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  • My spine is crumbling. I feel the pain in Frida Kahlo's painting "Broken Column" so deeply it makes me weep to look at it. A bounteous array of doctors try to shore up my relic of a spine by doing everything to manage pain short of surgery to fuse the vertebrae and titanium rods to keep everything in place. "You cannot work," they say. What does that mean? The photo copied list of restrictions I was given attempts to explain: no bend, pull, push, lift, twist, blah, blah, blah. I vacillate between self pity and rage as I try to reorganize my life to comply with a list of restrictions that seem the very antithesis of life. The raging fighter rages on as I desperately search for things I can do...I can breathe...I can sit for short periods of time...I can....scoop. Scooping is not on the forbidden activity list. I am elated! I live of five acres with many areas that desperately need scooping! I am compliant and I have a purpose! Time, an old pair of mismatched gloves and a scoop. I have everything I need to transform my world; one scoop at a time.
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