WWBSD? (What Would Ben Stone Do?)

I wish I could say that I sprained my ankle doing something extraordinary. At the very least, doing something admirable – like running a half-marathon for charity. I was running along having collected 10,000 dollars for breast cancer research when I saw a little puppy lost in the jumble of pumping legs and sneakered feet. When I reached down to pluck him from the many-laced danger, I stumbled and went over on my ankle, but somehow managed to keep the puppy up out of Harm’s way. I handed the puppy off to a little orphan girl and a nun and then proceeded to continue on to the finish line. And my fundraising efforts made a cure for cancer possible!!!

I wish I could say that.

But I can’t.

What I can TRUTHFULLY say is that I went to see a certain Quentin Terintino Jewish revenge fantasy in the local cinema. Now, I am fastidious about peeing before the movie, but when I’m faced with a film of more than two hours in length, or extensive trailers… I usually have to duck out again at a boring part to take the pressure off. (OMG, I nearly DIED at Titanic! I was full of coffee, beer and watermelon and that thing is full of nothing but rushing water and panicky people. Good thing there were lots of boring parts!)
Terrintino movies are full of things: action, witty dialogue, intese tension-filled awkward pauses, blood, gore and cringe-worth depictions of violence. One thing they are NOT full of is boring bits. And MAN did I have to pee.

So I waited for a story arc to peak and drop off and made a beeline for the bathroom – which was convieniently located on the other side of the building. Seriously, they should install shuttlebus service. Not wanting to miss anything, I ran. I ran fast. And I ran back. Also fast. And I fell. And went over on my ankle. I barely registered the pain due to the overriding embarrassment that happens in these situations. But AFTER the movie, I got up and left the theatre. I took a few steps, every other one with increasing stabby pain shooting through my ankle. I couldn’t get 20 feet.

The next day I went to a walk in (hop in?) clinic and met the world’s most apathetic doctor who basically shrugged and said, “It’s not broken! What do you expect me to do about it?” Not being able to walk, I was hoping for some advice on icing, rest, elevation, and oh, I don’t know… a tensor bandage and some CRUTCHES!? No such luck. He said, as he exited, “go buy a cane a something.”

Thanks Dr. Arsewipe, for essentially accusing me of malingering. Oh, and where the hell do you buy a cane in this neighbourhood?

The pharmacy? Nope.
Medical supply store? Now that would make a ton of sense. But nope.
The dollar store? Bingo!

I hobbled around on this dollar store cane, doing an increasingly accurate Dr. House impersonation, as I realized that the world is really pretty hostile towards the aged and infirm. I couldn’t cross the street in the time allotted by the walk/don’t walk sign. Someone actually SHOVED me to get in front of me while getting on the bus. And don’t get me started on navigating a parking lot. Holy Jeebus! I would have an appointment to get a filling replaced the very next day on the other side of town…

So what’s my point? How does this relate to psychology? Well, I’ll tell you.
First of all, I never realized just WHY people with mobility issues tend to be such raging assholes before. But now I KNOW. It’s because the rest of society has no appreciation for how difficult it is for them to get around. They don’t understand that if the automatic door with the wheelchair guy on it doesn’t open, that you can’t get in to the building you need to be in. They don’t grok that if you bump into them that there is a real risk of falling right over. They don’t get that it would be nice if someone would just offer a seat on the bus instead of you having to make a scene by asking for one.

I used to be one of these unenlightened assholes (actually, I don’t think I really was, but any residual assal traces are now gone) but now I GET IT. And yes, you Sir or Ma’am with the cane, stroller, wheelchair, limp, fussy child – AFTER YOU. And if I find that the automatic door isn’t working, I’m taking out my cellphone and calling maintenance for you right now.

The second point has more to do with my own psychological reaction to having a (temporary) disability. I hated it. I was in total denial. I didn’t want that cane. My husband bought it, he forced me to use it, and he helped me chuck it down the garbage chute when the stupid piece of shit broke in half in front of my first tutorial (moral: don’t buy medical supplies from a dollar store). I didn’t want people to think of me as anything other than completely functioning. I’m uncomfortable with accepting help, despite the fact that it angered me when people could see I was struggling and didn’t offer help. I feared being labeled a faker, a malingerer – “You just want attention, Psyche!” As though wanting and accepting attention is some sort of cardinal sin in our modern culture. Something that successful people attain with ease but that we put down the person who struggles for craving. When the cane broke, I felt uncomfortable. It didn’t do anything to actually help my ankle heal, but it provided this sort of safety and security. People were less likely to bump into me in a crowd. I had this literal and metaphorical crutch for when I was feeling weak, something I could sink back into and BE for a moment when I didn’t want to deal with something difficult. (Wah! My foot hurts! I can’t do this right now, I’m in pain!) I think that we both envy and are fearful of disability. We all want to be given attention and be looked after while being scared out of our minds of NEEDING to depend on others. I mean, let’s face it, societally, we’re not the most dependable bunch on record.

So I hobbled to the bus-stop on my own. And I asked someone to give up their seat for me. And to my surprise I got a pleasant and caring reply. “Are you okay?” “Yeah, I just can’t stand while the bus is moving, blah blah blah…”
Whenever the Dr. Hose inside of me threatens to take over a more significant area of brain space, some humble and quiet citizen proves to me that I don’t need to sink into grinchdom as a permanent personality trait.

And thank goodness for that. Because I would end up sucking as a psychologist if I did. Say what you will about Dr. House. He’s brilliant, he’s a genius. But he’s also a fictitious asshole. And I don’t think any REAL patient would actually put up with him. No, if I have to identify with any fictional TV (anti)hero, it’s going to be Michael Moriarty’s Ben Stone from the original Law and Order. He channeled his fiery rage and disgust and contempt for injustice into the most polite and restrained and EFFECTIVE rejoinders ever uttered.

So excuse ME… SIR. It would be more appropriate, more in keeping with your responsibilities as a CITIZEN to give that seat to that old lady.

Sir.