Help me.
I hate saying
that. It sounds so pathetic. Needy. Reminds
me of what I one was and what I have
become. Sometimes, looking at photos of my past self - a radiant May Queen
surrounded by adoring attendants; a graduating student on the road to success;
the bronzed half of a once devoted couple - I wonder if such things actually
happened to me.
Help me - the
bitter words of the forcibly dependant. I
much prefer the French -
"M'aidez" - give me aid. A tad
more dignified, and God knows I could do with dignity these days. It's been in short supply ever since this disease began to invade
my body: unsheathing my nerves; paralysing my legs, muscle by atrophying
muscle.
At first, I
wasn't quite disabled enough for an accessible
flat. But now my limbs have given up in the battle for motion, I have at last reached
the nirvana of eligibility. Fiftieth on the waiting list for a home with doors
wide enough for my wheelchair. I'll be
there in a couple of years.
In the mean time,
the Council makes sure to meet my needs.
Each day the carer brings my state-sanctioned salt-infused pre-cooked
meal leaving it for me to microwave.
They've given me a rail in the toilet so I can pull myself up to do the
necessary. The shower chair is beyond me though. I make do with a flannel and hope for the best.
It would be nice to get out
once in a while. Feel the breeze on my face. Collect posies of may blossom, like I did when
I was girl. But since I lost my
Attendance Allowance, there's no-one to take me. So I curl myself on a beanbag with my mobile phone - sending distress flares
to the world.
M'aidez, m'aidez.
Can somebody help me please?
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