I’ll Do It Myself: Meet Glenda Watson Hyatt

Filed under: Themes, Cerebral Ballsy, Irked Videos 

2 amazing excerpts from the book I’ll Do It Myself

On a Seat Built for Two

by Glenda Watson Hyatt

In April, a two-bedroom “wheelchair-accessible” unit became available in his housing co-op. Although I wasn’t overly keen about living together beforehand, we grabbed it, knowing such places were rare and that we may not find another one.

Dad came down for the weekend to move my belongings and then to begin moving Darrell’s possessions across the complex. Darrell’s parents were also down for the better part of the week to help us.

Sometime mid-week, Darrell’s case manager from Long-Term Care came to reassess our need for homemaker services, as if moving in together had miraculously changed our need for service. She determined that we only needed basic housecleaning and laundry, not personal care. Big surprise! Then, amidst the unpacked boxes and unorganized clutter, she insisted on inspecting our home. She had to know the environment to which she would be sending homemakers and to check for safety issues. She was concerned about our shower arrangement.

The previous tenant had an attendant, and thus, had installed a roll-in shower. We simply put my shower bench against one wall, tied two large, grey cement bricks to the bench to anchor it down so it wouldn’t tip over, and the maintenance guy installed a grab bar. Theoretically, we would park our chairs beside the bench, move ourselves onto the bench, pull the curtain, and…voila! Easy. But, because there were still boxes and parents everywhere, we had yet to put it to the test.

This case manager did not feel it was safe. Apparently, we weren’t capable of deciding for ourselves whether it was safe or not, even though we knew our capabilities the best. I have bounced my head off cement floors enough times; I definitely would not put myself at risk needlessly.

This brilliant lady suggested sending in someone to be there when we showered. Now, I had only gained the privacy while showering a couple of years previously, and I wasn’t about to give it up. To clarify her suggestion, I asked, “You are going to send someone in every day to watch us shower?” “Every day?” she asked, somewhat surprised by the frequency. I felt like asking, “Well, how often do you shower?” Besides, I didn’t know if the hot water tank was big enough for two consecutive showers. She soon discarded that idea.

Then she suggested sending in an OT (occupational therapist) to assess the situation and offer any suitable suggestions. Now remember that I am not fond of OTs because I have yet to meet one who actually made sense. And, by this point I was rather prickly because she had dismissed my case manager’s strong recommendation that I retain my homemaker. I finally had one that actually worked hard and understood written English, which was key for me since I often typed notes to communicate with my homemaker. For some bureaucratic reasons, it was not possible to keep Connie. However, I conceded to having an OT check out our shower. After all, Darrell and I wouldn’t be bound to use any of the OT’s recommendations; we would still have final say in what worked best for us for showering.

A month later, the OT visited. No, we didn’t wait for a shower until then! We all traipsed into the bathroom. I felt like we should start charging admission! Her initial response to our arrangement was, “Don’t know why I’m here. Looks like you have solved your own problem.” Of course! Besides, I didn’t recall having a problem! Her only suggestion was that suction-cup feet on the legs might hold the bench a bit firmer. She said she would get some. We are still waiting!

Back in the living room, she flipped through a few catalogs to see what other options existed. “Here’s another option,” she said as she passed the catalog over to us. Basically, it was a shelf that fastened to the wall. I took one look and, in my Glenda-ish, blurted out, “It won’t hold two people!” Gasping in utter shock, she exclaimed, “Oh! I hadn’t thought of that! You make me blush!” Flustered, she gathered up her things, saying, “I see I’m not needed here.” She quickly departed, never to be heard from again.

Baby, Baby, Baby

by Glenda Watson Hyatt

My friend recently told me that she is pregnant with her fourth child. Earlier that day, she had her first ultrasound, and she saw the baby’s heartbeat. She cried. I told her that I was happy for her. I cried.

Why does each subsequent pending birth announcement from family and friends cut deeper and deeper into my soul, into my being? I will never know the miracle and wonder of a life beginning within me: the movement, the growth, the discomfort. I will never know the awesome feeling of bringing a new being into the world or the overwhelming responsibility of having a little person completely and utterly dependent upon me.

I will never hear the patter of little feet coming down the hall in the morning. I will never kiss boo boos and scare away terrifying monsters. I will never stay up all night making angel wings or dinosaur tails. I will never have handprints on my fridge or spilled juice on the couch. I will never wait up on the first date. I will never cry buckets as my little miracle goes off into the world. And, I will never know the heartbreak, disappointment and grief if life doesn’t go as I dreamed, hoped and prayed for this miracle.

I will never know because I will never give life to a little miracle. I will never be pregnant. Not by choice. It is how things are for Darrell and me. A few relatives have even told me not to get pregnant, not knowing that Darrell cannot make a child. They are unaware of how much it hurts to hear that advice from people who love us. And, with my cp, I’m not sure that I could even carry a baby full-term. I don’t know how being pregnant would affect my cp or how my cp would affect the baby.

I don’t know how the two of us would care for a baby, including the diaper changing, the bathing, the feeding, the lifting, the chasing-I’m not sure how we would manage.

But that isn’t to say Darrell and I wouldn’t love to have our own child. We would. We have often talked about how we would be good parents. I tease Darrell that he would spoil them because he is such a softie. He says, according to his grandma, there is no such thing as spoiling, just “love lots.” We definitely wouldlove lots.

We have often cried together as we watch news stories of horrific tragedies that have befallen children, oftentimes at the hand of a parent, relative or friend that should have done everything humanly possible to protect, care for and love them. It seems so unfair that we can’t have children, yet others don’t realize and appreciate the precious gift they have when they have a child.

This is probably one of the most difficult things that Darrell and I, both as a couple and as individuals, have had to deal with related to our cerebral palsy. For the most part, I have lived a fairly normal life and have done many of the things my friends and peers have done. This one thing makes me unable to fully share and connect with my girlfriends on that level. I don’t have those experiences and feelings to share with them. Being childless can make for rather one-sided conversations at times.

I recall one time in particular being at my friend Barb’s house during my first year at university; her brother, wife and baby were also there. Somehow I ended up sitting on the couch, holding Christina. She was between six and nine months old, a more responsive age beyond that extremely fragile stage when I’m afraid that I’m going to hurt them. Everyone else was busy around the house. Christina soon fell asleep in my arms, and I sat there, holding her.

I gazed out the living room window, thinking and wondering about my future. Something told me I would probably never have children, mainly because, at that time, I thought I would never get married. A feeling of sadness and emptiness came over me, a feeling that is still there today when I pay attention to it. Barb came by a while later to ask if I wanted her to take the baby so that I could move. I said, “No, I’m fine.” I was thinking, No, please don’t take her. Please let me have this time with her. I swallowed the lump in my throat and blinked away the tear that was about to escape down my cheek.

The condo Darrell and I bought is great for us – spacious, bright, accessible, and close to shopping and transit. The one drawback is that it’s a “mature complex”; in other words, no children are allowed. Our four brothers and their families live elsewhere, so we perform our auntie and uncle duties across the miles for our eleven nieces and nephews: Courtland, Alie, Dameon, Trenton, Cheyenne, Nicole, Robin, Victoria, Madison, Sydney and Hannah. My brother Ian insisted that Hannah and I share the same middle name, Louise, and I was deeply touched that he felt so strongly about it.

Regrettably, Darrell and I don’t even have surrogate children around to love lots. But, on those occasions when we do see them, we savour every moment of their boundless energy, their inquisitive why and how questions, their delight to sit on our laps as Darrell and I race each other along the sidewalk, and their desire to feel safe and to be heard by adults. These are memories Darrell and I will dearly cherish for the rest of our days.

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I’ll Do It Myself is written by Glenda Watson Hyatt and published by Soaring Eagle Communications.

Paperback—173 pages. The book retails for $16.95 CAD. (ISBN: 0-9781850-1-3)

To buy a copy, please visit http://www.booksbyglenda.com.

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