Hey Darling Ones,

Yesterday I had to go back to physical therapy because my left ankle is being a little bitch. I went to a podiatrist a few months ago and she thinks it’s my lymphadema causing the woe.

I’ll skip telling you how I was, and kinda till am, a salty, petulant brat about the whole thing. Instead, I’m gonna tell you abut the weird thing that happened.

Because the American healthcare system is so awesome and efficient, I had wait six weeks for this appointment and go to a clinic in Savage (about 20 minutes from Supergenius HQ) instead of the Shakopee clinic which I can practically see from here.

Whenever I go to the Savage clinic (my primary care doc is there) my fam uses the clinic’s Staxi to haul me in. My fam loves the Staxi. I’m ambivalent. I prefer my wheelchairs, Ruby Vroom or Jonas, because I can propel myself.

The Staxi is like an adult stroller and I need to be pushed, for the most part. Because I have go-go-gadget arms and long legs, I have been known to twist myself in such a way that I can hold down the lever that releases the brakes and use one foot to scoot around. I’m sure it doesn’t look weird at all.

Using the Staxi is easier for my family because there’s no need to wrestle a chair into & out of the back of my mom’s RAV4.

So, I’m in the Staxi when my mom wheeled me into the Savage PT clinic’s teeny tiny waiting room. Aside from us, there was one older gentleman (OG) waiting.

We arrived early to fill out a bunch of paperwork. And, since the adult stroller isn’t infantilizing enough my mom also had to do the paperwork because the Floppy Scoop’s tremor makes my handwriting illegible.

As I was spelling L-Y-M-P-H-E-D-E-M-A for my mom, the OG hands me a dollar and says, “If you never spend this you’ll never be broke.”

“Thanks?” I said, because what are you supposed to do when strangers hand you money for reasons.

“I worked at the same place for forty-seven years,” he said, and then a petite older woman came out from the back and walked towards him. “And I’ve been married for sixty-three years!” He took his wife’s arm and they walked two steps to the door.

“Congratulations!” I said, as they walked out.

Once the door closed I turned to my mom. “Why did he give me a dollar?”

“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head.

We’ll never know what prompted him. However, I suspect it was because I was in the Staxi. I’ve seen wheelchair users on social media talk about how strangers try to give them money all the time. I thought, maybe, it was not really a thing and maybe something they were just saying for the views.

But, I think it just happened to me. Based on the social media people’s reactions and tones when telling these stories I’m supposed to be super offended by this.

I am not. A little weirded out, yes. Offended? Not even close. I mean, free money. I’m on a fixed income ($1700 a month does not go far) and I’ll take any handout that comes my way.

Not broke yet,
Jodi

P.S. My new PT is 6’1″ and I love her and, like me, she doesn’t think the janky ankle is due to lymphedema,

The post And You’ll Never Be Broke appeared first on I Will Dare.

Hi Darling Ones,

I hope wherever you are Autumn is in full effect. When the sun shines, the light in Minnesota is exquisite – golden and buttery. In the afternoon the sun hits my tree and when the wind is blowing I watch the shadows of the dancing leaves around my living room sighing in contentment.

Fall really is the best. Though I miss the pool, I’m glad soup season is here. I’m making stock for chicken noodle soup as I type.

So, I wanted to tell you about my cousin Lindsay’s wedding last week. This was my first big family event and social outing since my stroke (March 2023). The whole experience was beautiful and emotional and overwhelming.

I can never tell if it’s my ignorant inner-ableism or my eldest-daughter perfectionism, but every time I learn something new about navigating life in a wheelchair I’m astounded. Like, for instance, when one uses wheels to get around one should not where a long, flowy skirt that is destined to get tangled up in the aforementioned wheels. This probably should have been obvious, but it was brand new information to me.

The skirt situation left me stranded at my table most of the night, which was 50% bummer and 50% a-ok due to the overwhelm. Even if I had been more appropriately dressed I would have struggled around all the chairs. Big event spaces seem accessible until there are people and chairs in them. Going to the bathroom was a literal obstacle course and I had to have someone clear the way for me. It was humbling.

Because this was the first time I’d seen so many of these people since my stroke there was no small amount of awkwardness. One of my cousins had no idea what to say, so he just kinda looked at me and my wheelchair and shrugged. A few other cousins kept tell me how good I looked. I wasn’t sure if it was because I was dressed up or because they expected me to be a shriveled prune. I never found out.

What I did learn is that where strangers used to constantly remark on my extraordinary height, now they compliment my glasses. Perhaps I have an appearance that just begs to be remarked upon.

Various wedding guests told me how cool my glasses were. It happened at least five times. Which is. . . weird? I love my glasses but they aren’t particularly noteworthy. My guess is that because my height is unnoticeable and the wheelchair is quite noticeable people went with the next most obvious thing. I bet if I weren’t wearing glasses my hair would have been a hot topic.

As I like to say whenever I come home from a successful outing, nobody died. Though a few very well-meaning men nearly died when they tried to help me over a small lip that separated the room from the deck. At one point I had to say, “I just need you to all back off!” I easily got over the bump when they gave me enough room to turn my chair around and handle it backwards. Chivalry, while not dead, can be a pain in the ass.

Looking so good,
Jodi

The post ‘I Love Your Glasses’ is the New ‘How Tall Are You?’ appeared first on I Will Dare.

Well, Darling Ones,

The day I was anxiously anticipating has come & gone.

Yesterday was my Social Security disability hearing. Three years after my stroke, two(ish) years after applying, two rejections, and roughly 15 minutes of a hearing, the judge granted my claim for Social Security disability.

Ya girl is getting on the dole!

I’m relieved and overwhelmed. My friends and fam are over the moon for me. My mom even cried when Sister #4 told her. I love the way my friend Em responded, “Can I go back to just worrying about the dumb stuff you do instead of your basic survival?”

Permission was granted.

Today I am out of sorts. My head is extra wooshy, making me more discombobulated than usual. My theory is that my body has gotten so used to the stress and anxiety of imminent financial ruin that it doesn’t know what to do now that it has escaped danger.

Of course, being the half pessimist, I won’t fully believe the saga is truly over until there’s money in the bank. According to my lawyer that might as early as June. But there’s no guarantee. He apologized profusely for the delay and I felt bad for him. It’s not his fault the government moves slowly. Clearly he has dealt with a lot of angry clients in the past. I was just happy the judge gave us his decision on the phone, that was unexpected.

I was a little bummed the judge didn’t wanted to hear my soliloquy on the importance of punctuation in both HTML code and English writing. My ode to the period would have made grown men weep with its beauty.

My lawyer warned me the day before the hearing that nobody ever got in trouble for saying too little. HRMPH! I kept my answers short and to the point and did not go into what a tragedy it is lose the ability physically read books. While I love and give thanks to audiobooks, it’s not the same. You, the book in your hands, the words on paper, that cannot be duplicated.

Losing your longest-held, most-comforting ritual in your 50s sucks rocks. I deserve financial compensation. Beverly Cleary give me strength!

So now we cross our finger that I have enough money for the next few months and then we move on to figuring out what comes next when you’re not constantly worrying about money. This should be fun!

Not so dolefully yours,
Jodi

The post Getting on the Dole appeared first on I Will Dare.

Hiya Darling Ones,

How goes it?

Here in the North Star State we’re in for a blizzard that could drop anywhere from 4-22 inches of snow on us according to the weather terrorists. Of all the things I’m good at, hunkering down is probably what I’m beat at. An introverted spinster who’s lived alone for 25+ years? I am the Serena Williams of hunkering down.

My hunkering plans include catching up on my many ignored crochet projects. I’m a month and a half behind on Temp Blanket 2026 and the less said about the State Fair one the better.

I’m very much the distracted boyfriend meme and Art Practice is my new obsession.

Do you know you can put colorful blobs and squiggles on stuff and be released from all that ails you for a brief and glorious moment? YOU CAN! It’s astounding.

Right now I’m copycatting things I see on Instagram (see above), doing the watercolor sketchbook, and working through a YouTube drawing class.

For the most part, I’ve been arting at least once a day. This week hasn’t been the best with the time change & an especially difficult eye treatment, but I still squeezed in some.

Taking up art feels like the best thing I’ve done for my poor damaged brain and janky body since I’ve existed.

Pre-stroke writing and reading were my favorite form of escape. I could go someplace else, immerse myself in someone else’s life. Post-stroke it isn’t the same. While I’m most grateful for audiobooks and the library that lends them to me, it’s not the same as reading a paper book with your eyes. The experience, for me, isn’t as immersive. I’m still aware of my body and its surroundings. This holds true for writing too. Even as I type there’s a part of my brain constantly noticing the tension and heaviness in my right side.

When I’m painting or drawing that noticing is much less frequent and I’m able to be more forgiving with myself. The heaviness and tremor are still there, my scoop will forever be floppy. But my brain is also noticing how the color looks on paper, how the watercolor moves across the surface. It’s thinking about what I should do next, what color, what blob, what squiggle. I can go entire minutes without thinking about my scoop or noticing my distorted vision. It is the best. THE BEST!

I’ve had a fraught history with my body. Last summer Sister #2 made a comment about how she could tell I don’t feel safe in my body. I don’t know if I responded, but I’ve thought about that phrase a lot, “safe in my body.”

Was that something people feel on the regular? What does it really mean? Have I ever felt safe in my own body? I would tentatively say, no. My body has never been a safe space. It has been a constant source of attention, often cruel and unwanted. I’d venture to guess that part of the reason I’ve chosen to live alone for most of my adult life is to protect me from that attention, even from well-meaning people who love me.

You know what though? When I’m arting I feel safe in my body. Is this how people walk around all the time with their meat sack not causing angst and fear? I hope so, because it’s kind of rad even when I experience it in teeny, tiny amounts.

Mind blown,
Jodi

The post Art & Feeling Safe in Your Body appeared first on I Will Dare.

Hola Darling Ones,

Tomorrow, March 6th, marks the third anniversary of my stroke. Time flies when you’re learning how to be disabled, struggling with money, and grieving.

Three years since I called 911 and none of those men believed me when I said I had a stroke. Three years since I heard the cop making fun of me, “She thinks she had a stroke. She googled.” All cops really are bastards. I will never not be a hot ball of fury about how those first responders treated me.

Three years since I walked or drove or generally felt normal inside my own body.

It’s kinda nice the world outside of me has been pretty tame allowing me a singular focus on getting stronger. No wars. No ongoing military occupation of my state where thugs abduct or murder neighbors. No fascist overthrow of the US by the dumbest and cruelest humans led by an evil delusional gameshow host.

On this strokeaversary I’m so proud of how far I’ve come. Reading those early days after the stroke is rough. I was so beaten down and scared.

But even a damaged brain can’t keep a good spinster down.

Aside from my finances (my dole hearing is April 10) and the fascism, I’m doing pretty well. I think perhaps, maybe, I have finally accepted that this is the way things are gonna be and status quo is not a bad thing. Or maybe this is like grief and I will always be accepting it in some way.

Now that I’ve stopped beating myself up for failing at recovery, I’ve got a lot time on my hands, and so I’m starting an art/creative practice like its my job.

While I still crochet and write, it’s not the same as before. When I’m engaged in those activities there’s a whispering voice saying “this weird. why is this weird? what is wrong with you?”

To get that voice to shut up already I’ve taken up water colors. I want to try some drawing and collaging too. I’ve always been drawn to visual art and envious of those who create it, but haven’t taken an art class since seventh grade. Instead, I drifted toward photography and graphic art in school. That all came together when I discovered blogging and so I let crochet be my unplugged creative way to calm the brain weasels.

Now I need more. My brain weasels are bigger, damaged, and rowdy. I wanted something relatively cheap I could do with my hands. Something I haven’t done before.

My magical thinking has decided this new practice will be good for my Floppy Scoop and work some kind of wizardry my brain. It won’t fix the wooshiness that is my constant state of being, but maybe it will make it a little less gusty?

I’m only five days into the practice. It took me awhile to find cheap/free supplies and get over the fear that I’d art wrong and the world would end because of it. Right now I’m following a 30/60-day sketchbook challenge from Andrea Nelson on Instagram.

This old spinster is learning some new tricks. It’s fun to start a new practice and challenge myself to try something new that I’m not good at. Be gentle when I start subjecting you to all my creations. I’m just a baby at this.

Happy to be still kicking,
Jodi

The post Stroke Me Day 1095: Three Years In appeared first on I Will Dare.