Here we go! Come join me for my first reading from my book Misadventures of a Happy Heart, A Memoir of Life Beyond Disability at the Riverside Arts Market next Saturday. I will be taking pre-orders for the memoir from my booth and Frankie will be there (against my better judgement) to charm the crowd. Stop by and see us and help support local authors!
I’m going to come clean. I’m a worrier. I always have been. My recent unfounded worries were that Frankie would get us kicked out of my new apartment for barking and that he would be exposed as an illegitimate service dog and asked to leave some store and never come back. Of course, neither has happened. In fact, Frankie proves every day just how legitimate and well-behaved a service dog he really is. Turns out, I’m the only person who needed convincing. But how well Frankie’s adjusting to urban life is the subject of another post.
In the spirit of going with the flow, I’m putting that topic on hold in the event someone out there needs to hear what I’ve decided about worry. It’s pointless. I’m fully aware that saying and understanding that is the easy part. Being able to practice that concept, on the other hand, takes, well … practice. Feel free to borrow what works for me.
First, credit goes out to my mom, who’s been reminding me how futile my worry is ever since I can remember. And I’ve learned, with her help, that the best antidote to worry (or troublesome, negative thinking of any kind) is gratitude. Get in the habit, as she is, of writing down what you’re thankful for at the end of each day. It changes your mindset.
Staying in the present helps me when I fall into a ‘what if’ state of mind. For what is worry if not obsessive future thinking? And no one knows the future. So again, what’s the point? It’s a fine line, however, between staying in the present and not planning for the future or making goals. I like setting goals and daydreaming about how great my future’s going to be. I can usually sense when the scales begin to tip, though. Like when I’m so busy making a to-do list on my phone that I forget to look up and appreciate that Frankie and I are in the park on a beautiful sunny day. As I said, it’s a fine line.
Or you can always fall back on my last resort solution to constant worry. To stop going over and over some problem in my mind, I’ve taken to humming the tune from Frozen. You know, let it go, let it go. But in song. Hey, I said it was a last resort. But it works. It’s just silly enough to snap your brain out of it.
If nothing else works, keep this in mind. In the weeks that led up to my brain hemorrhage, I was close to depression, consumed with worry. Not about the mass in my head (which I knew about,) but as crazy as it sounds, with financial woes and silly romantic problems. Sound familiar? I mean, how ridiculous is that? Here I was, 36-years-old, on top of the world, only I didn’t know it. I couldn’t even fathom feeling grateful in my situation. But guess what? I was about to have real problems. Whatever you perceive your problems to be – they could get worse too. Or better. Maybe you’re about to win the lottery. Who knows? So why spend your time stressing over money and ruining tonight? Of course I wish I’d spent more evenings walking on the beach instead of worrying on my couch in front of the TV – heck, I can do that now! But, I don’t. Or try not to. So, take it from someone who’s gained a little perspective in life. Stop worrying, go walk the beach and buy a lottery ticket. Tomorrow could be your lucky day.
Apparently, I’m in need of some comfort. Like the big vat of macaroni and cheese kind. Everyone knows moving is stressful. I guess I just underestimated how stressful. As a friend commented, I kind of leapt off the edge of a tall cliff and just naturally expected to fly. (Well, yeah.)
As is the way, things didn’t go exactly as planned. Mom is still back at the beach until the house sells. And I’ve realized – I haven’t lived farther away than down the street from her in close to ten years. Sure, she drives me crazy, but now I miss her. And I haven’t lived away from the beach in about 23 years. That’s a long time to be a part of a community. Now I’m part of a new community. I’ve almost forgotten how to do this. Almost.
You see, I’m out of my comfort zone. And I did it to myself. Deliberately. I wanted to shake things up. Well, if you’ll pardon the grammar – they’re shook.
So, I’m taking comfort where I can and deciding I’m okay with that. Food is a big one. I didn’t realize how big until one of two friends in the building (another huge comfort) drove me to Fresh Market. I’m not a fan of the Publix right across the street. It’s small, the aisles are narrow and they don’t carry all the things I’m used to. But, Fresh Market? Hello comfort! Ready-made meals galore! Perfect for me. It wasn’t until I’d consumed an entire container of coconut macaroons and salad the size of a large pizza that I thought maybe food wasn’t the healthiest comfort.
Routine is a comfort. And Frankie makes sure I’m comfortable in that. He’s adjusting to living in an apartment. Training his bladder if you will. We go down around 7:00, 12:00, 4:00 and 9:00 and two of those are walks around Memorial Park. We’re getting to know the locals. Just the other day a woman introduced herself and said she always sees us walking. Dogs are fantastic ice breakers.
I’ve also found comfort in unusual places. Like towels. I’ve had Mom bring the mismatched, broken-in ones from home instead of the plush new ones that actually match my bathroom but just seem to push water around instead of absorb it.
And who knew regular old body wash worked like a familiar security blanket? Trying to be more natural and green, I’d switched to one without a particularly lathering, potentially toxic ingredient. Now I sit in the shower feeling all responsible and moral while I could be luxuriating in moisturizing bubbles that smell like a fresh mountain spring. I’m switching back. I want my bubbles. Plus, I’m pretty sure I can smell myself at the end of a day. There will be plenty of time to make the eco-friendly choice later. And make my bathroom pretty. And say no to cookies. For now, I’m flapping my arms as fast as I can.
Make no mistake about it: Mom and I are in the thick of a traumatic event. They say never to purchase a house you don’t plan to be in for at least five years. Well, they obviously aren’t an aging woman and her handicapped daughter. We’re moving to Riverside.
I don’t think it’s a secret. I’m not real keen on Mom’s neighborhood. What with the speeding cars and basically taking my life in my hands every time I walk Frankie, it’s not exactly pedestrian friendly. There are very few sidewalks here and where there are, a car usually sits in the driveway, blocking my path.
Always on the lookout for a way to further improve my (and my mom’s) quality of life, a friend and I were talking about her recent move to Riverside. Then I took a scouting trip there, via JTA, to make sure I could get to places in my power chair. Publix and Starbucks were right across the street from my friend’s apartment building. Groceries and a latte? On my own?
Unless you don’t drive, it’s impossible to convey just how huge this is. And I mean HUGE.
To my surprise, Mom was open to the idea. She’d always wanted to live in Riverside, but my life was at the beach. I’m ready to correct that statement. My able-bodied life was at the beach. I moved here when I was 23. But that was back when I could drive. Or actually go to the beach. As in swim. I’ve lived in this community for almost 23 years. And people think going to Mexico was brave? This feels bigger. Much bigger. Home base is everything.
So now, in addition to the normal holiday stress, we have added living among boxes, preparing a house for the market and having a garage sale stress. Mom and I vacillate between biting each others heads off and feeling nostalgic about breaking up our little two-person, three-animal family.
But it’s time. I need to be able to get somewhere without bumming a ride and Mom needs to not worry about a yard, a pool, the roof (heck – a light bulb!) We’re moving into separate apartments in the same building. And as for that whole five year homeowner’s plan? Well, live and learn.
Halloween weekend I dragged myself off the lounger, tore my eyes away from jade colored waves (the water’s more green than blue here, hence the name “the Emerald coast”) and left the conch lined walls of the Casa Solana property. Having seen many of the Mayan ruins and other more “official” sites last year, I told Neydi there was only one thing I definitely wanted to see – the Day of the Dead festivities.
El Dia de los Muertos – the Day of the Dead – is a beautiful Mexican holiday steeped in tradition that takes place around our Halloween. Both holidays have skeletons, yes, but they couldn’t have more different meanings. To get a better idea of the significance and meaning of the holiday, check out last year’s post here.
Hanal Pixan is the name of this festival in Merida, the capitol city 
of the Yucatan, about 90 minutes or so from Casa Solana and Chuburna. The focus of the festivities is on the various altars (ofrendas) to commemorate lost loved ones, complete with offerings of food, flowers like the Mexican marigold (cempasuchil) or photographs of the deceased.
I know my mother will laugh at me, but what I found the most 
wonderful was (of course) the food. It was all free! Women made fresh tortillas over open flames next to many of the altars and Neydi would just shout “dos, por favor!” as we went by. They were still hot and often covered in pico or lime which I learned basically goes with everything.
I’m having too many technical difficulties trying to write much more from here so I’ll let the rest of my pictures do the talking. Enjoy, assuming I manage to get them loaded.
It’s a new day here at Casa Solana and there’s no shortage of fur babies. Meet Ricky. Like me, he’s a paying guest. Turns out in addition to running Casa Solana for humans, Jeff is also a dog groomer, trainer and pet sitter extraordinaire! Here he is with Junior, a salon client.
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Did you know that a breeze through palm fronds sounds exactly like running water? The first week I just thought our neighbor took very long and frequent showers. I still have to open the door to make sure it’s not raining.
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The sun flirts with me at sunrise and sunset, kissing all the clouds and making them blush, but never actually letting me see her.
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Here’s a decorative plate that was in my room. May you heed its advice wherever you are!
Today I’d like to take a time out from vacation mode. The ocean isn’t beautiful or relaxing today. Today it is lonely. And sad. Because today the little one-eyed pug fell in the pool and drowned.
Her name was Winnie. I got that wrong. See? I didn’t even know her long enough to get her name right and yet I feel so sad. Dogs. It’s amazing how quickly they can get under your skin and into your heart.
But really, I’m sad for Jeff. And Sonya. And another friend of mine back home who I know lost his dear dog since I’ve been here. And I know his heart is breaking.
If there is a lesson to be taken here, it seems to be the one that recurs most often for me – life is fleeting and precious and can change in an instant. My heart goes out to anyone going through a loss of any kind.
So if you have them, hold your furry friends close tonight and give thanks for them. And Mom, I forgot to say it earlier, give Frankie an extra hug for me and tell him I love him.
I imagine if you are going to follow along on this journey with me, I should start by introducing you to the other inhabitants of Casa Solana, the heavenly seaside vacation rental where I have planted myself for the next month. For those of you who don’t know, I’m in the Yucatan peninsula on the Gulf of Mexico (in the northeast corner of the country and about as far away as you can get from where Hurricane Patricia made landfall, thank goodness).
Casa Solana is owned and operated by Sonya and Jeff Damon. I’ve yet to meet Sonya, she goes back and forth between here and Canada, but Jeff has proven to be a wonderful host on his own. I’ve even given him a title. Here at Casa Solana he’s the Chief Creative Solutions Director in charge of Handicapped Services. The property is now littered with little makeshift devices: pieces of red or yellow rope to help me reach some switch or pull a door or gate closed behind me. There’s even hockey tape on a door pull so I can get a better grip. Being from Florida, I called it hurricane tape, but was corrected, dontcha know, by the Canadian – it’s hockey tape.
Neydi is the local Mexican woman I met last year who, having the somewhat rare commodity of a vehicle, is solely responsible for getting me out and about, though I don’t plan on doing much of that. I mean c’mon, the ocean is in my backyard.
Neydi and her sister, Lydia, have the task of making sure I don’t starve. And Neydi’s daughter, Sarahi, is helping me work on my Spanish. It’s a family affair.
Best of all, even though I’m without Frankie, I still have puppy love! Meet Solana, the mystery mix (Pit Bull/Boxer/Terrier?) who is tireless in her love of fetching the ball and Weenie, the sweet, one-eyed pug who has an endearing way of cocking her head so she can see. I already feel myself growing attached.
Even though I purposely didn’t make any sightseeing plans so I’d have plenty of time to write, I can already sense time slipping away from me. I think all I accomplished yesterday was starting a new book and staring at the surf. So, I’m making the following disclaimer about my posts: they’ll be less cohesive and themed and more like short snippets and photos. Turns out, I’ve taken my time problem with me. It evaporates just as easily here as it does at home. It must be a disabled thing. It’s time consuming to get ready in a different environment! And all that mindless staring at the horizon doesn’t help.
So, I’m in Mexico. In honor of my solo adventure I’m re-running a post about being brave. You should try it. And it doesn’t have to be jumping-out-of-a-plane-scare-yourself-half-to-death brave. Maybe it’s just going to the movies by yourself. You know your comfort zone. Push it.
And next time you’re feeling like Chicken Little, think of me negotiating a foreign airport by myself. Sorry don’t worry, Grandma. It’s actually easier by myself because everyone rushes to help me. It’s how I know that human beings are basically good. A disabled woman traveling with friends is presumably taken care of. A disabled woman traveling alone is a universal sign, like an S.O.S. Just ask the two friends who traveled with me through that cluster you know what of an airport in Mexico City. (Sorry again, Grandma.)
Everyone may think I’m brave, but traveling alone is actually in my comfort zone. Now, public speaking … I think I’d rather jump out of that plane.
Original Post: Be Courageous
A friend called me last week, upset that she had to cancel our plans, but much more distraught over the reason why. She was exhausted by work. Physically. Mentally. Spiritually. Her job, it seemed, was eating her soul. Well, perhaps I’m being a little dramatic about it. So I guess you can see where I stand on that subject.
If my life could have a theme, I think it would be that life is short. I’ve always felt this way. Even before becoming disabled. After all, I did quit my own soul-sucking job when I was twenty-seven to bike solo throughout Europe. Then again, I stayed for the money for years before quitting, socking it away and planning my escape while driving home every day miserable and in tears. So, who am I to advise?
But, I’ll do it anyway. Maybe, the question for my friend is — is it worth it? Is the trade off of investing more of your time in this unfulfilling place all for some nobler cause? I think, in her case, it is. And we’re talking about sticking it out for less than four months anyway! People can survive a lot for just four months.
In my case, I stuck it out much longer. But I’d like to think my plan was that much grander, too. And what about now? Now that I’m in a wheelchair? You better believe I think about that trip all the time now and am filled with gratitude that I had the guts. What if I hadn’t gone? I had some friends making bets behind my back about how long I’d last. In case you’re wondering — those are naysayers. What if I’d listened to the naysayers? “Aren’t you worried about the gap in your resume?” they asked. Look at me now. Do I seem concerned about the gap? And it was a big one. I was gone for close to six months.
I have another friend who just quit managing a restaurant she’s owned for twenty-five years. She had to listen to lots of naysayers. I tried to be the voice of reason. “Think of it as simply making space. You’re making more room in your life for the things you really want to be doing.”
And these courageous acts don’t have to be as huge and life changing as the ones I’ve described. Heck, brave for me nowadays is rolling into the Subway at the gym and ordering from a stranger who I hope will understand me and be patient while I fumble through the transaction.
I was at the gym last week, using the only machine I felt comfortable with and suffering from a severe case of gym-timidation when in rolled my friend Dani. (I’ve written about her before. The girl with Spina bifida? Who’s blind?) Well, you haven’t felt cowardly till a blind girl in a wheelchair taps her way right past you to try out several different machines. So what’s my excuse? Or yours, for that matter?
I guess what I’m trying to say is, in the words of my friend Michele and Nike, do it. Whatever it is. Take a deep breath and go for it. And in the words of that overplayed song that I love, I wanna see you be brave.
Amy F. Quincy Author/Freelance Writer 