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Amy F. Quincy Author/Freelance Writer

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Monastery Hours

Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.

~Benjamin Franklin

I am writing this at the ungodly hour of 4:13 a.m. ‘For the love of pete, why?’ would be the legitimate response. And I’m going to tell you. First, let me get the obvious out of the way. As a disabled person, it takes me an hour and a half to shower and get ready — and I don’t wear makeup or do anything to my hair aside from brushing it. Basically, I get ready like a guy, but take the time of a prom queen on formal night. Add an hour for Frankie’s walk, plus time for breakfast and it’d be lunchtime if I slept late.

So, I like to get up early. It wasn’t always this early. For awhile, I was “sleeping in” till 5:30 or 6:00. But after a short break, I’m reinstating “monastery hours,” as a friend calls them. (She keeps them too.)

The simple reason is — I get more done. It’s peaceful and quiet (Frankie’s still asleep,) and the phone never rings. I use it as my time to write. My writing coach has been encouraging us to get in 1,000 words a day.  I know I’ll never make that, but I figure I’ve done my part if I get in a good hour and a half to two hours of uninterrupted writing every morning.

For those of you who follow such things, November is National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo.  The organization that runs this challenges writers to write a 50,000 word novel in a month. That’s 1,666 words a day if you break it down. Sara Gruen supposedly wrote Water for Elephants during her month of NaNoWriMo. The point is, to call yourself a writer, you actually have to write. And you really should do it every day. So writers, as my father would say, “poop or get off the pot.” (Actually, my father would say the words originally intended, but this is a good, clean, family blog.)

I’m often commended on my discipline, getting up that early in the morning. But the morning is easy, often automatic, if I’ve had enough sleep. Where it takes discipline is the night before. I need my eight hours. Which means I have to go to bed at 8:00. Which means I have to start the process at 7:00. I often fall asleep to the sounds and smells of a neighbor’s dinner, barbecue flaring up, steaks on the grill. And before the recent time change, the sun was still up. Once, I woke from a deep slumber to the sound of the telephone ringing. I answered it, my voice thick with sleep and irritation. “Do you know what time it is?” I demanded. “8:30,” came the response.

Even if you’re not a writer, you’re not off the hook. The benefits are endless and for everyone. Get to work early and get a head start, catch the sunrise, squeeze in a workout, beat the traffic or finally have time for breakfast. And if you are a writer, the early morning hours are best for channeling that ever elusive Muse. Wayne Dyer believes you are closer to divine inspiration at dawn. Or if he’s too New-Agey for you, take it from Bill Gates. He’s an early riser, too.

Assuming I’ve convinced you to give it a try, here are some tips:

1. Get enough sleep. I can’t stress this one enough. To get up earlier, you need to go to bed earlier. Otherwise it will be that much harder and you’ll feel awful. Or maybe you like fighting a losing battle.

2. Have a reason to get up. Ever notice how easy it is to get up to catch that flight or pack on the first day of vacation? Doing something productive or having something to look forward to makes it easier.

3. Don’t rationalize. If you allow your brain to talk you out of it, it’ll never happen. Don’t even start to have that conversation. Just don’t go there.

4. Set the alarm across the room. If you have to get out of bed to wake up, you’re less likely to get back in it.

5. Don’t make drastic changes. Don’t attempt to change your routine overnight. Start by setting the alarm 15-30 minutes earlier. Gradually increase this by increments until you reach your goal time.

6. Get out of the bedroom immediately. Don’t tempt yourself by the sight of an unmade bed. Walk into the bathroom, turn on the light. Wash your face or jump in the shower. How about heading to the kitchen and starting that coffee?

7. Don’t hit snooze. You’re not getting up. And you’re not getting good sleep. It’s a lose-lose. And if you hit it once, you’re more likely to hit it two, three or seven times.

8. Reward yourself. Stay motivated. Treat yourself to something if you’ve accomplished your goal. Enjoy a tasty breakfast treat or a smoothie.

9. Get a wake-up buddy. Just like working out, it’s easier with a friend. Find a similarly motivated pal and encourage or call each other.

10. Pay attention to sleep cycles. Your body goes through five sleep stages, including REM sleep. If you’ve tried all the above and you’re still having trouble, you’re likely waking in the middle of a cycle when it’s best to wake at the end of one. Try setting your alarm a half-hour earlier or later.

4

Harmony: Life Lessons From My Pets

Bella and Frankie have adjusted to living under the same roof. There’s still no love loss between them. They’re not exactly grooming each other or sleeping together. But they’ve learned how to be in a room simultaneously. We should all be so lucky. So, next time you’re tempted to ask, ‘why can’t we all just get along?’ — take a hint from a cat and dog who’ve mastered it.

Allow people to be themselves. Don’t expect everybody to be like you. It took Frankie a while to get this one. He just didn’t understand why Bella didn’t want to wrestle with him. He would bounce around all excited, doing the maneuver where he lowers down, front legs out straight, inviting her to play. Bella, in turn, would get all freaked out and run away. To Frankie, of course, this simply meant game on. As an outsider, it was so easy to see all the miscommunication going on. This leads to the next bit of advice.

Stand your ground — gently. Don’t run away or give chase. This was the worst thing Bella could do. She’d tear down the hall with Frankie close on her heels; terrified, while he had the time of his life. She has learned. Now I watch her crane her neck back, moving her head as far away from him as possible without moving her feet. She stays put. Clearly with distaste, but she never moves her body.

Be tolerant. Don’t overreact or yell. She used to hiss and make a big fuss whenever he came anywhere near her. Poor Frankie didn’t mean any harm. He just wanted to get to know her. Now she doesn’t make a big production of it, just lets him take a sniff or two. She’s realized that’s all he’s after. There’s no reason to growl and get all testy.

Give others plenty of space. As with any relationship, all parties can benefit from a good dose of “me time.” Since Bella is little Miss Independent, Frankie had to be the one to learn that sometimes a creature just wants to be left alone. Now he seems to know to act bored and aloof. It goes against his nature, but he’s a quick study. What’s true for winning over a man can also be true for winning over a cat.

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Dress Up Day

I’ve always been the type of person that didn’t believe in dressing up animals. I hate those email jokes where there’s some poor attired feline who looks ticked off (obviously,) and I would never humiliate a cat with an outfit. I felt bad for my friend’s Labrador when she slapped a pair of plastic antlers on its head at Christmas                                                     time. Once again, Frankie’s changing my ways.

I was swayed by the persuasive tactics of commercial marketing. Have you seen the rows of pet costumes at Target? They’re adorable. Last year, still unconvinced, we did things my mom’s way — last minute. We were stuck with the unoriginal, far from clever, hot dog dog costume. Maybe this would’ve been cuter if Frankie actually was a Dachshund, but a Pekingese as a hot dog wasn’t that funny. I was a little embarrassed walking him the morning of the 31st, not to mention constantly worried he was going to pee on his getup. (Though I now know these costumes are made with strategically placed straps for safe and comfortable widdling.)

Amazingly, Frankie seemed to not only tolerate it, but enjoy it! Maybe it was all the extra attention he was getting, but there did seem to be an extra bounce in his step. Frankie has always trotted happily, but as ridiculous as it sounds, as a hot dog, he pranced.

This year, we’ve done things my way. Planned out and well in advance. Frankie’s Halloween gear was originally a sweater. Black and white striped with a skull and crossbones. Simple. Cute. I steered away from anything that looked too uncomfortable or went on his head. (I may have changed my mind, but I still have my compassion.) The problem was, his sweater looked like it had gone a couple rounds in the dryer. Way too small, it only came halfway down his back. I marveled that my mom was even able to get it on.

The sizing charts of pet costumes and a book on the Pekingese have called Frankie’s weight into question. The book says “dog show standards” (yeah, right) are limited to a maximum of 14 pounds. At last weigh-in, Frankie tipped the scales at  20. The sweater chart listed his breed as size small. Yet, what I received looked fit for a Chihuahua. We were told he’s all Pekingese, but he’s a rescue, so either he’s a very big boy or he’s mixed with Bulldog, which would explain his absolute stubbornness.

Validated for beginning the process early in the month, I returned the miniature sweater in favor of two more outfits, in hopes that one would work. One did. And Frankie felt so good about it at photo time, he turned toward the camera at his name like he was working the red carpet.

The Hawaiian Guy

In the end, he’s a contest winning Hawaiian Guy. That’s right, the dogs are having a party and costume contest on Monday at daycare. As a columnist in Tallahassee says, this is what happens in America when you don’t have children. Silly yes, but I’m embracing it. If you see us on the street on Monday, I’ll be the one proudly walking the prancing Hawaiian Guy.

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In-Transit Transient

Illustration by Suzanne F. Quincy

I used to get embarrassed driving in traffic when my car was filthy or there was bird poop all over the windshield. Now, I’m traveling across A1A in my power wheelchair with giant bags hanging off of it like I collect aluminum cans. Punishment for my vanity.

Frankie and I are heading home after spending the night at my mother’s. I have an overnight bag filled with all the things that staying overnight entails. I also have a black garbage bag that has a big empty box in it. My writing group is having a book drive for the Sulzbacher Library and I want to drop off the box at my chiropractor’s office on the way. There’s also a bag for all the reading material I didn’t get to, a small bag for Frankie’s things (plastic poop bags and emergency-come-here-NOW treats) and some leftover lasagna from my mom’s refrigerator. I feel like a handicapped hobo.

All in the name of independence. I’m grateful that I live in a town where things are just a scooter ride away. (I call it a scooter, but it’s not that cool. It’s a wheelchair.) I prefer doing things myself when I can and I’ve been to any number of shops and restaurants with my wheels. I’ve done shopping, banking, met friends for lunch or coffee. Heck, I’ve even been for a beer in the thing. I’m not sure that’s legal. Is a power wheelchair a motorized vehicle? If you can drive a bicycle under the influence, then it would stand to reason…

Last week, I even took in my dry cleaning. The place has a drop off drive-thru. Imagine me pulling over the hose that announces my arrival, “ding ding!” I’ve been there before so they know me, but if the owner felt any surprise or amusement the first time, he hid it well.

The only time I’m truly stuck is when it’s raining out. The power chair can’t get wet. The heat of summer is best avoided too. Someone suggested I carry an umbrella to shade myself from the sun. But, come on. I don’t want to look ridiculous.

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Material

Just as I began to wonder what on earth my next blog post would be about, my wheelchair fell off the back of our Jeep in rush-hour traffic.

My mom and I were heading to Best Buy for a new T.V. My heavy, corner-unit Samsung didn’t owe me anything and to prove it, had started showing me a fun-house-mirror picture in miniature. My mother was thrilled. She’d been after me for some time to get with the 21st century and get a flat-screen, but T.V.’s are like cars in my book — I prefer to run them into the ground.

That my mom was driving “in-town” in the first place was kind of my fault. I’m the one who decreed “beach driving only” (not that she ever listens to me.) I’ve been arranging for other rides a lot lately, but this particular trip seemed too good to pass up. Not only did I need the ride, I needed the pixel expertise.

My mother isn’t known for her patience. She can also be a wee bit forgetful. So, when she came to pick me up without the bungee cords that secure my wheelchair onto the outside lift, we decided it would be fine lashed with what looked like an old leash of Frankie’s. I say “we decided” because, having discussed the option of driving back to her house for the bungee cords, both of us shrugged and said “nah.” What could go wrong?

We had just come through an intersection when I heard the series of thumps. “Mom, is the wheelchair okay?” I asked.

She looked in the rear-view mirror. “It’s gone! It’s gone!”

It wasn’t gone. It was dragging by Frankie’s leash down Atlantic Boulevard. Other drivers were flashing their lights. Miraculously, when she hauled it into the back seat from the shoulder, it had suffered only a few cosmetic scrapes.

Sometimes material presents itself.

Having a fresh idea used to be one of the hardest parts of writing. Now, I’m privy to an endless fountain of inspiration. Becoming handicapped is a hell of a trade off, but I’ll take it. I don’t really have a choice.

In his last broadcast, Andy Rooney said something like, any idiot can think up a weekly column. I cringed. Then again, he writes about the crap in his glove compartment and stuff like why-do-I-save-all-these-ketchup-packages.

I recently wrote my life story in 149 words and I dare say my handicap makes my life story more interesting. Something major has happened to me. Disability has its perks? Well, this is one of them. Sorry, writers. Get your own gig. This one’s mine.

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Checking It Twice (Okay, 11 times)

It happened week before last. The thing that prompted this whole “get-organized” endeavor. I lost a computer file of pictures. Important pictures. Pictures for my website, my author bio. A full-fledged hunt ensued. I clicked on the wastepaper basket. It had recently been automatically emptied. If only the real trash would take itself to the curb as efficiently.

Enough was enough. I had to take back control. I am an organized person. Just ask anyone who knows me. My writing group is still freaking out over a confession in one of my stories that my frozen foods are arranged left to right, top to bottom. (How else are you supposed to read the labels?) But, things had gotten out of hand. A typical case of having too much to do and not enough time to do it.

So, I did what I always do when faced with a daunting new task. I bought a book. Getting Things Done by David Allen. Armed with this book, Internet research and tips from organizational guru Stephen R. Covey, I learned a few things. This week, I feel a lot better. And that’s what it’s all about, after all. Feeling less stressed. Continue reading “Checking It Twice (Okay, 11 times)” →

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Big Rocks First

I would like to dispel this notion that disabled people sit around all day and watch daytime television. When I worked full-time, I would long for a sick day to sleep late, stay in my pajamas and watch The Price Is Right. I still have that dream. Just because I don’t receive a paycheck doesn’t mean I don’t get stressed or have a problem with time management. I do. Okay, maybe I watch an episode or two of HGTV’s House Hunters over lunch, but that’s it. I wake at 5 a.m., “quit” at 5 p.m. and still feel I don’t have enough hours in the day or days in the week.

The problem became apparent in the last few weeks as I tried to juggle writing a weekly blog, finishing a book and walking Frankie every morning and evening. And let’s not forget that when you’re disabled, everything takes longer. Getting a shower, fixing a meal, transferring to my power chair with an excited pooch at my feet. Everything. I can spend a half-hour pecking out just one email!

So, I started researching organization and was introduced to the concept of “big rocks”  from Stephen R. Covey. He wrote the widely popular The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, first published in 1989. That’s right — 1989. And I’m just now learning about it. Ironic that I never felt the need to be even slightly effective before becoming disabled. (I’d argue that being productive and successful matter more when you’re doing something you love, but that seems like another post.)

Anyway, the idea is to prioritize. Your big rocks are what’s important to you in the overall scheme of things. The big picture. It’s personal. Maybe it’s time spent with family. Maybe it’s giving back — a charity or other service. The point is to get the big rocks in there and not squander away your time on hold with the cable company or reading email jokes.

One of the concepts I picked up during my web surfing is this: you have to follow your compass before you watch the clock. In other words, before you can manage your time, you need to know where you’re going, your priorities and goals. Instead of focusing on what’s urgent, learn what’s important to you. Where you are headed is more important than how fast you are going. Think of the Titanic.  

I thought about my big rocks and came up with three non-negotiables that I simply must make time for. Frankie (if you’ve read some prior posts, you know how much I get out of his walks,) my health (maintaining my current mobility is crucial to my continuing to live independently) and my writing (my passion and purpose.)

As it turned out, that covered two of the seven habits. I don’t know the others yet, so I’m only mildly effective. Habit 3 is putting first things first or prioritizing. In Habit 7, you focus on finding balance between the physical, mental, emotional and spiritual areas of your life. This jives with my big rocks. Physically, I’m taking care of my health and exercise. My mental rock is my writing. And Frankie is a two-for. I cover my emotional needs by having social and meaningful interactions with others (just today I ditched my planned routine and went down to the local coffee shop with him at the invitation of a friend.) I think I successfully cover the spiritual side of things when I commune with nature on our walks and meditate seaside.

What are your big rocks? Think about your compass. And next week, I’ll get into the nitty-gritty of the clock. For now, I’m running out of time to post this.

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For Need of a Dog

"My pain in the butt:" Photo by Bruce Macfarlane

Every disabled person should own a dog. I can hear friends laughing now because, in the past, I’ve been such a die hard cat person. Frankie has changed all that.

Don’t get me wrong. I still think dogs are a pain in the butt. They need to be entertained more than cats. They need to be exercised. Let out. They’re more destructive. More vacuum-like when it comes to food. They’re louder. Messier. More demanding. You can’t take a three-day weekend with ease. The list goes on and on.

In other words, having Frankie isn’t something I would’ve ever signed up for. Sometimes, the universe doesn’t give you what you want, it gives you what you need.

I’ve realized how caring for Frankie has expanded my world. I know a lot more people. Particularly in my neighborhood. It makes life more enjoyable. Imagine being out and about and everyone waves or nods. Even if I’m not actually with Frankie. Just yesterday, I was at the grocery store when a man said, “It just seems wrong, seeing you without your little dog.” It’s like the Cheers song, (yes, I know I’m dating myself,) but you do want to be where everybody knows your name. Okay, so most of these neighbors don’t actually know my name. The other day walking him, a man hollered out his window, “Hey, Frankie!” to which I waved and yelled, “Hi!”

"Not Holing up:" Michele walks me and Frankie

I’m outside a lot more. I don’t “isolate” myself (as my mother would say.) Without twice daily dog walks, I might be holed up for days on end with my computer and my cat. Instead, the tires on my power chair are actually bald. I need new tires. I hope I don’t have to brake suddenly.

Frankie also bridges the gap between the disabled and the able-bodied. I’m probably a lot more approachable in my wheelchair with him by my side. I’m just guessing here, but it’s reasonable to assume that I’m the only disabled person many of my neighbors have ever talked to. It’s good for everyone. Able-bodied folks can gain awareness and I gain a little self-esteem. For those five minutes discussing the weather or comparing flea medication, I’m not so different.

And service dogs? The benefits seem endless. In fact, I feel guilty just writing it so shhh, but when Frankie … umm… you know… gets to eat people food and run around leash free, I want to get a service dog. Of course, there’s nothing funny about a perfectly behaved dog is there? Maybe I’ll stick to inspirational and endearing misbehavers.

6

No Parking

I should have known what was coming when my mom passed the space very slowly, as she always does, checking for a permit. (Apparently, someone made her the permit police.) There wasn’t one. Not hanging off the rear view mirror, not on the license plate. She learned to check the plate after barking at some woman who barked right back, “Check the license tag before you go getting all high and mighty with me!”

So, this SUV without a permit is parked in the handicapped spot at our hair salon. Mom leaves me on the sidewalk and walks right in the realty office in front.

Oh Lord. Here we go. Inside, I see her pointing to me. She’s having words with some guy at a desk. Oh brother. They’re coming outside, his keys in hand.

“There was nobody here,” he says, like that makes a difference.

“We’re here now,” Mom says.

“Sorry,” the man huffs. He isn’t. He can’t believe this woman marched right in to his office to make him move. The guy’s a jerk. I’m embarrassed, but a little proud too.

I’m reminded of the Seinfeld episode where an angry mob destroys Mr. Costanza’s car cause George and the gang park in a handicapped spot.

But these aren’t the offenders I’m worried about — the people without permits. Society backs me up on that one. It’s generally frowned upon and most people I know would never take a handicapped spot without permission. What I’m concerned about is the number of people with permits that park there and don’t need them.

We all know that doctors give these things out like prescription drugs. Anyone who ever twisted an ankle and got two years worth of front row parking can attest to that.

Last week, I was out walking Frankie by the handicapped access to the beach. A guy was parked in the handicapped spot waxing his surfboard that was hanging out of his truck. He cheerfully said good morning to me as I passed by in my wheelchair. He didn’t even look guilty. Now, unless he’s some kind of “Soul Surfer,” (and he didn’t appear to be, he had all his limbs) then I object.

The problem is that some people don’t see the problem. It’s not enough in my book to have the permit. You should need it too. Doing errands for the disabled person? Great! Is he or she going in? If not, leave the space for someone who needs it.

Some folks think they’re safe from a ticket if they have the permit. Wrong. According to the Florida Department of Motor Vehicles, anyone who uses a permit that does not belong to them can receive a $1,000 fine or up to six months in jail.

In Seinfeld, Kramer talks George into taking the space. “Oh, come on. Handicapped people don’t drive! Have you ever seen a handicapped person pull into a space and park? Those spaces are always empty!”

Those spaces are usually empty. But we’re out there. Some of us drive and some don’t. But we all ride. And occasionally, may even want to go in.

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