Lisa Olson keeps her workspace dimly lit. The low light soothes the migraines that plague her - lingering effects of past concussions and accidents.
Her work space might be subdued, but there's enough light to see the collection of photos peppered across her two desks. Nearly every one of them shows her smiling with her mother, Marie.
The memories lift Olson's spirits, but they also remind her that her mom, the woman Olson considers a Mother Teresa figure, is no longer there to help. Olson, who has a full-time university job and runs her own ministry in Virginia Beach, was born without arms or legs.
Olson's adoptive mother helped her to a life filled with love, spiritual nourishment and personal purpose. But for Olson, who can't do many of the daily activities we take for granted, her mother also was a caretaker and conduit toward daily security.
In the years since Marie Olson became critically ill and eventually died, her daughter's life has jack-knifed into a daily struggle for survival. She's left navigating a care system intended to foster independence, but one that, consequently, has her hanging on for dear life.
Olson has overcome obstacles that most people never will face. She almost wasn't given the chance to do so.
Shortly after being born on Sept. 8, 1974, she was abandoned by her parents at a hospital in Manipal, India. Her left side had stumps for limbs; the right side had no limb protractions at all. Doctors believed it was best to allow the child to die.
One doctor, Kuruvilla George, felt otherwise.
He reached out to the Ramabai Mukti Mission, located some 30 hours away by ground, and the mission took her in. There, orphans gave the baby the name "Manyata," which, in the Marathi language, means acceptance with a purpose.
Compassion was plentiful at Ramabai. But to thrive, Olson needed specialized care beyond what was available in India. Mission officials arranged for her to be cared for at the Hope Town Christian School for disabled children and adults in Carmel, N.Y., and return to India at age 18.
However, shortly before the trip to New York, the Indian government discontinued medical visas. The only hope for Olson, now preschool age, was to be adopted by an American.
Marie Olson, a 50-year-old single missionary and the administrator at Hope Town, had been praying for months to adopt a child. She wasn't sure what would become of her wish. Single-parent adoptions were not common.
That's when the Ramabai Mission contacted Hope Town asking if anyone there could assume parenthood of Manyata. Just three months later, in February 1980, Marie Olson stepped onto American soil with the 5-year-old child she renamed Lisa.
"I thought that was wonderful," said Marie Olson's only living sibling, Doris Martin, who lives in Colorado. "I knew she could do it."
Under her mother's care, Olson quickly began exhibiting a can-do spirit. One time, her mother got caught up in a conversation while feeding Olson. By the time Mom turned back around, the child had used her chin and shoulder to pick up a utensil and start feeding herself.
"I'm a very type A personality," Olson said as she checked email and scooted over to answer the phone at her job. "I get things done."
From ages 6 to 14, Olson wore a prosthetic arm that aided her mobility. However, it was too uncomfortable to bear. "I was encased in plastic, and I wore a protective sock with it. When I took the sock off, it would be soaked in sweat."
She convinced her doctor that she could do more with her shoulder than with the prosthetic. But after ditching it, she asked, " 'How am I going to put my makeup on?' "
Olson began her education at Hope Town and a few years later was mainstreamed into public schools. She learned to write in cursive and to type.
"I didn't like typing with a pen in my mouth because I liked to talk," Olson said. Her tenacious spirit landed the 10-year-old Olson on the pages of The New York Times.
In 1991, Hope Town closed and Marie Olson retired. Mom and daughter moved to Roswell, Ga., an Atlanta suburb. Olson graduated in 1993 from Roswell High, and she continued her education two hours away at Lee College in Cleveland, Tenn.
As a coed, Olson joined the orchestra and played the Omnichord, a kind of electronic autoharp, before graduating with a bachelor's degree in journalism in 1996. Following that milestone, she and her mother moved to Virginia Beach so Olson could attend Regent University. She graduated in 1999 with a master's degree in public relations.
Olson also learned to drive a specially outfitted van, which she eventually sold to help pay for her mother's health care. By then, Olson had landed a full-time job as a career services manager at Regent University, where she has worked since 2002.
On a recent brutally cold midwinter day, Olson channeled spring in a lush pink lip color - she's always loved makeup - and a pink custom-fitted argyle sweater and khakis. The sleeves and pants legs were shortened to accommodate the varying proportions of her frame.
"Mom never liked when children without limbs had clothes dangling down," Olson recalled.
Her mother's special touch helped Olson maintain self-esteem and get through difficult situations - like the time a maid-of-honor gown had been altered too tightly.
"They pinned the dress and taped it to the bolero. It was the only time I was glad I couldn't walk," Olson said.
She chuckled as she shared tale after tale about mishaps in trying to live as normal a life as possible. She has tipped over and fallen onto the pavement a few times while riding along in a car seat attached to her mother's bicycle. Her mother, a nurse by profession, also was learning along the way.
Marie Olson always had the best intentions, and she tried to prepare her daughter for the fact that her mother wouldn't be around forever.
"Mom used to say I just enjoyed worrying for the sake of worrying. 'Why worry when you can pray?' "
Marie Olson's health began declining in 2001, beginning with injuries suffered in a car accident. The next 11 1/2 years were marked with a series of ailments from pneumonia to a breast cancer diagnosis and two hospice stays.
Caregivers, namely friends and church members, were needed from time to time to assist mother and daughter. By 2008, assistance was needed on a more consistent basis. A year later, Lisa Olson accepted the reality that she could not manage both her needs and those of her mother. She placed Marie Olson into the Beth Sholom Village long-term care facility in Virginia Beach.
Lisa Olson would work all day, then spend hours each evening - and all day on the weekends - with her mother. "I was always scared she would pass away after I left," Olson said.
"I remember the first time she couldn't feed herself well. She was shaking. She was really struggling. My caregiver held out her hand to help, but Mom wanted to do it herself."
Alzheimer's was taking hold.
"It was just really sad to see her deteriorating," Olson said.
Marie Olson's prolonged illness had one benefit: It spared her daughter from an abrupt shift into the reality that she'd have to look out for herself.
"My mom prayed that that never be allowed to happen, that she would have a heart attack and die suddenly," Olson said. "It really made me a stronger person.... As a kid, you don't realize how much parents do for you."
Marie Olson died in October 2012.
Each morning, Lisa Olson wakes up in her bed alone, waiting for someone to help her start the day.
Until a caregiver arrives at her Virginia Beach apartment, Olson is unable to get to the bathroom or make a meal. Even if she could get to the food, she can't feed herself without soiling her clothes.
The caregiver also helps her dress for the day and put on that makeup she enjoys so much.
Once she's driven to her job, Olson can lose herself in the work. But she still requires the aid of others to get through her daily duties.
An assistant, who could be the same person from earlier or someone different, comes to Regent midmorning and mid-afternoon for Olson's bathroom and lunch breaks. Another person comes to transport her back home after work and attend to caregiving requirements for the evening.
"There have been times I haven't known who was coming to pick me up," Olson said as she glided across snow-cleared sidewalks in the motorized wheelchair she uses at work.
Reflecting on her situation, Olson considered how much she had taken for granted when her mother was alive.
Take, for instance, the snow. If a caregiver couldn't show up because of the weather, it was not a big deal. Her mother, although herself sick, filled the gaps by coming to the job to assist her throughout the day.
"Now I'm seeing on a larger scale that (God) is the only one. I always had a stabilized life."
Initially, Olson had reliable backup help when care assistants fell through. That all changed last year when her two of her most consistent backup helpers moved on because of life events.
Their departures have been followed by an evolving group of care providers and patchwork assistance. Sometimes these caregivers show up late. Or have their own health issues. And, on occasion, they can be abusive.
"I can't be the patient and the H.R. manager on issues," Olson said. "Caregivers have yelled and screamed at me. I've been cursed at."
She feels vulnerable.
"If I had a family member, if I had a spouse, they could say, 'You are not going to talk to her that way. You are not going to do that to my daughter. You are going to do your job with integrity and ethics.' "
Olson is not qualified for Medicaid because her income exceeds the threshold. If she met that qualifier, in addition to having at least one ongoing medical or nursing service need, Medicaid would pay for an agency to provide personal care assistance.
Olson said she does not earn enough to pay for agency-managed care. "I'm barely making it with my rent," she said.
Without the Medicaid waiver, Olson met the criteria for the state-funded personal assistance services program (PAS). It helps allay costs for individuals with severe disabilities who can work if they receive help with non-medical areas of care. The program does not work with an agency - it pays directly to a care assistant - and eligible applicants must agree that they are capable of coordinating their own care.
Because the assistance is not medical in nature, caregivers do not have to be certified.
"Every year, managing it has become more and more chaotic," said Olson, who has been in consumer-directed PAS components since 2008.
PAS was born of a big push for independent living in 1989. Individuals with disabilities wanted a say in who cared for them.
"Many people don't like that agency interference," said Maureen Hollowell, the director of advocacy services at the nonprofit Endependence Center in Virginia Beach. Hollowell was at the forefront of the campaign for consumer control.
However, she cautions that a person with disabilities should be well aware of what is involved in consumer-directed care.
"It's only for individuals who can put in the time to recruit their own staff," Hollowell said. "The recruiting, interviewing, training - not everybody is up for it."
Typically, a person opting for state PAS would designate a family member or guardian as the care assistant, said Mary-Margaret Cash, director of community-based services for the state Department for Aging and Rehabilitative Services.
Olson said she is thankful for PAS in that the program allows for relative independence. Yet she feels caught in the cross hairs of a stopgap measure. She wants to work. She has no family nearby. She is not cognitively impaired. But she is trying not to lose her mind holding it all together while living with pronounced physical limitations.
With no accountability, "I'm back to ground zero," Olson said.
Gary Roberts and his wife, Connie, are among roughly a dozen close friends who have witnessed the complexities of Olson's day-to-day care.
The state should step up to provide a more reasonable level of support and flexibility for people with disabilities who fall within an income gap, said Roberts, a fellow Regent employee.
John Denham, another acquaintance, becomes choked up when he speaks of Olson's cheer and resolve. The Chesapeake retiree met her several months ago at church and is trying to get a donated hospital bed and a motorized wheelchair that Olson can use at home.
"I envy her because of her courage," Denham said. "She is an example of someone who can do so much with so little. What Lisa is going through shouldn't happen in a country this rich in resources."
Rest does not come easy for Olson. She may lie awake in her bed until 2 a.m., thinking about life's challenges, praying for others, wondering when she will get married.
She spends so much time working and lining up her care that she hasn't been able to do much with her Manyata Ministries. She created the nonprofit in 2013 as an outreach for her motivational speaking.
She also has yet to begin the autobiography she'd planned to begin writing in January. Files of mementoes and documents her mother saved are neatly amassed in the living room.
"The anxiety level is so high. I would collapse, but I already don't have legs," Olson said.
The self-deprecating humor provides comic relief for a situation that sometimes sends Olson to suicidal thoughts.
"But I can't give in to it because my mom has sacrificed so much to give me this life."
For her part, Olson beats back the depression by meditating on Scriptures and clinging to her purpose.
"I am here on this earth to be able to share with people God's faithfulness and his provision for life, to keep my mom's legacy alive, and to encourage, with God's help, people who are struggling and discouraged.
"I understand."
Jamesetta M. Walker, 757-446-2211, jamesetta.walker@pilotonline.com