There was this day, when I was around 9, where I was ridiculously, embarrassingly absent minded. After the FOURTH TIME I smashed my hand in the door, in ONE DAY, I mentally gave myself a genius award and refused to open or close doors. This was my unsustainable solution against their finger biting.
Fast forward to cow fences. Swiss cows live this amazing life in the summer. They spend their time in the Alps, munching on grass and wildflowers, wandering between the trees and glacier fed streams. Which means, the mountains are slashed with cow fences everywhere and you are expected to just open the gate and traverse. I never fathomed the outsized role of cows and their fences in my adult life. I’ve been chased by gangs of cows and charged by a bull. They are FAST.
Hiking, fresh from my DBS surgery, I was ineffectively trying to convince my dog to drink from a stream. Instead I got zapped by a cow fence. The craziest part was I could hear the echo of sage advice, from either Ren or Stimpy, ‘Don’t wizz on the electric fence’.
Cow fences are zappy by nature. But mixed with an implantable device that shocks a brain into compliance, the results are ugly. I saw stars. Felt like I was punched in the chest battery. There was an overall burn feeling. MB was even worse off; he looked like he had a heart attack from bearing witness.
I cannot express the professional horror at triggering mounds of cow fence safety reporting. The device manufacturer’s incredulity at how I managed this feat confirmed-there was no data on cow fence outcomes.
I have other nemeses besides fences. Grocery carts are evil entities that twist me tighter than a corkscrew. I find it crazy I would choose 1000 m vert over the horror of groceries. Despite my efforts, I am defeated by the mighty, metal food transport.
And then there is the indignity of my post surgery hairdo. I compare it to a baby owl with ear fluffs. It gets worse at the gym and there are moments I look like I’m wearing a haphazard feather crown.
When the device electrodes were buried into my brain, I was blissfully unaware of how they were anchored. The result is my goat horn nubs. I have two, in the exact spot one would grow horns, if they were so lucky. It’s a pedestal for the fluff to launch itself in gravity defying glory.
It’s not been a bed of roses, finding grace with an incurable disorder. I fight for every gain. I fall. I have lost count of my field of vision challenges resulting in near misses with street poles and unsuspecting train co-passengers. Only recently have I mastered carrying my tea without burning my hands from spills.
While I would love to share with you that I have learned much since my 9 year old self avoided doors, it would be lies. I’ve embarrassingly had more cow fence zaps, resulting in lifetime banishment from my people in ever opening one again. It’s a fair response and invokes the Ren and Stimpy edict.