Outliers, Frogs, and Bacon: An Adoption Story

Roughly six years ago, a few big changes descended upon my life, creating a cool, thin haze that blanketed and disoriented me all at once.

For a person who may seem well-adjusted on the surface, I don't always cope with change very well, and this time in my life was no exception.  I was moving-- the third time in three years since relocating to Northern Virginia.  The man I thought was going to be my husband had no interest in coming with me. And looking at my professional future was the equivalent of staring into a loaded gun barrel.... and an unloaded bank account.

I was sad.  I was angry.  I was alone.

Honestly, at that point in my life, I felt truly disabled.  Not in the sense that you might think of the word, but exactly as Merriam Webster defines it. "unfit, unhealthy, unsound, unwell..." completely without purpose.

My boyfriend didn't want me.  I was a horrible roommate.  My job considered me worthless, and I couldn't even find any work in the legal field.... despite applying for job after job after job.

I remember thinking to myself, "I need something to care for, so I won't feel so useless."

I told my parents that I was going to get a dog.  Admittedly, looking back on the decision, it was pretty spur of the moment.  I had no money, only a tiny space for us both, and bad experiences keeping even plants alive.

But I tuned out their objections, though multiple and mostly reasonable, and went to my first Adoption Day hosted by the NoVA SPCA at Weber's Pet Supermarket in Fairfax.  I knew I wanted a small dog, and I knew I didn't have the time for a puppy, so I went into the experience completely unsure of what to expect.  It was my late twenties though-- a time that I'd decided to make completely about me-- and I knew I was going to walk away with a dog.

The Adoption Day was held in late August in the store's back parking lot. and the dogs were unloaded individually from a van so the families present could meet each of them and decide who they wanted to get to know.  I watched as the handfuls of children and older couples and younger couples made their choices, and trotted away happily with a new four-legged friend in tow to discuss the adoption process and complete the trial home-stay paperwork.

There I stood, facing the van in the center of the furry flurry, eyeing the single, untouched cage in the back.

"Hey, what about that little guy?"  I asked the volunteer who was standing nearest me.

"Oh, that's Poncho.  We have to get him out of the van last.  He's not big on crowds, and he doesn't really like the bigger dogs either."

She went into the van, removed his cage, and set it at my feet.  "Be nice, Poncho, " she whispered as she opened the door.  He inched slowly from the cage.... his coat unlike anything I'd ever seen on a chihuahua... a beautiful mixture of tan and black and gray.  He looked like he'd been eating nothing but table scraps... the really good stuff.  A round and rolly 15 pounds, I had to wonder if his foster family had been feeding him foie gras in place of Purina.    

Poncho was disinterested.  In me.  In all of these people.  In this whole process.  His head hung down as the volunteer meandered about the parking lot giving him a chance to relieve himself.  His posture seemed to say, "I do not want to be here, and I do not care very much for this particular life."

Oddly enough, that posture and that air is what drew me faster to him.  I knew just exactly how he felt (or at least I like to think so).  We were both outliers who seemed to be watching the happiness around us from the outside, wanting to take part but not knowing exactly how to break through.

That first day, I just stood there.... letting him walk up to me and sniff my feet, bending down to offer a hand or finger for him to sniff.  "Poncho's a hard sell, " she said. "You have to earn his trust."

I came back to the next Adoption Day, and then again to a third, each time seeing him open up a little more to me.  By the third Saturday, I was the one strolling the lot with him while he marked his territory.  That Saturday (the Saturday before Labor Day weekend) I decided to take Poncho home with me for a trial stay.

And home is where he has been since that Saturday.  I knew it was meant to be from the first day, when I was picking out supplies from the store to bring home with us.  I wanted to buy him a toy, but the SPCA rep said, "He only plays with frogs... he doesn't really like other things."  Just like my dog son, I've collected frogs since elementary school.... and became even more interested in them as a college French major... when I learned that they were used (however derogatorily) to describe French people.  

In the beginning, I adopted Poncho because I had a broken heart and thought I needed a dog....  but he has been so much more than just something I "thought I needed...".  He has become my friend, my confidant, my dance partner, my bacon taste-tester, my psychologist, my in-house jester, my pillow, my protector, and my family.

 Sure, we have had our ups and downs.  I have chased him  through the parking lot on Thanksgiving Day, cleaned his accidents from walls, carpets, clothing and so many other places where they just should not have been, and nursed him back to health and confidence after a bloody fight with a bigger dog.

This past Saturday someone tried to get into my front door.  They opened it halfway, and Ponch shot outside, growling and barking wildly.  I ran out after him, as fast as my bare feet could carry me., yelling, "Pooooooncccchhhhhhoooooo!" completely out of breath.    I heard two screams, both human, and feet hitting the pavement.  When I arrived at the door, he was sitting next to it, outside, waiting for me.  He looked over as if to say, "Mama, there were some strange dudes out here, but I took care of it."

Sure enough, they were nowhere to be found.  I told him to come back inside, clearly shaken up, and he jumped up on my leg as if to say, "It's all good.  I'm right here.  We're fine." We went back inside, and he stayed close to me the rest of the night, sensing that I wanted him there.
Some skeptics might say that I was selfish in adopting him... how dare I think I could take good care of a dog??  Who cares about what I need.  It's about him.  And they're right, Poncho's needs do matter.... they matter more to me than the needs of most people. But I say the skeptics' opinions don't matter.  Poncho's opinion is the only one that matters. And if this past Saturday proves anything, it proves that I didn't just adopt Poncho.  Poncho has adopted me.

The Ice Bucket Challenge: My Perspective

I've posted a couple of things on my Facebook-- an article and a video-- that have been critical of the IceBucket challenge.  People just don't seem to understand why I would be so critical of efforts to raise awareness about a disability when I work in the field of disability rights. 

That's just it. I work in the field of disability rights. I'm thrilled that all of these people are donating money to help find a cure for ALS, a fatal condition with no cure. 

But as someone who has worked for and alongside people with ALS for the last 13 years of my life (yes, you read that right) I wonder where all of these celebrities, and public figures, and ice dumpers with their big checks have been before now. 

Where was their motivation? Answer: there was none. So why did it suddenly appear, full steam ahead?

I'm not saying this is true in every case, but I do think narcissism plays a contributing factor. The world can see the good they do, can watch them feel the momentary discomfort of  cold water cascading down their bodies on You Tube-- a moment of discomfort that compares NOTHING to the months and years of discomfort that people with ALS experience while losing control of their bodies, and ultimately, their lives. 

And since we're on the subject of discomfort.. Do you know what people with ALS need more than your discomfort or your money??

Your friendship. 

Your love. 

Your support. 

I don't like these videos because they perpetuate the sense of "otherness". Many people don't know someone with ALS. To them, they're just these "poor people" off "suffering somewhere."

But here's the truth. Anyone could develop ALS. Or any other disability for that matter. 

And from what I've seen of people with ALS, they do all they can not to suffer, for as long as they can, fully living their lives until the fullness is drained from them, without their consent. They live with ALS, until they don't live anymore. 

And it is uncomfortable to think about... But you could become one of "those people" everyone feels so sorry for. 

You, yourself, could acquire a disability. 

And take it from the perspective of someone who already has one -- no amount of public dunking videos-- from Martha Stewart or Justin Bieber, or even the President himself will change that. 

They won't affect how the disability ravages anyone's lives. They will make a positive impact on awareness--yes. But I'd much rather have someone become aware by getting to know me, befriending me, working with me for the cause. 

Because we're all in this together. All under the same ice bucket. And we're all eventually headed toward the same end. 

The Day I became Dizzy Gillespie....

It has been awhile since my last update in this blog... Primarily because... well... I haven't felt like updating. There wasn't much to say. I'm still healing from last month's crazy (though unsurprising) events, and I've decided to just let that happen naturally and not to be hard on myself if it takes longer than I would like. 

My heart is big, but with its largesse comes a certain fragility. It seems that, for me, there can't be one without the other. I'm proud to be me. I'm confident in the way I love others, wholly and completely, and from my soul. And even though it's arguable whether some would deserve such love at times, if you're with me, that's what you get. 

It's the only love I know how to give. Bruises heal, but my love... It's a forever thing... 

Unfortunately though, so is my clumsiness.  Such is true in my love life, as well as in my everyday activities...

At least I'm consistent?

Last night, I stumbled out of bed, half asleep around 1 am to use the bathroom. I don't usually take my armbraces into the bathroom with me. Typically, I prop them up on the door frame and walk in unaided. 

Last night though, in my sleepy fog, was different. 

I walked straight into the bathroom and my right armbrace slipped on the rug next to the shower. I fell face-first into the toilet. 

As soon as my head hit the porcelain, I knew I was bleeding. I could feel the warmth running down my chin. 

I checked to see if my teeth were all there. Then I just laid in the floor for what seemed like the next half hour (but was probably more like 10 minutes) holding my t-shirt to my face applying pressure to lessen the bleeding. 

I debated calling the ambulance, but decided against it. This was not a real emergency. Just a minor fall worth a few stitches. 

No big deal.  Just impaled by my own tooth. That's all. (I took these pictures to send to my parents last night to show them why I was headed to the ER.)

I was able to call a cab and was at the ER in 20 minutes. The face is a particularly sensitive area, but this wasn't my first time with face stitches, so it was old hat. 

I did however find it ironic that I had to wear a "fall risk" bracelet for the duration of my stay. Given my current state, I thought that fact seemed pretty obvious. 

About 3 hours and 3 stitches later, I was back home walking the dog around 4 in the morning before heading back to sleep. 

All in all, the fall could have been much worse, and things at the ER went pretty smoothly. I was grateful that those 3 stitches were my only damage. 

But as I was riding in the cab home last night, the cabbie, who had driven me to work a few times before, said, "I know you live alone... but you don't have any friends you could call??"

I sat in silence, because in that moment, I felt very alone. 

I did have people I could call. I'm blessed in this area to have a number of friends who live relatively close and wouldn't have minded to help. 

But to be honest, when I fell, my main concern was getting myself to the ER on my own...Not waking someone else or their family up for a situation I could easily handle alone. 

 

Sure, it sometimes makes me lonely to think that I don't have a "person" for this... Or any of life's crazy situations. But at the same time, I don't need one either. I want people to want me around because they want me around, not because they feel obligated to help me. 

I am a person who likes to serve others, so I understand the desire to want to get to know someone through serving them... But at the same time, I would feel much more comfortable asking someone to help me if that person has already made an effort to get to know me outside of any acts of service. 

 

I am a person to know, not just something to do. And I think that fact can get lost when someone sees me through eyes of pity. To a typically functioning person, it might seem that my life is harder, or that I have "so much trouble" with certain tasks...just because I live life differently....

And maybe because I tend to have an accident every 7 years or so (my last er trip was in 2007...so I guess I was due.)

But I don't see it that way at all. I think quick on my feet... And lying on the floor after a fall for that matter...

I am unfazed by blood, guts, gore, and most pain. 

I don't freak out and go all drama queen in unpleasant or unexpected situations. 

Accidents happen. 

Sure, I may have more experience with them than some... But my experiences have cultivated in me characteristics that I love.

Characteristics that make me flexible and approachable and not easily shaken. 

That make me a strong will and a sturdy soul. 

Characteristics that make me a good friend. A strong advocate. 

A capable wife. A confident mother. 

I am more than just a "poor girl who needs help" or "a set of unfortunate circumstances..."

I am the soul that God created me to be. 

I know that He believes in my abilities. He proves His belief in me and His love for me over and over....each time He allows me to experience something new or difficult and push through to the other side....

And if God, Who knows all of me because  I am His, has such confidence in me as His Daughter and His Servant, who are any Earthly beings who only know what they choose to see in me to think otherwise?? 

Low points...

All weeks have them, and I guess you could say I've hit mine.

Annnnnnnd it's Tuesday.

My apartment smells of mildew from a weekend washer issue, which flooded the hallway and part of my dining room.

I met a guy last week, who thought I was cool sitting down.  Cool enough to have a 4 hour conversation with, flirt with, and laugh with, but who quickly exited the picture once he saw what I look like standing up.

The guy who I've been "talking to" for over a year now, finally let the cat out of the bag that he wasn't interested in having an actual relationship with me-- just pseudo-relationship like behavior and no commitment, because as his words IN AN E-MAIL said, "if I wanted you we'd be in a relationship."

Apparently, he's none too interested in maintaining a friendship either or he would have chosen to be less of a complete and total jerkface about it.

And come to think of it... the cat wasn't really in the bag... it was out prancing around, kneading on top of my stomach, I just chose to ignore that it was there... because well, he said he loved me, and that I was perfect for him.

Multiple times.

And.

And.

And.

What?  All that other shady behavior actually matters????

Oh.

Well, Wednesday has the potential to be a much better day.... so I'm looking forward to climbing out of the valley and into the sunshine.

Because I'm worth mountaintops and sunshine and people who love me standing up, sitting down, and passed out on the ground...

Or from 350 miles away even....

And so are you.

Dear 16 Year Old Me

Dear 16-Year-Old Me,

You got your heart broken today, and I'm so sorry.  I'm sorry because I know it hurts.  You're a sensitive girl, and you think like a Jane Austen novel.... so I know you feel it more than most. It's ok to be a feelings person, and it's ok to cry, but you need to learn to wear your feelings.  Don't let your feelings wear you.  (I don't know why I'm telling you this; you won't listen.... but you should).  I'll go ahead and tell you right now that you are going to spend the next 2 to 3 years pining over the guy who just broke your heart.  Again, that's ok, because I know you loved him.... but I want you to understand something.

This was not your fault.  You did nothing wrong.  It had to end; it wasn't meant to last forever.  Promises fall so free and easy from teenage lips, because they are taken lightly.  Tomorrow seems like eternity sometimes when you are young, and you are not thinking about who you will be in a day, a week, or a month-- much less ten years.  Let me let you in on a secret.  You may even think you know who you are now, but you don't.

Remember though, this was not his fault either.  Just as you don't know who you are, he doesn't know who he is.  You both need to meet yourselves for the first time, and honestly, it is better if you make those introductions alone.  That way, you can be sure the you that you get to know is the pure, unadulterated you--  the you you want to be, and not the one somebody else expects. You're a people-pleaser, but you need to learn how to find your own voice.  The truth is, you can't add to others' happiness when you're unhappy.  It's going to take you a while to discover this truth, so you should start digging for it now.

You need to shape your own self without worrying about how to fit into another person's mold.  But if you need guidance, look to God.  Use His word as instruction on who to become.  Keep your gentle and kind spirit, and your patience.  You are going to need them so much in the years that follow.

And remember to thank Him for what you had.  You spent almost every day for 4 years with one of your best friends-- someone who did not mind carrying your books, giving you piggy-back rides, driving you around, or responding to strangers who were rude to you.  Because you two grew up together, he knew you, and knew that you were no different from any other girl your age.

He looked into your eyes and saw you for who you really are.

Already, you have had an experience that is rare for most people your age who have disabilities.  You don't appreciate that fact now, because you're sad... but it's true.  And you should thank God for the gift He's given you in that boy.

Also, appreciate how kind and patient he was with Matthew-- that he talked to him, laughed with him, and made an effort to understand him all the time.  Unfortunately, some of the guys you bring home later will be complete jerks to Bucky... or just not speak to him at all.  Remember that you want someone who loves your favorite person as much as you do.... and you are going to be able to tell a lot (and very quickly) about a man's character by the way he treats your brother.

One last thing--try not to be so angry at this young man later in life.  He'll try to befriend you; accept him.  If you don't, it will be a decision you'll regret later.... over and over.

And eat the chocolate rose that your Daddy just brought home.  It will make you feel better.

Love,

You at 32

Smoke and Mirrors...

With everyone I've truly loved thus far, there has been a point when I knew that the relationship was over.  A point of no return.... usually one at which I've felt sadness, devastation, defeat.... any number of negative emotions.

But today marked the end of what has been a tumultuous year and 2 months (almost exactly to the day) with an individual who I know loved me... but kept pushing me away.  Each time he came back (because I know him, sometimes better than he knows himself) I would let him back into my life, hoping that this would be the time, that this would be the day that he'd finally allow himself to commit.

My family and friends told me I was crazy for this, and maybe I was... but if I had to replay the past year again.... I'd tell you I wouldn't do anything differently.  I love him, flaws and all, and I will always care.

We get each other without speaking.  We like the majority of the same activities.  We are both searching, on a journey with God. We have hearts for serving others. We have the same values and morals, and he makes me laugh on bad days.  Despite the fact that he is from the Northeast, his speech is chock full of things Freddie Hunt would say, and just speaking to him makes me feel at ease and at home in a way that I've never felt with anyone else.

Recently, we got into honest discussions about why it has been so hard for him to just commit to me and let us see how things go.  He said that his family is very judgmental, and he worries that they won't accept me.

He doesn't know this, but I didn't believe him.  His statement was just a smokescreen for what he was really trying to say--that it was nice to be with me when no one was looking or when we were on our own in a city miles away from anyone he knew... but that realistically, he just couldn't hack the thought of admitting to his family, his friends, and even himself that he loved a woman with a disability.

He didn't want to hurt me, and I love him for that.

In the beginning, I don't think he thought he'd ever grow to love me... he was playing the field... dating online.... a few other girls and me.  He's a bit of a player, but I knew that going in, and I've always liked the charming ones.  We hit it off immediately.  We had emotional chemistry, physical chemistry, every kind of chemistry there is.  We prayed together.  He would call me and we'd talk every evening when he left his second job at a concert venue.  Things blossomed rapidly between us.  We'd seen each other less than a handful of times and were talking about marriage and moving options for either or both of us.  But distance makes things hard... and there comes a time when you have to decide whether to go all-in or go your separate ways.

He would always choose to leave.  But knowing him, I knew he'd be back.... so while I was hurt by temporary absences, they never fazed me that much.  But today.... today is different...

I made him talk about a situation with another woman.  I asked him why her and not me.

And his answer was, "I like that I met her in person and not online."

I call shenanigans.

Again, he was avoiding the real answer to the question... and I told him so.

Real love doesn't care where you meet.  I love him.  I'm certain I'll always care.

But today... at the end of this conversation, instead of feeling rejection, devastation or defeat.... I felt peace.

Complete and utter peace.

Relief almost.

Because I know what I want out of life... I want to be surrounded by people who accept me for who I am truly... no matter where we are or who we are with.

If I experience love, I want a love that is honest, even when it hurts.

I want a love that won't run away, even when it's scared or angry or tried or tested.

I want a love that puts me first.  Because I know the right man won't be consumed with what others think of the fact that I have armbraces.  He himself won't care.... heck, it might even make me more endearing to him.  I know these men are out there.... because I've seen my friends meet them, fall in love, and marry them.

I'm not giving up on love just because one man couldn't get over himself enough just to see what was there between us.  Because the connection was there, it is there, and even he doesn't deny it.

Love is a choice, and he didn't choose me.  He could have, but he chose fear instead.

Today, as I was praying for him, it was almost as though God patted me on the shoulder and said, "He doesn't love you the way I do.  He can't right now. It's ok to let go, and be with those who do."

And so I unclenched my fists, and deleted our text conversation, feeling nothing but incredible calm.

Because through this man's immature, selfish, human actions, God has taught me what true love really is... by showing me how to choose daily to love another human being even when they don't act as though they love me.

And so that's what I'm going to do... I'm going to keep choosing love.  Because God is love, and I am His child.

Even the good fall down sometimes...

If you know me well, which most of you who read this blog do, you know that I'm not a big drinker. I like to have an ocassional drink once in a while, and I usually stop at one. 

One obvious reason for this is my faith. The bible says, "Do not be given to much wine" (Ephesians 5:18; 1 Timothy 3:8). We are also instructed to live soberly and in a way that is not a stumbling block to our brothers but that serves each other in love ( 1 Corinthians 8:9; Galatians 5:13). 

The second reason I don't drink much is because of how I was introduced to alcohol. My parents have not had a drink for as long as I have known either of them, save the occasional hot toddy when they were sick. So I got to know alcohol on my own in my semester abroad in Europe. I was 19 years old. 

For me this was a good thing because I learned to appreciate wine for how it tastes and how it can enhance the foods it is paired with. I learned about the different types of beer and how they are made. I learned to appreciate alcohol the way many Europeans do , as a part of life and something to enjoy ( usually with a meal) rather than an apparatus to help me avoid my problems. 

And then something changed. I started dating an Irish man. Now , I'm not saying that he completely changed the way I looked at alcohol... But in a way... Yes. This man would get so drunk and/or high that he would forget entire weekends. I spent many a weekend in college helping him try to piece together his whereabouts after a "day of darkness" as he would call it. He used alcohol as a means of coping with life  and as the time passed and he became a bigger part of my life, so did I. 

He did not share my faith or desire to live sobermindedly from a Christian perspective... and at that time, it was easy just to drink a little more with him. It tasted good. Drinking was fun. It helped me forget my cares...loosen up... What could be bad?

I never lost entire weekends to drink, but I did pass out on ocassion. The drinking led to loss of inhibition and poor judgment, which caused me to behave in ways I would not otherwise. As with most drunks, right?

I threw up on cab drivers' shoes. 

Lost my clothes in hallways. 

Was almost cited for public intox in a restaurant in Arlington when I refused to sit up in a booth. I reportedly told the server, "I'm a new lawyer. You won't arrest me."

I fell far and I fell hard away from the relationship with alcohol that I used to know. I forgot about my convictions and just as casually as my relationship with drink started, it evolved into something totally toxic. 

My relationship with alcohol changed after the night that I passed out after drinking such a combination of booze that my then-boyfriend had to have a cab driver and a hotel employee help me up the steps of the Comfort Inn where he was staying on his visit from Kentucky. 

I remember very little from that night, but what matters is what I remember about the next morning. We had apparently done things together that I would not have consented to soberly; he knew this, but he said he "thought it would be ok since I wouldn't remember anyway."

Not only that, but I woke up covered in my own dried vomit, without clothes, unclear of anything past about 9:30 pm the night before. The only recollection of what happened that night was his, and to this day, I just have to trust that he told me the truth. 

I went to work that morning two hours late (because I had to go home and change) and feeling the most sick I think I have ever felt in my life. I was sore, lethargic and headachey, yes. But I also had unexplained bruises and scratches and no idea how they appeared. 

To me, those were worse. 

I have never felt as dirty as I did that next morning. 

And I couldn't take it back. I didn't even really know what "it" had been, because I didn't remember. 

That was when I decided to change my relationship with alcohol. I stopped drinking. I didn't buy it. I had one bottle of red wine in my wine rack from a visit of his that stayed there until last August when I drank a glass with a friend. 

Recently, I bought a case of hard cider. And then another. And then another. I would occasionally have one after work or on Saturday or with a meal. 

It is something I drink on ocassion to enjoy-- not to get drunk. I want to reestablish the appreciation I had for alcohol in the past and enjoy it, without it taking hold of me. 

But tonight, I realized that the toxic relationship I had with alcohol is not buried that deep below the surface. 

I was feeling broken heated. I wanted to escape. 

So I drank a bottle. 

And then another  

And then another. 

And half another. 

And I didn't realize how drunk I had become until I fell face-first into an open refrigerator. 

And there I was. Staring at my problem right in the face. 

The problem, you see, is not the alcohol. It never has been. The problem is use of the alcohol to cope. I wasn't where I should have been-- on my knees praying to God or at the dining room table with my Bible open. 

I was letting myself wallow in sorrows when I could have been imploring for His help to pull me out. 

He had to throw me into the crisper drawer of my refrigerator to get my attention.... but now, as I sit here drinking my second bottle of water 2 hours later... I see. 

I am not perfect.  I am human. I am flawed. I sin everyday , sometimes in ways I would not expect even knowing myself. 

But I have His saving grace. And His forgiveness. And His love... All enough to pull me through any situation. 

And tomorrow, thank God, is a different day. And with His help, I will live it differently.