Saturday, February 22, 2014

At Least The Guacamole Didn't Spoil

Okay, yet again I lost my temper when someone insinuated that John and I had intellectual disabilities. She introduced herself, however, as someone who works with special needs children, leading me to expect that she wouldn't assume physical disability necessarily includes cognitive limitations.

We'd been at the mall all afternoon, and my migraine meds just barely worked. I hadn't slept as well as I'd wanted, but John's mom had been so eager to treat us to lunch at the Cheesecake Factory that I just didn't want to disappoint her. I resisted the temptation to have cheesecake (which I desperately wanted but would go against the low-fat diet that my doctor put me on in October), opting for Pinkberry frozen yogurt instead.

The RIDE came 30 minutes late to take us home. We went out to meet it, but the driver kept the doors closed as he fumbled with his radio trying to contact dispatch. We saw three passengers on the van, and knew he only expected to pick up one wheelchair...even though we'd booked the trip for two power chairs. Finally, he poked his head out the door and said, "You call dispatch and tell them to send another van." Then he got in his van and left.

After calling dispatch, John and I reentered the mall and found a spot by the elevator that both gave us a view of the curb and kept us warm. We knew we'd be waiting a while, but John  didn't dare the men's room and we didn't dare get dinner.

That's when she got off the elevator and began asking personal questions about our disabilities. She explained that she works with special needs kids, implying that her career choice entitled her to ask invasive questions. When she asked if we lived in a group home  (which, in Massachusetts, only offer housing to adults with cognitive disabilities), I gave into my anger.

I know better. Yes, I felt tired and had a slight headache. Yes, it was 4:30, and  I had expected to be home by then. Yes, I worried that the guacamole we'd bought at Target would spoil  before we could get it in our refrigerator, and  I worried about John's physical needs. And yes, God help me, I'm so sick of people judging my mental capacities by my speech defect, my inability to control my saliva and my increasing struggle to hold my head upright. But I'm sorry I lost my temper and, once again, dishonored my Lord.

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