes or needles when I step down again. Every time I take a step there is pain and when I am not walking my legs are spasming.

I feel like I cannot win, as if I’m in a race against something I can’t see. I wonder if I finish the race, if I let my body rip through that piece of ribbon at the finish line, whether or not the pain will cease. But how can I race something I cannot see?

It’s like I’m wearing glass slippers, except that they’re broken; they’re sharp shards and slivers of slick silver that slide into my skin with each step. I know how Cinderella felt but how did she stand to walk in such uncomfortable shoes?

I massage my legs at work, hoping that it might help, that the next time I take a step or have to stand up, my legs won’t cry out in protest.

I’ve been praying a lot lately. Not to God, not religious praying. Not in that sense. I’ve just been praying for the pain to stop, even for an instant, so that I can breathe in again, so that I can breathe out.

I feel old inside my body. But I will not let my legs take me down. I will not let their complaints bring me to a darker place.

I will envision myself like a leaf going through change: dark green to brilliant orange. Brilliant orange to a deep rust. Deep rust to a gorgeous red. And when I fall away from the tree to land softly on the ground, I will finally be able to wear something other than glass slippers.

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A Gentle Quiet

Posted on October 22, 2007 by Jamieson Wolf

I have been quiet lately.

 

This is not due to depression, thank goodness. It is simply due to the fact that life has taken me up in a whirlwind and has only just put me down again. For the past while, I’ve been consumed in a routine: Go to work, go home, write. Go to work, go home, write. Can you guess what I’ve been writing?

 

I’ve been writing my memoir titled One Step at a Time. So, while I have been quiet, I have been active. And I have some amazing news to share with all of you:

 

The memoir is finished.

 

I wrote the last page just under a couple hours ago. If I still smoked, this would be where I would light up a cigarette. Though I can’t compare the experience of writing this memoir to sex, I can compare it to a journey.

 

And, indeed, it has been one. It has helped me heal more than I thought possible and I have learned more about myself while putting its words down on paper than I thought I could know.

 

One thing is clear to me, however: this is the most important piece of writing I have ever written. It is certainly not my favourite as it’s caused me many sleepless nights, nightmares, temper tantrums. You name it and I’ve had it because of writing this book.

 

But I’ve never had the feeling I do now of being free; of having a weight lifted off of me, a weight that I wasn’t even aware I was carrying. The chalice that rests inside me finally feels whole again and I can breathe without feeling any pain.

 

That’s not to say that my Cerebral Palsy has all of a sudden gone away, my family has welcomed me back with open arms and everything is okay. But it does mean that I feel better about myself now, I feel better about being me.

 

I couldn’t ask for anything more.

 

Now that the memoir is finished, I can finally get back to regular blogging, regular writing and other projects that have sat by the wayside. I’m giving it a day and then I’m going to delve into a read through and a little bit of editing.

 

Then it’s off to the publisher.

 

I only hope that the publisher enjoys it. It is my sincere hope that they do and that they do not find it too depressing or badly written. I’ll have to cross my fingers and toes but not my eyes. I’d bump into things that way and I do that enough already.

 

I’ve also submitted a proposal for a second memoir to my wonderful publisher. I can only hope that I’ll be able to continue my story. So, much like before, I will have plenty to worry about.

 

But I also have plenty to be joyous about as well.

 

One (or rather several) of those things is you. Yes, you, reading this blog right now. You have read my words, found enjoyment from them and been enlightened by them. You have sent me emails and comments letting me know how touched you are by my words and I can’t thank you enough.

 

I write for me, for myself but it is a treat, a pleasure and a privilege to write for you. So thank you, reader. I’ll be back on track in a day or two. Your patience means the world to me.

Now that one story is finished I can finally continue to tell another.

Posted in Memoir, self esteem, The Past, Words | 2 Comments

A Marked Man

Posted on October 1, 2007 by Jamieson Wolf

I am still convinced that my legs are trying to get me killed.

 Sure, they may not be trying too hard; but I know it is one of their many efforts aside from walking.

Last Saturday, we went out to celebrate our friend Marks birthday. He was turning 29 again for the third time. He looks gorgeous for 29 and has fantastic skin. They encouraged us to eat, drink and be merry.

All night, Robert kept noticing me grimace. “What’s wrong?” He would ask. “Your legs bothering you?”

I would nod. “They’re sore.” In truth, they were knotted masses of tree trunks, elephant legs grown over night or in mere moments.

He would offer me his seat but that wouldn’t help. It was as if sitting intensified the Elephant Legs, as if sitting forced them to move when they did not want to. I could feel every muscle, every spasm.

I ignored it as best I could as the evening wore on, as they night took hold of us. I talked to others, I drank, I ate more food. All in an effort to ignore what was building in my legs. I could feel it boiling there, as it it wanted to let off steam and it would do so through the pores of my skin.

We went to a bar to ring in Marks birthday, midnight rolling around with both Robert and I hitting our respective walls. Going home in the cab, I could feel my legs protesting what I had put them through tonight. They were very, very vocal. I should have noticed the warning signs. “Drinking, dancing, parties?” They were saying. “Oh, you owe us. You SO owe us.”

I was bringing two glasses of ginger-ale out of the kitchen, walking toward Robert in the living room, when it happened: my legs gave out. They gave out completely. One moment, I was walking and the next I was falling, flying, floating towards the ground.

I hit the ground hard on my right leg and right arm. I think I made a sound but I can’t be sure, I really don’t remember if I did or not. I put the glasses on the table (still more than half full with their golden liquid) and got up.

I looked at my legs. They were numb but I could feel them shaking. I felt like hitting them, berating them for giving out on me. I was worried that there was no warning the moment before they gave away. I wonder if I had pushed them too hard, had forced them to do too much that evening?

I went to bed and thought nothing of the fall until the next morning. I turned over in bed and Robert came into the bedroom, saw me lying there. “What did you do to your leg?” He asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Your leg, it’s bruised.”

I got up and went to the full length mirror. Bruise was such a simple word for what graced my leg. I had a large bruise, about the size of my hand with my fingers stretched out. It was on my right thigh, on the side, and it looked like a big black mass of shadow.

I touched it and felt the swelling, the pain. “It must have been from the fall.” I said.

“You fell really hard.” Robert replied. “You hit the table on the way down too, before you hit the floor.”

I stared at the bruise with awe that my body could produce something so ugly. Robert cringed when he looked at it. “Put some cream on it, some moisturizer.” he said. “That will help the swelling go down.”

I stared at my leg, at the mark that was now on my skin and couldn’t help but be reminded of the novel Treasure Island and the pirate who receives the Black Mark pressed into his palm, marking him for death.

I prodded the bruise, felt a fresh tinge of pain and wondered was I now a marked man? Was I now marked for something to come, for an unforeseen event that I had no inkling of?

The bruise has faded from black to purple to brown to red to yellow. I have watched the rainbow that my legs have given me change and, at the same time, have watched the leaves outside change from green to red and yellow and gold.

It is no longer sore, my legs have been quiet. I think they over extorted themselves last week, they need a rest. But I can’t help but wonder if they have marked me for a reason or if I am simply being overly dramatic. Perhaps a bit of both.

Now, though, I will watch the bruise fade and the leave outside my window as they continue to change colour and then break away from the trees, drifting away on the wind to find their own destiny.

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Holding My Breath

Posted on September 18, 2007 by Jamieson Wolf

  

I am almost finished One Step at a Time.

 

The memoir has taken its own shape, its own form. My words have given it a body, a face, a pair of hands with which to reach out and touch readers.

 

It is incomprehensible to me that I have written these words; that I have put my pen to paper, my fingers to the keyboard, the click clack of keys spelling out my past, present and future.

 

I had hoped that as I wrote, things would become easier. That it would be simple to delve into the well of what I was and where I came from. That it would be easy to lower the wooden bucket and salvage the parts of me that make up the whole of who I am.

 

It has not been easy.

 

I have learned much about myself, however. I think that it the true power of what I have written. Not only does it allow me to put those ghosts to rest (I can hear them whispering at me in my head, telling tales and distorting my vision with a kaleidoscope of images) but it allows me to know me.

 

It is still the hardest thing I have ever written. But it remains the most wonderful process. Taking the puzzle pieces of me and arranging them so that they form a whole.

 

I am no longer afraid of myself. I am no longer filled with self doubt, that great weight of the carrion bird perched on my shoulder. It has released my shoulder from it’s claw like grip and flown to someone else.

 

I do not wish that weight on anyone.

 

I was wondering what would come after One Step at a Time. Surely if this was the first step, there would be more to tell?

 

The memoir ends just after I meet the man who became my husband. But what of me after that? What of me beyond that point? I know that the road did not stop when I met Robert, that there were many more trails and pathways to follow.

 

I look at my life not as one path but as several. Internally, I am a maze. Externally, I am a roadmap of crisscrossing lines. My veins are like blue print lines, burnt into my skin. Which do I choose to follow? Which do I choose to ignore?

 

Even though I know how difficult writing One Step at a Time has been (I have never taken on such a mountain sized task before) am I ready to climb the other side of the mountain? Am I ready to look at myself in that light?

 

It would seem that I am.

 

I’ve submitted another book proposal to The Friday Project for another memoir, another book of blood that would follow One Step at a Time.

 

Now I wait with bated breath for two reasons, my breathing coming in shallow gulps and gasps.

 

I hold my breath for the ending of One Step at a Time because I know it is really a beginning. I know that the ending is coming and can only hope that I will know how to write it. For how does one put their emotions into words when they are not masked by the smoke and mirrors of fiction?

 

And the second reason?

 

I wait, my breath like a heartbeat inside my chest, to hear back from The Friday Project about the next book, the next part of my maze.

 

I wait and hope that they will let me continue down the path that I have chosen. I wait to hear what they will say.

 

I wait and I remind myself to breathe. Remind myself to write.

 

Remind myself to live.

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Limitations of the Body

Posted on September 14, 2007 by Jamieson Wolf

I have been quiet again. But it’s not because I’m depressed.

It’s because I’m moving.

I hate moving. I hate it with a passion. I hate the packing, the boxes, the newspaper and bubble wrap. But there is one reason above all else that I dislike packing so much:

It reminds me of my physical limitations.

I don’t like knowing that I can’t do everything that anyone else can. I don’t like being reminded that my muscles have a limit to what they can do that is set far lower than anyone else.

It makes me feel inferior.

We’ve been packing all this week; box after box of belongings, bag after bag of clothes. After each new bag or each new box, I am reminded of the fact that I am physically disabled, as much as I would like to pretend otherwise.

My leg muscles protest going up and down the stairs, my back muscles start singing a glorious soprano aria only to be joined by my leg muscles who feel like singing a harmony. My shoulders throb in a beat, keeping time for them.

I know if I were to take my shirt off and find myself capable of turning my head to look at my own back, I would see my muscles jumping underneath the skin.

The pain has not be hot or fast or intense; it has been constant. My muscles are protesting in ways I didn’t think they were capable of. I can feel the ripple of them underneath my skin when before it would be a single jab to my shoulders, a hot kiss of hurt to my calves.

Now I wear it like a mantle. Muscles knotting together in some exterior puzzle that I am not given the answer key for. Just when I think I know how my body and my muscles will react, they surprise me with something else, some new way of feeling, moving, jerking, jumping.

I wonder if I will ever get the answer key? If I will be able to turn to page 105 in myself and see the black line that leads me to the centre of the maze?

Perhaps.

Thankfully though, I have had work to keep my mind occupied. Packing, working, writing, packing, working, writing; My mind cannot focus on the limitations of my body, on the movement under my skin.

Instead it focuses on other things and I can let my mind wander. I can dream of things, remember things, hold memories like gum drops on my finger tips or soft, clear jewels of rain.

Instead I pack and I work and I write, remembering, wanting, needing.

And I hope that, someday, I can view my limitations as unlimitations.

Perhaps then I will learn how to fly.

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A Milestone

Posted on September 4, 2007 by Jamieson Wolf

Well I reached a milestone last night.

  I’m now three quarters through my memoir One Step at a Time. I’ve got a good chunk left but I was able to get twenty five pages written this weekend which is way beyond what I can normally pull off.   Writing novels is so much easier and I can always lose myself in the story, in the characters, in what’s going on. Writing twenty five pages of a novel is nothing. Writing twenty five pages of a memoir is incredibly hard.   

I had no idea what the journey would entail when I started writing One Step at a Time. I had no idea the emotions I would feel, the memories I would stir up, the forgotten things that would come back into the forefront. It’s been a gruelling, emotional experience and I’ve still got a bit to go.

  

But you know, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  This is the most involved I’ve been with my writing in forever. I like writing novels but don’t love it. I love writing short stories but, regrettably, that’s a genre of writing that has fallen by the wayside. No one publishes short stories anymore. So novels it is. But I’ve never gotten emotional when writing my novels except for The Ghost Mirror.   

I’ve cried, raged, and had nightmares while writing One Step at a Time. It’s been agony, blissful, joyful, frightening, and revealing and all manner of other things.

  

What I find most interesting about it all is that this is the first time I’ve taken to sit back and take a good honest look at me. I’ve never done this before. I don’t know why this is, why I haven’t bothered. But there you go. That’s the truth of it.

  

I can now look at myself and feel that I am proud of me, proud of myself; I haven’t been able to say this about myself for years. Sure, I could think it, ponder it, hold it like a stone in the palm of my hand. But I’ve never felt it. Now I can.

  

A few wonderful people have been test readers for me. The lovely Caroline, my Husband, Dorothy. I can’t thank these people enough. They have read my words (MY words, not a story, which just floors me) and have still looked at me the same way, have still seen me as me. I can’t thank them enough for that. I love them for that, for being able to still respect me and love me for me after reading what I’ve written.

  And now I can see the end of the journey coming. I know its coming; I can see the light at the end of the preverbal tunnel. And now that is frightening. I’m ending the memoir just after Robert (My beautiful husband) proposes to me. I know there will be at least one more book detailing my life after One Step at a Time. I already have a working title in mind.    The future is ahead of me and that is the greatest adventure there is.  

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A Constant Companion

Posted on August 28, 2007 by Jamieson Wolf

Pain has been a constant companion lately.

I carry it with me like a feather boa that is wrapped around my throat tightly so that I cannot get air. Or perhaps it is like concrete that slowly drips down my legs to harden at my feet.

I am not sure why this is. It may be the weather, the time of year, the alignment of the planets. It may be divine intervention. It may be that my body is trying to turn against me.

I feel as if I am battling myself. As if my body was a terrain of rocky hills and low, supple valley’s. My arms stretch out on either side of me like rivers and my legs are the hard battle ground, covered in blood and the knots and roots of trees snaking their way through the grass.

This weekend was sheer agony. I don’t know what was causing it, don’t know what brought it on, but it was pain beyond anything I’ve felt before. Pain that I couldn’t even imagine.

It was constant all day Saturday and all day Sunday. It was like my body, my legs, decided that they did not want to participate in my plans, did not want to do what I wanted to do but instead remain stock still like a petrified tree, it’s roots turned to hardened muscle.

I could barley walk, barley stand. I had to sit often and any amount of walking was torture. Each step sent shoots of pain along the soles of my feet and hardened the already rock like muscles of my legs.

Even sitting was painful. I would sit to relieve the pain in my legs and feet, to give them a break of sorts. But when I sat down, the muscles in my buttocks and thigh’s shook and vibrated beneath me like the magic fingers in old hotel beds.

So I would stand to relieve the pain in my legs only to find that the muscles had hardened while I sat so I would sit again. I felt like I was attending Catholic church and all that was missing was the kneeling.

I have started wishing for one day without pain. Where I could take a step and not feel pain shooting up my calves. Where I could sit and feel nothing shaking beneath me. Where I could lie down and not have to wait for my back to stop spasming.

Some people wish for different coloured eyes, others for a new job, some for bigger breasts. Some may wish for more chocolate cake, another five minutes of sleep.

I wish for one day, one twenty four hour period, where I could be pain free.

I know that this is an unrealistic wish; that it can never be fulfilled. I know that pain is my constant companion, that it wraps itself around me so tightly that, sometimes, I feel like I cannot breathe.

But, because I am stubborn, I will fight my daily battle. I will wage war on my legs, my arms bending like water, my stomach a small hill to look down upon the battlement.

I will fight. I will wage my war.

And I will win.

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