Literally.....There Is More Than One Way.

There is an old saying, proposing that there is more than one way to skin a cat.  Like many other bold declarations that are commonly, or casually, used in everyday conversation, in this instance skinning a cat is not a specific reference. However, it was a phrase that successfully mislead my young and impressionable mind, and soon I was imagining that everyone, including all my friends,(who apparently were practicing Taxidermy in secret), were actually skinning cats. It was only upon looking around me that I finally noticed that cat-skinning hadn't become a raging new epidemic. In fact, it appeared that all the surrounding cats were fine, and it was at that exact moment when I began to put two and two together. I realized that what the saying was actually referring to was the idea that there are usually several ways to accomplish the same task, and that what works for one person may not work for another, but that the end results are the same.

As the years have gone by since my initial diagnosis of Cerebellar Ataxia I have had to adapt and learn new ways of doing things. I say this so easily, like all of this was a breeze, and came naturally. Like adjusting my life to fit this disease was as simple as literally falling off a log. Another quaint little saying that would seem to fit nicely here is the one about teaching an old dog new tricks because I am finding that I am in a constant battle with my second nature. That if I continue to bounce from moment to moment like I used to do, I will just continue to injure and frustrate myself. Most of the simple things that a lot of people don't even have to think about, like writing, tying your shoes, and descending stairs, have become obstacles for me that require thought and effort. I have had to slow way down and learn new ways to accomplish simple tasks.

I have learned new methods for dealing with challenges. In this blog, I will deal with the three that I just mentioned. These particular methods will not work for everyone and are only being shared with you as possible alternatives. The first one that I will show you concerns the subject of writing and centers on the issue that I have of being able to write legibly, clear enough so that even I can read it. Most of the time I can decipher what I have written, but there are those times when I find a note that I've scribbled down and I will have no clue what it says. It could be a grocery list, an idea for a blog, or a ransom note. It could be a note to my wife, saying that a friend called, or it could be an abstract cosmic drawing of the Milky Way.

This method is new to me and will take some practice. It is known as the two-handed method, and I have included pictures of my one-handed writing and pictures of the two-handed writing. The idea, as you will see, is the use the index finger of the opposite hand to help guide and direct the writing hand. This will result in more of a flow and smoother process. It works for me, and with some practice, it might actually help, but again, it will not be for everyone.

One-hand, very shaky

Somewhat smoother....but will take some practice.

The next subject that I will tackle,(not literally), will be the issue of stairs. I have shared in several of my blogs just exactly how I feel about stairs. Refer to my last blog, Metaphorically Running From A Bully if you have somehow been misinformed and are under the current impression that I love the challenge that stairs afford and look forward with deep anticipation to the next time that we will meet again. There are three ways in which I approach my carport stairs. Actually, there are four methods that I use to descend my stairs, but as one of the methods involves tripping, falling, and pain, I will skip that one. Besides, you can probably figure that one out for yourself. I also decided that I don't need to illustrate these methods like I did the writing example because these are all pretty straight forward. One method has to do with walking backward. I use this approach very successfully on my carport steps but don't think that it would work for me on a long staircase. However, I have heard others say that this method works well for them. I think the idea behind,(no pun intended....no really.... .....okay fine, believe what you want), descending backwards is that gravity makes us lean forward and topple easier, but,(no comment), if we lean forward facing the stairs we won't fall, or at least as far. My problem with this method is that I lose sight of my feet, and begin to panic. Until I remember that my feet are fine, they are still there, I just can't see them at the moment. All joking aside, though, this method actually does not work for me on long staircases, but I mention it as a possibility.

Another method that I use,(with varying success), is the traditional approach.....straight forward. Only, I hang on to anything stable and move very slowly, which unfortunately is still not enough sometimes to keep me from stumbling. During these times I have begun to use the next method, which is to turn sideways to descend. I still have to hang on to something, but it seems to really help when I am going down my carport steps.

The last subject of tying my shoes I will illustrate. As a kid, I learned to tie my shoes a certain way but was always having problems. Somehow I was continually tying knots in the individual shoe strings and ruining them. I couldn't tighten my laces because the knots that I had created would not fit through the eye holes in the shoes. It also made tying my shoes more difficult as the knots would get in the way of pulling the bow tight. So I came up with my own style of tying my shoes and have used that method ever since. I still tie my own shoes, and even though it has become frustrating, continue and will keep doing so for as long as I can. I have recently learned another method, which I read about, and is a way that a Kindergarten teacher came up with and uses to teach her students. I have not used it very much, but on days when I find that I am getting very frustrated with my usual way of tying, will switch over to this method. 

There is more than one way....and you might need to become creative to come up with a method, or way of doing a task, that works for you. It's good to try a particular way of doing something that others may claim is the best way, but if it doesn't work for you, then that's alright. The key is to keep trying, my friends. Do not let yourself quit because it has become difficult or frustrating.

Metaphorically Running From Bullies

here is a link to the audio version, in case you would rather listen to this blog: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M74KuRyvHT0

     I really can't imagine that I am paranoid, nor can I imagine that it has anything to do with my imagination,( I never actually imagined that it did). Although, I do have to say that I have never been an individual who has the gift of long-range vision, or been able to dream about future possibilities constructively. When I was a freshman in High School and running from the latest bully in my life, I never conceived, nor did I ever have a notion that one day as an adult I would still be running. Oh, it may be a mere fantasy of actually running, but the desired result is always to try and avoid a bully.

     Inanimate objects appear to have me in their crosshairs, and I am getting the sense that they are somehow communicating and working together. Stairs are continually trying to trip me, and it has become more than just an isolated incident. I am not a conspiracy theorist by any definition, nor am I currently under any disillusions, or taking any active hallucinogenic drugs,( prescription, of course ). I strongly suspect, however. that there is a flow of communication here that is being cleverly concealed...and that the vast majority of us remain unaware. No matter where I go, the stairs that are in that place seem to know I'm coming and appear to have worked out a strategy beforehand to foil any attempt on my part to descend them with any amount of grace or dignity. No one has ever actually witnessed tiny hands reaching out of the stairs and grabbing my ankles while I am going down, or that are pushing up on the bottoms of my feet, causing me to fall forward, but that's got to be the explanation. The stairs are the original, and remain to be, the grand masters of the slight of hand trick. No matter how much I concentrate and look for the deception, they seem to have anticipated my level of attention to detail. Somehow they get me even if I am holding a rail in one hand, and someone's hand, walking stick, or the opposite rail with the other hand. Sigh....I'll probably never have a clear understanding of how the trick is done. The best that I can do is to avoid them whenever possible and to give all my up and down business to their direct competition (that would be an elevator or ramp). Or better yet, maybe I should just sit on a log in front of the ocean.

     I also have become convinced that the floors in my home somehow just know when I am going to stand up from a piece of furniture, walk down the hallway, or move from room to room. They begin to pitch and roll, and I start to feel like the little steel ball in the Labyrinth Game that is being bounced around while the player of the game manipulates the board and tries to avoid the holes. I see the holes now as bullies, and my life has now become one of avoidance. The funny thing about this is that no one else in my family seems to notice the floor angling and yawning as I am aggressively, and violently, tossed about like a rowboat in the midst of a Hurricane. Everything appears to them as normal, except for the fact that I seem to have an endless supply of ants in my pants.

     I used to play a game when I was a kid where I would pretend that the floor was covered with hot lava. Death was immediate if you touched the floor, so I would jump from one piece of furniture to the next, walk across end tables, or make my way across the window sill if it connected me to the next piece of furniture. I went through all this, not only because it was fun, or the fact that I wasn't the one who had bought the furniture that I was ruining by jumping all over it, but also because I didn't want to get burned up. Back then it seems like the furniture and I had an understanding. Apparently, they could touch the molten rock and not be burned up, and they were only too happy to let me pounce all over them, and they would keep me safe. That sentiment has changed. They are now working in unison with the floor, giving me a false sense of security and relaxation, and then pushing me out whenever the floor signals,( subtle vibration, a slight wink), and another Labyrinth Game begins.

     The doorways in my house either have a way to sense my approach,  actually see me coming, or the floor is passing on a message that I am heading their way because the openings always shrink a split second before I walk through. They do this so that I am sure to step into the frame. As I have already stated, I am not delusional, but I can hear a faint snicker of laughter in the instant immediately following, or at least have had a vague impression that I heard laughter. All my furniture in the house has begun to do the same thing, expanding by a fraction so I will be sure to stub my toe, bang my knee or drive my shoulder into a sharp corner. It then will quickly shrink back to normal so that it appears as if I'M the one with the problem.

     Whenever I leave the house, I get the same impression that you get when you are facing another person, talking and exchanging pleasantries. All the while, there is a person behind your back who is signaling frantically and waving at the person with whom you are speaking. The person behind you wants to convey a message to the one you are conversing with that there is a secret they should not divulge. Of course, all this happens without your knowledge, and you go on your way none the wiser. I suspect this happens to me every day, except it is my house that is alerting the sidewalks that I am on the move again. No, I can't actually prove anything because if I turn around, the house will just be sitting there with an innocent look. But, as the sidewalks seem to know of my approach beforehand, this would appear to be the obvious answer as to how this is possible. And it is the reason why I carry a big stick, to hold down the sidewalks when they get unruly.....well, that and the whole balance thing.

     Writing has become an issue, but I don't believe that it is my fault. I think my penmanship is perfect and that I am a victim of a systematic plot to make me look incompetent. I believe that all pens and pencils have small identification sensors in them that allow them to know precisely who has picked them up and is trying to use them. They then have the power, through internal programming, to write illegibly. I mean, how else would you explain the fact that my brain is telling my hand, in exact detail, what to write or draw and it just can't seem to do it?

     I realize that a few of these things may be pretty far out there, even for simple speculation (whose ever heard of using a big stick for balance!). But as life with Ataxia goes on,  I will continue, to the best of my wavering ability, to run from the bullies. And while I'm doing that, could I ask you a favor? If you ever see the stairs reaching for someone's ankle could you try to catch it on film and send it to me? Thanks.

I Even Went On To Higher Education, Once.

here is a link to the audio version, in case you would rather listen to this blog: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q8yPRxsAiXw

     Oh...the vast, and wondrous days of the U.S.S. Commode. What exactly was the U.S.S. Commode you may be wondering? Was it one of the various oil tankers that sank in the late eighties like the Exxon Valdez? Perhaps it was one of the United States of America's proud Naval ships? No, it was an old camping toilet. A relic of better days that was found in the dusty back lot of an old second-hand junk store...With a strong emphasis on the junk-part. It was rescued by two college sophomores who happened to have an eye for beauty, or at least fifty cents, which was precisely what the old rusty camping throne cost us. It was the first day of my second year, and Eric, the friend that I had requested as a roommate, and I were looking for something to put in our room. Something so unique that it would grab the attention of friends who were in our room and dazzle the ladies with our sheer creativity and skills of insight. When we laid eyes on the discarded, and long forgotten metal piece of....uh, camping gear...we knew we had struck gold. This classic historical piece clearly had the potential to become the artwork that would tie our room's theme together.

     We cleaned it up, repainted it blue and white, and boldly and proudly stenciled U.S.S. Commode in big black lettering on both sides. After we had it all decorated, we began to think and concentrate hard on the best use for our proud oddity. We wanted it to serve a grand purpose, so after a labored two seconds of intensive deliberation, it was decided that the tank part of the U.S.S. Commode would be a planter, and the bowl-part could be filled with ice and would serve well as a cool place to keep beverages. You would just lift the lid of the U.S.S. Commode, reach in, and pull yourself out a frosty one. Pretty neat huh? Unfortunately, our attention wavered, and after we had visited the women's dorm, we forgot about our beloved centerpiece and all our plans for it. It still stood boldly and confidently in our room and became the subject of more than a few inquiries. Questions that usually started with something along the lines of,"really?".

     After graduation, the U.S.S Commode came home with me and may reside in my parent's basement. I wish I had pictures of the old tub because I'm confident that you'd enjoy them, but sadly I don't. However, I can assure you, readers, that the U.S.S. Commode was real, oh yes, she was very real.

I should start at the beginning, though, with my freshman year at college. It was the fall of nineteen eighty-three, and I had just graduated from High School, as evidenced by the picture below.

     After graduation, and not knowing what I wanted to do, I decided that it would be a good idea to go to a two-year College in Hesston Kansas to acquire my Associate of Arts degree. I may, however, have made an overstatement when I said that I didn't know exactly what I wanted to do because the truth was that when asked to think about what I might want to do, in reality, it was closer to, "Uh, yeah, I got nothing." However, I don't want to give anyone the impression that I was not a good student and that this was not the right decision for me. It was, and some of my best times happened in those two years. I was also a solid B student, with occasional forays into the mystical world of an A.

     Reaching for the elusive A grade for me, often resembled trying to blaze a new trail as I sought to hack my way through a dense jungle armed with only a toothpick. Achieving a perfect grade was not entirely impossible...but a task that included a level of concentration and effort that I did not seem to aspire to...nor was very often willing to give.

     I did have ONE interest. I enjoyed cooking, and so took a campus job as a food prep. I met and made a great friend, Brian, who was also a food prep, and that just so happened to live in the same dorm, on the same floor as myself. Brian and I had a motto that people shouldn't mess with us because "We are Food Preps and we prep the food that YOU eat!". Later, of course, the motto was slightly changed too, " We are Food Poops, and we poop the food that you eat!".

     So, one weekend a month and two days a week I would go off to poop the food. What can I say? It was nineteen eighty-three, and apparently, I was still amused by toilet humor. You really can't blame me though because I'm a guy, and everyone knows that girls mature at a younger age than boys. I mean, aren't girls pretty much emotionally mature by the second grade, and guys are like......well, I'm forty-nine now and haven't got a solid grip on it yet, so you do the math. But Brian and I got a lot of miles out of our legendary status as food preps, and we worked together in the kitchen for both years.

     At the end of each school year, there was a traditional talent show, named The Bill Show, and the two of us worked up a performance that included some stand-up comedy and the parody of a famous song...done while we played air guitar on handball rackets. We had a friend play the song on a boombox and then cut the music at the chorus of the song so that we could shout out our improvised lyrics. During the first year, we did ZZTop's Sharp Dressed Man, which we changed, from,"every girls' crazy about a sharp dressed man", to, "every girls' crazy about a sharped dressed food prep." The second year's performance had us singing the Kansas song Carry On Wayward Son. We changed the lyrics, from,"lay your weary head to rest, and don't you cry no more," to, "lay your weary spatula to rest and don't you prep no more!".

     There were two male dorms on the campus. The one I was in was a large two-story building. It was an older building, and I had a room on the 2nd or top floor. The second men's dormitory was a larger, more modern brick building. The dorm I was in was named Green Gables, and a lot of my memories came from time spent in that house. On the first floor, right inside the entrance, was a large common room with couches and a television.

     All of the students at that school took the same required class in the afternoon, called Foundations, which was a mix of Western Civilization, History, Ethics, and Religion. Following the afternoon course, I would sometimes join a large mob of guys who would make a run for this television room so that we could quickly acquire a good seat. We would then proceed to get our daily addiction appeased by watching General Hospital. Pretty pathetic, a bunch of eighteen and nineteen-year-olds glued to a soap opera, but I guess it could have been worse.

     Then there was the day that the other dorm decided to attack our dorm. We were in our rooms and the next thing we knew; there was a horde of screaming maniacs running towards us. They were throwing water balloons and yelling challenges at us. We had a fire escape on both sides of the building, and they began to climb it. One guy on our floor got the brilliant idea to push open the emergency exit door, whereby he would fling a bowl of urine at whoever just happened to be out there at the time. This kid was not the brightest bulb that our dorm had to offer, and even though it may have seemed like a stroke of genius, he only managed to splash himself when the spring-loaded door shut right before the crucial flinging of the urine.

I know....I know.....but these shorts were in style then.

      By the time that I entered College, I had my studying style roughly figured out. There were just a few rough edges, but I was quickly able to smooth these out and become quite comfortable with my long-established style. If I were to give my style a name, a technique that had been perfected and had been in the making for twelve years, that name would have to be procrastination. Putting impending studies to the side became not only my style...but an art form. An art that was supported by all my close friends who, I joyfully found out, also practiced a form of the skill. That's right, I am referring to procrastination as a skill. Anybody can just lazily put something off, and sadly there are a lot of disillusioned people and amateurs running around.  To do it thoroughly and comprehensively you really have to want it; you have to own it. A good procrastinator will spend his time giving himself alibis and begin by laying the groundwork for very plausible explanations as too why they did not accomplish a task or assignment on time. They do it this way...so that when the deadline comes and the final push is inevitable...when they are within the throes of sheer and total panic and questioning themselves as to why they waited, they will be able to scroll back in their mind and begin to see and understand that there really was no choice...all of the current madness now becomes clear.

     Once in awhile, after arriving at this realization, a profound euphoria and feelings of purpose will settle upon the person who waited until the last possible nano-second. To be genuinely skilled not only means that one has to be able to know when it is still possible to put something off in favor of another event...but also when they have to hit the bricks, meaning that they are entirely out of spare time and the only time left will be needed to accomplish the task before them. You may have three months to do a primary assignment but if you can do a credible job, with a few shortcuts, in four hours than you wait. You can not give in to pressure, and you can never allow yourself to do anything with the task in question before that four hour deadline. To the untrained eye procrastination looks like chaos, but it is a self inflicted, and controlled chaos. It is a paradox because good procrastination only comes from proper planning, foresight, and diligent execution over time. If I could just figure out how to put off my plans to procrastinate.....

So, yeah, the picture was staged...okay, I get it, but I thought it would be nice to show irrefutable evidence that I did know how to study......And, No, it wasn't my first time.

     I mentioned earlier that everyone was enrolled in a class named Foundations, or Foundies for short, as we referred to it. It was a heavy class and worth five credits as I remember it. During the year, there were three significant assignments, all of them including three or four book reports, hand drawn and very detailed maps, and essays on various subjects. The finished result was usually at least thirty to forty pages and was to be all organized in a three-ring binder. The sane and clear-thinking student joined study groups and spent at least thirty minutes of their study time every day to successfully finish the project on time. My friends and I acceded to no study groups, nor did we spend any time on any day working on it. We waited until the day before and then would go to a twenty-four-hour doughnut shop in the next town over and whip the whole thing out. I remember these being very desperate times, but also some of the best times. In a complete doughnut-glazed, and coffee-ground laced stupor, we were able to get the assignment done, handed in on time, and always managed to get a good grade. And I am not making this next part up, nor am I under any false sense of memory here. I once got one of these assignments back, after the professor had gone through and graded them, with a big circle that was done in red ink around a paragraph that I had written, that said," This was very nicely worded." Huh? I asked all my friends to read it and tell me if they could understand or make any sense of what I had written. No one could, and it remained a mystery. Whatever it was, it had gotten me an A, so I didn't question it too seriously.

     Two of my excellent friends, Craig and Mike, and I used to study all night at a local twenty-four-hour truck stop restaurant. We would consume large amounts of french fries, pie, soda, and coffee. There was also an arcade in the back, so we would often take study breaks,(I don't remember a lot of studying going on), and play copious amounts of pinball. We played so much pinball that it felt like we were taking ten-minute breaks to study, not the other way around. It was also the three of us that got a hold of the master key to the girl's dorm, which we put to excellent use I assure you. Unlike the boy's dorm of which there were two, there was just one girl's dorm, but it was the most prominent building on campus. It was a 2-story building that housed the campus bookstore, student lounge, and snack bar. It was also a very long building, and all the girls were housed on the second floor.

     Hesston College had a very successful Nursing program that was the starting point for many careers in that field. As such, one of the things that you could find on campus was a very well stalked medical lab. There was a multi-floored building that was entirely dedicated to teaching, both through lectures and by working hands-on in one of the several labs. One of these labs is where the three of us come into the story. The college owned a full-size, and anatomically correct, practice dummy that weighed about ninety pounds. The lab was open to students until eleven p.m., so armed with a walkie-talkie and a flashlight, I went into the building at ten forty-five, and when no one was looking, I snuck under the bed and remained there until after closing. Once the building was empty, and all was dark I called Mike and Craig, who came right over. There was no alarm on the building, and it was relatively easy to let them in. We proceeded to steal the dummy and smuggled it into the girl's dorm. We were able to get it into the bed of a girl that was gone that weekend, but whose roommate was asleep on the top bunk. We put the dummy on its side, facing the wall, and partially covered the head with a pillow so it would look like someone was still trying to sleep. Later, we got reports of an entirely freaked-out girl over at the girl's dorm when she made the shocking discovery in the morning. Of course, we were as puzzled as everyone else and never let on that we did it, especially after we heard that the anatomically-correct dummy that we had stolen and carelessly mishandled was worth thousands. I'm only confessing now because I believe that the statutes of limitations have run out, and even if I am wrong about this, I also don't think that Kansas can extradite me from Oregon. We also poured packets of Kool-aid mix in the women's shower heads so that the morning would start off on a bright note.

Well, the two years spent at Hesston College sadly came to a close, and I had to say goodbye to some of the best friends that I had ever had. On a positive note, though, I did graduate, as evidenced by the picture below.

Okay, a cake MAY not actually prove anything.....but you're just going to have to trust me.

I graduated in the fall of nineteen eighty-five and in the winter of nineteen eighty-six I began a twelve-month Culinary Program at a local Culinary Institute. I finished that and received a certificate in late December of that year. Below is the only picture I could find of myself in my Chef's uniform.