Where is Spider-Man when you need him?

Last night, we watched The Amazing Spider-Man even though both my brother-in-law and sister think he is a wuss. I loved it, as always.

Spidey's motto is "With great power comes great responsibility," and I am not sure you'll find a superhero who feels such a responsibility to help people. In a recent issue, there was a blizzard in NYC and he was sick, but he still ventured out. He just wanted to check on Aunt May, but first he got an ambulance unstuck, then he plowed a bridge in case it was needed. Then he checked on Aunt May. He cares about his fellow man and woman.

I wish Spider-Man had been  in the subway for my commute home last night.

First, the train was about two inches higher than the platform, so I got stuck getting on. One person moved to help me. One. I don't think the others were callous (I'll get to callous), just oblivious.

I backed up, tried again and got on before the helper reached me, but I nodded to him in thanks.

At my stop, I got off about 15 feet from the elevator. I saw it was already at the platform, so I hauled over to get on.

Seven walking folks had packed themselves in, and only one got off when he saw me. I said I need more room, but no one else got off. They all did a little shuffle to get me more room.

Part of me wishes I had flown in there and run over the jerks, but no, I got on cautiously. The door did not close, so the jerks did another little shuffle and gave me another inch, so I squeezed in.

Spider-Man would have gotten off the elevator.

Depression session, what's your lesson?

I am at my wit's end.

Some of you might not think I had far to go, but let me assure you: I am hilarious and my wit is like a billion miles long. So being at the end is hard.

This week a guy at work announced his retirement. I am not sure 42-year-olds are allowed to have mentors, but this guy was it. I will miss him tremendously.

Today, my first boss at this job died. She had cancer. It was weird, 15 minutes before we got the news, I emailed someone about her because I was thinking about her.

And it is cold.

I want to hibernate until it is warm.

At least I'm no longer worried

Ever since I got a save-the-date card last year for a friend's wedding next month, I have worried.

I really wanted to go.

It will be a fun wedding, I am sure. If I don't go to things, people will stop inviting me. I already worry that I don't get invited to things not because people don't want me there but because they forget about me and it never occurs to them to invite me. Mostly, though, I wanted to be part of my friend's big day.

I am also worried that I am growing complacent, too, happy to sit at home and do nothing. I spent the recent three-day President's Day Weekend napping, reading, watching TV and goofing around on my computer. Yes, it was a snowy weekend but still …

This wedding would be a way to show myself that I still do stuff.

I engaged one niece to give up the first part of her spring break and go with me as a helper. I'd fly her here, then we'd head to New York City by train. Yes, NYC, I dislike the very idea of New York, but I wanted to go to the wedding.

I started looking into hotels, and at some point both Mom and my sister asked whether we should check whether the venues are accessible. Sure, I said, but naively I was thinking, "Of course they are; that's the law, right?"

Isn't my naivete cute?

On that same President's Day Weekend, one of the things I did was check out the venues. They were historic sites at Columbia University. Even my trust is limited. When I heard that, I started doubting I'd be going.

An email from the Disability Services Office confirmed it. The accessible bathroom is in the building the reception is, but it requires you to go outside,  go to another entrance, use an intercom to get in, then head to the bathroom.

I am not sure  where but I know that somewhere along that route, my bladder would decide that enough is enough.

So that was it. I RSVP'd no. I texted my niece. 

I am trying to be less complacent. I went out with co -woekers last week, though hearing was im[possible. I made plans to do stuff -- a movie, dinner, lunch when it warms up. I went to my nephew and niece'sa hockey game.

And I'll hope I still get invitations.

10-minute transfer

Gee, I thought in mid-transfer from my chaise to my chair last night, I haven't had to call my sister for help after she's gone to bed in a while.

I had more than enough time to have this thought and other less PG ones because it was a 10-minute transfer. I got stuck.

My chaise is a few inches lower than my chair, so I have to rise up to get on the chair. Last night, my legs decided they weren't up to the task.

In their defense, I made it to the metal seat of my chair, but my cushion is several inches above that. And they could not push me past and onto the cushion. Also in their defense, the cushion was blocking me.

I sat there on a razor's edge of wheelchair, my arms on the chaise holding me up.

Finally, I was able to move my arms without falling, and I used one to move my chair thisclose to the chaise. The other arm moved my legs into a better pushing position. Then I leaned back, grabbed my wheelchair arms and forced my butt into the seat.

And I haven't had to wake my sister up for a while and a day.

An American Prometheus Unbound

When I interned at The Patriot Ledger I was a copy editor of the Rim variety.

Rim editors read and edit stories after the reporters and their editors are done with them. Rim editors also write hedlines and captions. When rim editors finish with a story, it gets sent to a slot editor, who checks the rim edits and stuff. Good stuff, copyediting is awesome.

One of the slot editors (not my sister) had a rule about the phrase "homeless people." She didn't like it. They are people who do not have homes, she said. Referring to them as "homeless people" or "the homeless" made them into a different type of people, one that's easy to dismiss, she said, so I did not my best to keep adjectives  that labeled people out of the stories I edited.

I wonder what she'd think of "wheelchair-bound"? Talk about putting people in a less-than-human category.

This thought popped up first because the Jesuits' America magazine referred to those who use chairs as "wheelchair-bound." The Jesuits?! They're allegedly the smart Catholics. This annoyed Mom, whose letter to the editor, which was not printed, includes:

Please, dear editors at America, rummage around in the newsroom and find your stylebook.  Insert a blank sheet of paper and write on it, with a big black Sharpie, "Do not use the expression 'wheelchair-bound' to describe individuals who use wheelchairs.

The problem is not the stylebook, though. AP says clearly not to use it, just lazy editors who don't mind dehumanizing people by referring to them by their mode of travel, never mind that chairs aren't binding bur freeing. But hey, we can save some space and words by just using "wheelchair-bound," and it's not like we're calling you "cripples," so maybe you ought to say thank-you and go about your business.

I was further thinking about "wheelchair bound" because a friend included me in a wonderful blog she wrote about choosing love not fear. I certainly was not an example of that -- fear and I are close.  She was also talking about the "wheelchair bound" thing.

Apparently, one of the letters America did print complained about the use of "the disabled." I guess that's something.