My hands almost always have a slight tremor, just enough to keep me from fine detail work. I will never be a surgeon, but most days I can knit. Today's a day I wouldn't have attempted lace knitting. On a day like today, I don't do anything that requires a lot of fine motor control.
But I still have to eat.
And as I finished scooping leftovers into a bowl for dinner, as I turned with the bowl in one hand, the muscles of my hand jumped, and the bowl escaped, exploding into shards on the floor. Shards I then could not even pick up because my hands were shaking.
I breathed, there on all fours, tremendously frustrated. I love my bowls, and they do not sell them individually. Dammit. And dammit I miss my daughter, and dammit the writing project I'm embarking on will be wrenching, and dammit Max keeps trying to get over here where all these shards are because there's sausage in with the shattered ceramic, so no time for self-pity, time for the vacuum (which hurts my back, but I will deal with that; my little old man cat is the priority here).
I have another bowl of food now, and I'm sitting and dealing with my back pain and verifying that this bowl is not available on replacements.com, dammit.
Sometimes this is what disability looks like: eight plates and seven bowls.