Can't Breathe. Can't See. by Whitney Hill

"Frantically throwing open and searching through my kitchen cabinets for allergy medicine - trying not to focus on the fact that I can no longer breathe through my nose. Throat turns to sandpaper while sinuses simultaneously burn as if I’m drowning.

Chest is getting tight. My head is starting to spin. Starting to wish that I did not live by myself.

Running to the bathroom to examine the damage done to my face. Eyelids nearly swollen shut. Cheeks are red and lips are starting to tingle. I’ve learned that if my lips start to swell, that tends to mean Hail Mary time.

It’s nearly midnight and I’m stumbling out my apartment door while calculating how long it will take to wait for one of the two working elevators in my forty-story apartment building, and to get 3 ½ blocks to Northwestern Hospitals Emergency Room. 

Finally get outside. Can’t get a cab. Got to walk. I can't breathe. I can’t see.

I keep my sunglasses on as I rush to the ER feeling too embarrassed to have anyone see my now swollen, discolored and rapidly deformed face. The clusters of nighttime tourists that dot my neighborhood look at me in disdain as I walk past. Feeling my stress reach a tipping point, I realize that I can no longer juggle my physical pain while keeping at bay my anxiety and depression. Breathing now labored and from what I can only perceive as judgmental stares from strangers, I make it to the ER doors right as I start to feel faint.

I wish I was not by myself.

This is my third time in four months that I’ve gone into full-blown anaphylactic shock and not to brag, but I’ve gotten pretty good at quickly and calmly explaining myself to the ER’s front desk receptionist. Within five minutes I’m placed in a wheelchair and escorted to triage where my blood oxygen is checked, then wheeled into a private room. The fun is about to begin.

All at once, three nurses and one doctor come rushing in to greet me and before I can wrap my head around whose who, the nurses approach me and very quickly and calmly start to take off my clothes as if I'm a rag-doll in need of a new dress.

Head is getting fuzzier. Body is getting heavier.

By the time the nurses have ripped off my pants and start fumbling with my bra, I barely have the breath to request for a gown to cover myself with. I ask them to please tell me what they are doing. They ask me if my lips are tingling. 

Within minutes I have eight hands simultaneously checking my back for rashes, sticking ports in my arm and checking my vitals. They ask me for consent in using a breathing tube (luckily, wasn't used), then in one quick action a nurse tells me to take a deep breath and an epi pen is jammed into my upper left thigh. In an instant, an IV of steroids and Benadryl begin to rush into my veins and I feel like Frankenstein reborn.

My heart starts pounding within my chest as if it’s trying to fight its way out. My whole body begins to shake as the adrenaline builds up in my muscles. Every move I make tugs and irritates the port in my arm. And all I can think about as I lay convulsing on the hospital bed is “where did they put my clothes?”
Swelling decreasing before being discharged
Within moments I have passed out from the Benadryl and for the next three hours I slip in and out of consciousness.

By the time I’m finally discharged it is nearly 3 am. My eyes are so wrapped from the swelling that my contact falls out. I truly now cannot see. A perfect parting gift to leave at the hospital..."

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Can’t Breathe. Can’t See.

An Open Letter to the Mental Health Counselor Who Gave Me a Pamphlet by Camille Smith

First off, I don’t want you to think I don’t understand your side of our interaction. I’m sure I looked like a small batch of chaos, ushered into your office by a woman from a completely separate department, mascara smudged around my eyes like war paint. You looked at me, your eyes widening, before you stood and extended a hand to greet me and welcome me to your office.

That’s where things started to go wrong.

My inner chaos was mostly contained, bubbling up between cracks in my visage but not overflowing. I had a handle on myself. And yet that still seemed like an interruption to you, and however your day had been going. I was an inconvenience. For a lot of people, mental illness and disability are things to be sympathetic towards, until the more difficult symptoms begin to emerge. Becoming hysterical, aggressive, non-verbal, or et cetera aren’t pretty symptoms, and aren’t easy for your average family member or friend to experience secondhand. To some degree, I understand this. Some of the closest and most supportive people in my life are completely out of their league of comfort with some of my symptoms, and when that happens they know to give me space but be around if I’m in any kind of danger. They aren’t health professionals, what else can they do?

However, if you are a mental health professional, I expect a bit more from you.

You have training, certifications, degrees, the list goes on and on. Someone, at some point, told you how to interact with someone in a crisis. You probably took some kind of test on it. And I have to imagine one of the first bullet points on the PowerPoint slide said something along the lines of, don’t make someone feel like their need for help is an inconvenience if it is your job to help them. This applies to every type of disability, both mental and physical. I knew from that initial interaction, more than anything else, that it wouldn’t be a positive experience.

You asked me the types of questions I'm used to at this point. Do I have an urge to hurt myself, or others? Do I hear voices? I told you that I didn't, and I wasn't, and all I needed was support. The transition to college had been stressful, and the pressures of school and a new place and new people were proving to be too much. I'd been living with bipolar disorder for awhile, but it was still a somewhat new diagnosis, not even two years old. You then asked if I was seeing a therapist. When I told you I wasn't, you asked me why, and when I told you that I hadn't found anywhere in town that I trusted just yet, you were put off, as if I didn't give a satisfactory answer. Finding a consistent and positive source of therapy is difficult, especially in a completely new place of living. Factor in cost and availability, it's almost impossible. Instead of giving me resources to make it more possible, you told me I should start looking.

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www.sporkability.org/spork-exclusive/2016/3/21/an-open-letter-to-the-mental-health-counselor-who-gave-me-a-pamphlet

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An Open Letter to the Mental Health Counselor Who Gave Me a Pamphlet

My Best Friend, Nancy by Ann Marie Gill

Nancy is like a sister

When I am feeling down and out, she knows how to light up a dark room

Her smile is big as a bright red apple

I don't have to go too far to look for the funnies; I know who to resort to for comedy

When I am drowning in the water with my sorrows, she is at the end of the line with a hook to save me

A person full of life & energy and is as bright as a fluorescent light; Lights up a pitch black room

I was very fortunate to stumble upon my very good friend, Nancy, at McClory School in Markahm, Illinois. I met her by a yellow shelving unit that held toys, educational games, and story books. At that time, I was 4 ½ years old and Nancy had just turned 7, two months prior. We were in a classroom with other children who had similar disabilities as we did. Nancy had a heart defect along with a learning disability, and I was, and still am, visually impaired as well as having a hearing disability. Our friendship developed helping and supporting each other during school days. For example, when we went down the hall for different activities, she would guide me safely to and from our destination, and I would counsel her when she needed advice. Eventually, we became social friends outside of school.

During the years following our formative years when I was 7 ½ and Nancy was 10 ½, we decided to exchange phone numbers and started to have play dates at each other’s houses as well. She was in school with me until I was 8. When I reached the age of 9, I was placed in a class for visually impaired children only, and Nancy was starting junior high at the age of 13 with students that had all types of disabilities.

We began visiting each other’s homes frequently and became very good friends. We started sleepovers when I was 12 and Nancy was almost 15. Our friendship continued to grow - the same year I started junior high. We used her tape recorder to make sounds of ghosts and placed it under her sister’s bed! Her sister got even by scaring us with strange noises. Every sleepover was fun and now, I remember those nights with fondness.

In 1981 Nancy entered Oak Forest High School, and I advanced to McKinley Junior High School. We continued our close friendship throughout those years. Nancy remained in high school until she was 21. I graduated McKinley at 15 and advanced to Homewood Flossmoor High School where I remained until the age of 20. After graduation, I got a job at Sertoma Center - a workshop for people with all types of disabilities. During my working years, Nancy remained at home caring for her niece, Jessica, as a babysitter. We continued going shopping together, having sleepovers, going to fast food restaurants, and just enjoying each other’s company. When Nancy was 25, she began working with me at Sertoma workshop where we met daily for lunch and breaks.

And the friendship continued. 

In 1994, Nancy had serious surgery at Olympia Fields Hospital. I lived a short distance from there, and I was able to visit with her twice with the help of my parents. This was a very worrisome time for me since I was afraid she would die during her surgery. Nancy said she was happy that I was there for her and  expressed her gratitude for my support. Her words made me feel joyful.  

In November of 1996, she moved to Plymouth, Indiana. We continued visiting each other at least once or twice a year.  Every time we got together, we recalled the good times, and our favorite songs: “Through The Years,” by Kenny Rogers, “Kokomo,” by The Beach Boys, “Here We Go Around The Mulberry Bush,” and “I Love Rock And Roll,” by Joan Jett.

Nancy was always there for me, like taking time to attend my dad’s funeral. We both have been there for the happy times, as well as the sad ones. And that’s what makes a good friend.

READ MORE AT:
www.sporkability.org/spork-exclusive/2016/7/4/my-best-friend-nancy

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My Best Friend, Nancy

Diagnosis In The Era Of Google by Shalirrah Barksdale
Six months ago I made the mistake of googling the symptoms of what at the time I thought was a bad case of food poisoning. What did Google report back to me?

CANCER! Death! Erosion! Apocalypse!

Ok. Maybe not the last two, but my innocent Google search of food related symptoms did bring up terrifying descriptions of secret tumors, smoke related illness and parasites. I wish I could say that I stopped using Google and WebMD in my quest to understand my body, but I did not. Typing a few keywords into a search bar is the fastest and most wallet friendly approach there is. If I wake up at 3 AM with a bad cough and swollen glands, chances are my doctor won’t be available. Chances are I will have to wait until 8 AM and call the receptionist who will maybe give me an appointment next Tuesday if I am lucky. But Google is always there for me, no matter the time of day.

But it is not the time of day I turn to my computer that worries me, it is the mass amount of information readily available for self-diagnosis.

The case of food poisoning I thought I had lasted longer than normal, so I called my doctor and made an appointment. First, he thought it might be my birth control making me nauseous. When that turned out to be false he suggested I get an ultrasound of my gallbladder and kidney to rule out stones. At this point I had gone through two VERY painful flares of what I would later discover to be intestinal inflammation. During these flares I would have to call off work due to the extreme pain in my abdomen. I would spend all night in the bathroom with vomiting, diarrhea and intestinal cramping. The pain from this cramping was so bad, I convinced myself that going into labor couldn’t possibly be any worse.

Little did I know that this was just the beginning.

My third flare of inflammation was one of the most painful things I had ever experienced. Just like the first two flares it struck in the middle of the night. I was awoken around 1 am with the sudden urge to vomit. I ran into the bathroom and threw up twice. I didn’t think this was caused by anything I ate the night before, so I started to worry, telling myself that I would keep note of my symptoms to share with my doctor. Before I could step a foot out of the bathroom a sharp pain flashed throughout my abdomen, bringing me to my knees. For five hours I alternated between vomiting, having diarrhea and lying on my bathroom floor wishing that the pain would stop. I really started to worry when the next time I used the bathroom I noticed blood in the toilet. At this point I was not passing stool, but instead what looked like bloody body tissue. The site of the blood immediately scared me and I contemplated whether or not I should go to the hospital. I decided that I would try and lay in bed until the pain stopped and then I would go to the emergency room. I finally got some sleep and when I woke up the pain had mostly subsided. I got on a bus and headed to the closest ER, still weary of what had happened throughout the night. At the hospital my stool tested positive for blood so I was given a CT scan of my abdomen to check for any stones or tumor like masses. The scan came back negative for both, but did pick up inflammation in my intestines.

The doctor sent me home with a recommendation for a colonoscopy to see if I have inflammatory bowel disease – not to be confused with irritable bowel syndrome. This is where my Google searching picked back up. I furiously searched for answers. What is inflammatory bowel disease? What is the difference between IBD and the more common IBS? Was this disease life threatening?

Although IBD is chronic and can last a patient’s entire life, it will not shorten a person’s life span. I was glad to hear that part.

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www.sporkability.org/spork-exclusive/2016/6/12/diagnosis-in-the-era-of-google

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Diagnosis In The Era Of Google

Disclaimer: This article contains content that might be a trigger for some with depression

On October 19th of this past year, I woke at 7:43 AM to a phone call. A phone call which I promptly ignored, because I don't do phone calls at 7:43 in the morning. Especially not on a Sunday.

At 7:44, my phone rang again. Irate, I turned over to check who was calling and saw that it was my best friend. And he never calls me twice in a row, much less before eleven. I’m never awake before eleven. (I'm lazy, I know.)

"Whaaat," I croaked into the receiver. My voice is not a thing when I first wake up.

"Shay?" he said. "Are you looking at Facebook right now?"

"Bitch, I'm SLEEPING right now. I am not looking at Facebook. Why?"

"It's Joey."

I sit up.

“What about him?"

"He's...  He's dead."

That’s all the details I can remember of that phone call. The rest of it is a blur. He told me that Joey, my nonbiological brother, had committed suicide four days earlier, and the body had only been found late last night. My best friend wanted me to hear it from him, not by reading it on some post on Facebook. He was going to be buried in New York that afternoon. I was in Chicago. I had no money. I couldn't fly in for the funeral. I was stuck, in my bed full of teddy bears and fluffy pillows, and I couldn't do shit.

Five days later, I found myself being led out of my building, my hands held by two paramedics, a third paramedic wheeling a stretcher, which thankfully I  hadn't needed, behind us. Mascara was smeared on my cheeks, and as we walked through the lobby of my dorm building, all the residents stared at me, more pissed that they had to wait to use the elevators than worried about the crying person being led out by paramedics to an ambulance.

They didn't admit me to the psych ward that time. They let me go home at three in the morning. I took a taxi back to the building and wondered why I was still alive. It wasn't a 'I'm going to try and kill myself again' type of wonder. Just an idle wondering of what the point of my life was. I didn't make a difference. I didn't matter.

Later on in the year, I watched a documentary called The Hunting Ground. It's about the mishandling of college sexual assaults. Watching it, the segment that stood out most to me was the interview with Lizzy Seeberg’s father. Lizzy Seeberg, sadly, was not around to give an interview herself, because she committed suicide several days after being sexually assaulted by a Notre Dame football player.

I found it frightening.

I found that the impact Lizzy Seeberg made, because of the fact that she died, frightening.

I wanted to die that night.

Many people know that I was sexually assaulted. I’m not quiet about it, because I want to make a difference. But in that movie theatre, eating peanut M&Ms, I felt that I couldn’t make a difference. I felt that the biggest impact I could make was if I, in fact, died.

I was determined to go home and do something. Something dangerous. Something fatal.

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www.sporkability.org/spork-exclusive/2015/7/28/living-past-the-werther-effect

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Living Past The Werther Effect

Perdu by Euree Kim

Trigger and content warning: this article discusses suicide, death, and ableist language

It’s been two months since I was de-institutionalized from a psychiatric ward. Many things have changed since then: I lost my best friend, started several projects regarding disability advocacy, have gone to multiple support groups, and am taking different medications to alleviate severe insomnia, anxiety, and depression everyday. After being discharged, I have experienced extreme feelings of isolation, insecurity, and hopelessness. During the process, I broke up with one of my friends whom I trusted the most but at the same time, who called police during the crisis. Our last conversation was very traumatic. I criticized them that they defined the hierarchy between “rational” and “irrational” by reporting me to police and that they didn't try to accommodate my disabilities. In contrast, my friend retorted that I was the one who acted irrationally and inconsistently which made me lose any accountability or credibility before calling out injustice. Also, they said it was not their job to support me. After the conversation, I sensed a deep crevasse between our different understandings on mental health, identities, and systems. This is unavoidable since we experience and undergo different realities, but I wondered whether it is possible to find alternative strategies in those situations and restore disconnection. For this article, I wanted to share part of my story.



Part 1. Death and suicide

On a snowy day, I had an argument with my friend. Triggered by circling debates, I blurted out, “I wish I were dead!” My friend did not say anything.

I come from a culture where death was frequently appropriated in mass media and everyday conversations. Korea is notorious for ranking one of the highest suicide rate among OECD countries, which has been a major social issue and has not gotten better (https://data.oecd.org/healthstat/suicide-rates.htm). I remember how often death was mentioned as metaphors and how it was normalized in the society. I was able to hear, read, and see the trend nearby: school, family, and streets. The strange thing was while appropriating “death” as a metaphor was normal, sharing and discussing issues of mental health was considered as weak, childish, and immature. Even in my family, expressing negative emotions such as depression, sadness, or anger was taboo and not allowed. For a person with autism, manic depression and anxiety, this created the worst environment for wellness and mental health. On top of that, I had difficulty assimilating my queerness to society where heteronormativity was the dominant ideology, and often felt othered. Also, I had difficulty finding meaning of life while living in an ableist, capitalistic, and meritocratic society where the quality of life was often measured with monetary success. Being disabled meant a path to failure, a burden to society and family.

Usually, I kept my face neutral and straight and did not talk at all. Sometimes, my oppressed feelings would burst out as tears, ranting, and self harm. I cried that I wanted to die rather than live. One family member would respond: “Then go out and kill yourself." At those moments, I felt that I wasn't able to speak anymore, so I would go to my room or outside to cry and do things to relieve anxiety such as biting my fingers or tearing books. Throughout the years, I became accustomed to the violence around me.

Sometimes another family member would tell me I was trying to manipulate them with my depression and anxiety. They told me that I was just trying to make them feel bad, to get their attention. I became desperate and said, “if only one time you could understand this.”

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www.sporkability.org/spork-exclusive/2017/4/3/perdu

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Perdu

Confidently Different by Phyllis Hill

My daughter, Whitney, and I recently had a conversation regarding the word “flustered”. An associate of hers used the descriptor while attempting to offer a bit of advice. Whitney took exception to its use. “I do not get flustered!” She was indignant. I smiled, because I immediately assumed it was spoken by a male closer to my age than hers. And I was correct. If he had been addressing a man, more than likely, he would have assessed those expressed feelings and understood them to be due to frustration, not being flustered.

There are quite a few terms that depending on your age, experience and mind set, you can take either positively or negatively. “Different” is definitely one of those terms. If you embrace the idea of being unique and not defined by a norm, then being “different” is construed as a positive. On the other hand, if you feel isolated, ostracized and long for acceptance, being termed “different” will probably cause you to knit your eyebrows as you shake your head.

How you get to the point of being able to embrace what makes you “different”, I think, has as much to do with your confidence, as it does with who makes up your family, friends and supportive circle.

I was born a stutterer, from a long line of family with a variety of speech “impediments”. Talk to a group of us at a family reunion and you too, will leave as a stutterer. My father, who stutters, had the foresight to insist that I attend speech therapy sessions. Twice a week, for nine years, I slipped out of class to sit for 30 minutes in a room a little larger than a broom closet, and practiced phonetic sounds in front of a mirror. 

School was a horrendous experience. Teachers were hesitant to call on me, kids would constantly laugh and tease me. My parents, as parents were back then, were very practical. They had little patience for you feeling “sorry” for yourself. My dad often told me that life was seldom fair - in fact, fair has no real definition. And my mom, always to the point, told me to learn to deal with the cards I was dealt. 

I accepted their lessons, in large part because I witnessed my dad, without complaint, deal with stuttering every day. He was a public school teacher, and a very active member of our church.

The church, I grew up in was the typical black Baptist congregation. You were rewarded for being earnest. Every effort at singing, reading, and elocution - what they used to call recitation back in the day, were met with hearty amens. Not a single member, despite my speech, grumbled when at age 12, my father appointed me Junior Sunday School Superintendent. After all, he was Senior Sunday School Superintendent. I was in charge on 2nd and 5th Sundays, and he the rest of the month. We both stuttered our way through scripture reading and announcements. My pauses were filled with loud “Amens” and “That's alright baby” and encouraging nods. At the beginning of 11:00AM service, my dad-who was also a deacon, would kneel alongside the other deacons and take his turn to offer aloud his words of prayer.

Now, as an adult, I have come to realize that my dad's confidence in himself and assurance, despite the stuttering was my confidence. Whether he was teaching a class, both in the public school classroom or at church, he stated his thoughts, and made his points. Often times, then as well as now, he played devil's advocate. My husband humorously calls it, “point-counterpoint”. Not even at 88 years old, no one can stop him from expressing himself.

READ MORE:
http://www.sporkability.org/spork-exclusive/2020/1/20/confidently-different

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#Stutter #Apraxia #SpeechDisorder #non-apparent #learningdisabilities

Confidently Different

Each night at 8PM when I go out to my Chicago studio apartment balcony, I yell into the sky. I yell as loud as I can to thank those who are actually protecting me, and to hear my voice so that it can remind me that I’m still alive. After 3 minutes my voice is hoarse. People stop shouting after around 5 minutes. My throat hurts but I know it will stop once I go inside. The stabbing sting in my vocal chords will soon fade. Right now though, I yell. I wail and scream. I’m alone in this apartment every second of every day under lockdown, under threat and under fear. I’m forced to watch the swift action of this virus overtake the clouded inaction of this administration. My voice is ignored by everyone else and unused throughout the day, except right here at 8PM. 

Stepping outside in this way is also the only interaction I get to truly feel of those around me – from all the strangers and distant neighbors I never bothered to meet or know before. I like this ritual. It’s so community forming and primal; coming together as strangers to make noise as one. This is the only indication I can really show to everyone that I’m still alive with air in my lungs. I hear your voice…can you hear mine? When I yell, do you hear in my faceless tone my fear?

I don’t want to sound like I’m hijacking this sincere cause and show of appreciation towards our countless medical staff and workers who are trudging through this deadly virus. Everyday my mind is flooded with the thoughts of all the first responders and personal loved ones who have been called to the front line. My best friend dedicatedly working at UPS; clients bravely serving as the janitorial staff at Northwestern Hospital; family members working at O’hare airport and managing Aldi groceries. I want to absorb your pain so you can rest. This crisis is too much for only a few hands to hold. And so, when I go to the ledge at night, instead of getting lost in my ever so darkening thoughts, my depression, I see a dark void that is yearning for sound. Frustration, tears, joy and all jagged noises. 8PM is my time to holler for everything I’m thankful for and hate right now. I’m yelling for you but I’m shrieking for us. It needs to all flow over this balcony edge.

 I’m afraid of the future.

READ MORE:
http://www.sporkability.org/spork-exclusive/2020/4/13/quarantine-depression-and-digital-faces
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Quarantine Depression and Digital Faces

“There’s a good chance your son will never walk or talk, or even sit up and feed himself.”

The doctor was a kindly older gentleman, with the white hair that inspires confidence in patients in hospitals the world over. He was in our room on the family floor of Northside Hospital in Atlanta, Georgia. I remember seeing his name tag as he walked through the door, but as the attending physician on the floor, I’d never seen him before, or would again, so I can’t remember what his name tag said. He’d come to us to deliver, what, in his mind, was tragic news. Our son, Timothy, less than a day old, had been diagnosed with Agenesis of the Corpus Callosum.

“He will have significant delays,” the doctor said, explaining precisely what ACC was.

READ MORE:
http://www.sporkability.org/spork-exclusive/2020/4/22/when-they-tell-you

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When They Tell You

Being the parent of a child with special needs brings a particular set of challenges with it. There are the numerous doctors’ appointments, and specialists’ appointments, as well as trying to work “therapy” into everyday routines at home. Often, it seems like there isn’t enough time in the day, or the week, to get everything accomplished for my children that I’d like. This can be very frustrating, and it often makes me feel like a failure as a parent. But there is another, more insidious issue that can affect parents: the undiagnosed special need.

READ MORE:
http://www.sporkability.org/spork-exclusive/2020/4/27/undiagnosed

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Undiagnosed

If you are a parent, or are considering becoming one, you are most likely familiar with the dreaded developmental “milestones” list. You know, the one where a group of scientists (who clearly did not have children of their own), raised a group of robo-super-children in a laboratory, and charted all of the development that occurred as those robo-kids grew older. Then, they published that list and gave it to pediatricians and other developmental specialists. 

So, my six-month-old can’t do a backflip while reciting the digits of Pi to a thousand places? 

Guess we’d better give up and go live somewhere deserted, so we don’t bother anyone. 

Oh, really? Your two-year-old hasn’t painted the ceiling of a famous chapel yet? 

That’s ok, I’m sure your child will be great at living in a museum for the hopelessly outdated.

You know, that list.

Enter special needs. Almost by definition, children with special needs are those who cannot meet these milestones. This can seem overwhelming and crushing to parents, because this list is a constant reminder of the challenges your child faces, and makes it seem as if your child is a failure, and by extension you are as well.

But I have great, liberating news: milestones mean NOTHING! That’s right folks, you heard it here first. Milestones mean nothing. Now, that’s not to imply that tracking the development of your child isn’t important, and that you shouldn’t work with your child to give them the richest, fullest life possible, but rather, that a list of activities created by scientists can never define your child, nor the life they lead.

When Tim, my eldest was diagnosed with ACC (see “When They Tell You” for a description), my wife and I knew that his trajectory was going to be quite different than that of his peers. When he was born, I didn’t care if he would become rich or famous or athletic—instead, my goal was that one day, he would be able to look me in the eye and say, “I love you.” I didn’t care if that took until he was thirty or fifty or ninety, I just wanted to help him develop enough for that. It became my goal.

Now, if you ever read a milestone list, saying, “I love you,” isn’t anywhere on it, and three-word phrases are something that we expect two-year-old children to manage. Since this wasn’t a milestone, but it was my goal, my wife coined a phrase that would allow us to celebrate the accomplishment, regardless of timeframe. She called these moments inch-stones.


READ MORE:
http://www.sporkability.org/spork-exclusive/2020/5/6/inch-stones

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Inch-Stones

SPORK! is an advocacy nonprofit and website for people who have cognitive, physical and non-apparent differences. Our main and most important goal is to validate the differently able by assisting in giving them a unique and united voice, whilst authentically representing their community. 

We accomplish this goal by documenting the works of both individuals and businesses who support and fight for the differently able community, as well as creating an integrative network of resources for individuals, activists, designers and care workers. 

Visit us at www.SporkAbility.org

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