Without A Trace

Here is the audio version of this blog, in case you would like to  listen to it instead: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fEaGSCIogWM

   When I was a kid, there was a show on television titled Kung Fu starring David Carradine. Probably the only thing that remains in my memory to this day from that show is the classic line, " Ah Grasshopper, when you can walk the rice paper without leaving a trace you will have learned." All I can say to that is...it's a very fortunate thing that Grasshopper didn't have Ataxia. I can't even walk the ice cube tray four steps to the freezer without leaving a trace, and we don't have rice-paper in our kitchen, we have linoleum.

   I get caught up in this loopy time-continuum thing and can't ever seem to get a full tray into the freezer. I fill it at the sink, take the four steps to the freezer, and have to turn around and go back to the sink to refill it because when I get to the freezer, I see that some of the water has sloshed out and the tray is now only half full. After several of these round trips, I declare, that, heck it's good enough, (my home repair motto), and move on, (or stumble on).

   It's not that I am comparing myself to the kung fu student, in fact, if I were to compare myself to any fictional character it would probably be Hansel of Hansel and Gretel fame. Unlike Hansel though, who dropped breadcrumbs on purpose, (I'd guess they weren't gluten-free either), I leave food trails like a slug leaves a slimy trail, (the thanks goes again to Ataxia). The slug does this...not because it chooses...but because that's merely who it is. The purpose that lies behind leaving a trail is the same as the kids in the forest, though. If I happened to get lost wandering around in someone's backyard while at a neighborhood barbecue, I could then retrace my steps by following the breadcrumbs/ baked beans/flakes of chicken/shards of a jello mold. That is of course unless there aren't any little dogs our birds who have gotten wind of the free buffet and are erasing my tracks as fast as I lay them.

   I used to enjoy being able to sneak into the kitchen and get a snack without alerting everyone in the house or the next door neighbors. In and out without a trace, and I could enjoy that second or eighth cookie without tripping the alarm. Now I bang into everything, drop most stuff multiple times, and in general cause such a calamity that it would have been quieter to shout, "I'm going to be a pig and have a second bowl of ice cream!". Sigh, what I was hoping would be a simple litigation has now turned into a class action. Everyone is involved, kids start yelling that it's only fair that if dad is getting more dessert than they should be able to have more. The fact that I am an adult who worked for the money to buy the ice cream, and that they are living off welfare, (their mom and I), seems to have alluded them. Well, at least the family knows where I am. I suppose that making so much noise comes in particularly useful if I ever get lost. If there isn't a food trail that they can follow, then they can silently listen for a few seconds, and I'm sure they'll hear me stumbling into and knocking things over. It's like wearing a cowbell around my neck.

    My Neurologist never warned me about this, and there seems to be a close resemblance here to entering into a contract but never having taken the time to read the fine print. Something written there will inevitably show itself after a while and sink its claws into your back. I am finding this to be my experience with Ataxia. There was not full discloser from the Doctor at the time of my diagnoses and now all that "fine print" is showing up, and I'm wondering if there's any way to get out from under this contract. Forget the original starting balance, my body is struggling just to make the monthly interest payments, and the sometimes-nice-but-sometimes racketeer known as life will occasionally send over some muscle-head to give me a friendly reminder. Usually by giving me a little nudge, so I lose my balance when the risk of injury is the highest, like on stairs or stepping off a curb or sometimes while only walking on flat ground.

   Most times I find myself thinking that if I were able to go back to the moment when the Neurological Specialist handed me the diagnosis of Ataxia, I would have been inclined to ask if life's pleasant little surprise came with a gift receipt because I think I'd like to return it. It's too big, too small, the wrong size, makes me look fat, the color doesn't match my eyes or hair, doesn't match my shoes, or doesn't go with anything in my closet. It doesn't matter what the excuse is, I just want to return it, thanks for thinking of me, though, but instead, could you think of me the next time you have money to give away?  (This is the way I talk to life in case you were wondering).

    And so life goes on, and I continue to imagine that I'm a black-clad ninja, able to float in and out of situations without ever having alerted anyone or leaving a trace. But that's not reality; instead, it's just my imagination. In fact, I'm a denim-clad bull in a china shop. You don't have to be able to see me, just follow the sound of the breaking glass.