A story in the news last week has left me slightly paranoid and marinating in self-disgust. I read that 61-year-old Dianne Odell from Memphis, Tennessee, died Wednesday as a result of a power outage that cut electricity to the iron lung she’d been confined to since she was 3-years-old. Before reading about Odell’s death on CNN.com, I assumed iron lungs went out of fashion some time during the 19th Century. I had no idea that they were widely used during the polio epidemic of the 1940’s. It came as an even greater surprise to me that anyone in the world still uses them. I’m a descendant of Odell’s respiration-impaired generation – and like any child who is forced to endure the semi-intelligent stories of her elders, I took it for granted that I enjoy a level of breathing mobility denied to so many who came before me.
I’ll put off rationalizing my urge to flog myself into personal enlightenment by first explaining my burgeoning dread of impending doom. Ms. Odell and I share an intriguing side-effect of life: both our existences depend (or in Odell’s case, depended) on a reliable source of electricity. Going green is not exactly an option for our kind. Just as Odell’s iron lung ran on electricity, my ventilator runs on a rechargeable battery. The majority of the time I pay little attention to this not-so minor detail of my survival. After all, the battery is very reliable… and I have a back-up. Still, there have been incidences when my ventilator battery conked out in the most inconvenient of places, and left me to breathe solo. As lazy as I am, when push comes to shove I can grab the reins and breathe all on my lonesome; but I certainly wouldn’t put money down in favor of me out-ventilating anything with a lung capacity greater than a premature puppy or asthmatic gopher. So when I learned exactly how and why Odell died, it left me just a tad more than nervous. Our situations are too similar for me not to consider that if by some act of God, natural disaster, or moment of Homeland No-Security I could be left with no way to replenish my life-force. And while you are probably thinking, and rightly so, that these are the rantings of a delusional cripple; how do you think Superman felt knowing a ton of kryptonite might be waiting for him around every bend?
Now that I’ve shed some light on my latest technology-related paranoia, you’ll see where the self-loathing fits into this equation. My immediate reaction to Odell’s plight played into the very inhumane logic I have always tried to counter by upholding my own lifestyle. Bigotry is a master of disguise. It revels in putting on grand displays of brutality – distracting us with such offenses as the forced sterilization of disabled women (Ashley X), and restraining orders sought by priests against their Autistic parishioners (Adam Race) – so that we do not notice seemingly discreet, yet infinitely more harmful acts of discrimination. And while I’ve catalogued an impressive list of well-meaning transgressions against cripples of all castes and creeds, patronization ranks numero uno in my book. As lovely as it is to receive praises, I’d much rather have someone write me a blank check than fill me in on some vital piece of information like: “Oh, you are a true inspiration. I don’t know how you do it.” How I do it? Do what – live? One day while getting in my van, a chain smoking woman called out from inside her dingy pinto, “I just want you to know you made my day. I thought I had it bad until I saw you. Thanks, and God bless!” Ah, how I love to have strangers quantify my existence by how many cigarettes they go through in an hour. We cripples can sniff out even the best camouflaged stench of condescension in any rose-tinted conversation. The facts behind Odell’s life and death taught me, however, that I am not immune to practicing the same level of prejudice I’ve suffered from others.
The idea that Odell lived for 61 years in an iron lung, solely confined to one space and one position, was revolting to me. I wondered what quality of life she could have possibly had. For an instant I wrote her off as being selfish to rely so completely on her family for every need and want. Did she ever think of ending it all for the sake of her loved ones? Should it have occurred to her that perhaps the means did not justify the end in her case? I subscribed to the faulty logic of quantifying Odell’s worth by how she “contributed” to society.
(This is about the time the nausea kicks in, and I avoid mirrored objects in shame.)
Just as the nicotine-preserved woman had absolutely no right to underestimate the quality of my life, how dare I cut Odell so short. I cannot imagine the difficulty and pain Odell surely endured throughout her life. Nor can I begin to fathom the magnitude of joy and love she experienced during her 61 years. We’ve all survived moments of profound loneliness while absorbed in a crowd; and I pray that each of us has known great comfort in solitude. Odell must have been familiar with both as well. I can’t pretend to understand her life on any deep level. In fact, I dare tread no farther on this dangerous road of speculation. The only sound conclusion I can make is that Odell lived her life with grace. Yes, I’m sure she was a graceful woman.
Odell’s thrust into celebritydom for her peculiar life and ironic death is inconsequential. It matters little that she lived largely isolated from the world: we all do. The particulars behind her demise hold even less bearing: consider how many self-conscious saps will keel over on the toilet. No, the only thing worth noting in regards to Odell’s life, and how she relates to any of us, is that if nothing else she makes a great mirror. I got a glimpse of her and found myself hideous. I only hope that one day my reflection resembles her grace.
(For the complete article on Dianne Odell:
http://www.cnn.com/2008/US/05/28/iron.lung.death.ap/index.html?iref=newssearch)
(For info about Ashley X:
http://www.ourfrida.org/take-action/ashley-x-and-the-american-medical-association/)
(For details about The Priest v. 13-year-old Adam Case:
