Life with Ataxia, for me, can often seem to be a life lived in the middle of an anything-goes, let's-pick-on-the-little-guy, free-for-all, target practice....just like the ones that I experienced during my childhood. It was not uncommon to find myself being bombarded by pine-cones, water balloons, rocks, little green apples, handfuls of berries, dirt clods, dried cow pies, rubber bands, dirty underwear, golf balls, or shoes. A time when any one of these items, a combination of these, or any other fly-worthy object, would approach my innocent self at a high velocity (for I had done NOTHING to provoke this kind of response). I would just be walking along, COMPLETELY minding my own business, not bothering anyone, when suddenly wham! Something would fly out of the blue and dramatically collide with my person, often in a very painful way. Usually I would know better than to return fire because the outcome of trying to retaliate would only cause the rain of terror to increase in speed, volume, and accuracy. I spent a lot of time in my childhood playing Bob-n-Weave. It was not a game I found to be enjoyable. I even had a pitchfork thrown at me once, (read Once, I Was A Child, blog number 31, for the whole story).
I compare my life with Ataxia like to a game of Bob-n-Weave because there are times when I can see myself, placed right back in my younger days, with foreign objects flying at me from every which-way, seemingly from out of the blue. Only, now the items are not things from my childhood, like dodge-balls, or dirt-clods. These were objects that were thrown at me by someone else. Never once were my injuries from air-born foreign objects self-inflicted, nor do I remember ever being tempted for them to be. And even though I may not be tempted now.....no, let me rephrase that, I am definitely not tempted in any way, but my body apparently has different ideas. I might be sleeping peacefully, when out of nowhere, wham! A kamikaze leg cramp will decide that it is zero hour, and time to strike. I might be drinking my morning coffee, and suddenly, just like that, kablam! My throat decides to close up shop, puts up the sign that reads, "Be Back In Ten Minutes", and goes on a break. I know my throat doesn't smoke, so maybe it went to take a coffee break? Wouldn't THAT be ironic. Or, I might be walking on flat ground, when my legs will just decide that they have had enough of my feet, always having to lift them up. "We're tired of always being the ones to carry their weight, why can't they take care of themselves for a while?" (By the way, this really is how my legs talk, I heard them once....it was the same day I heard my money say goodbye). Anyway, because the legs do this, the feet will be left on their own to move, and since they can't pull themselves up by their own bootstraps, they are left to inch along the ground. The point being that, kerslam! I find myself shuffling, lurching, and finally falling.
Sometimes the current game of Ataxian Bob-n-weave reminds me of a time in College when a few friends and I found ourselves in a faculty member's garage. Don't worry, there was nothing nefarious going on. One of the guys that I was hanging out with that day was dating a girl whose parents lived in the house that we were messing around in. We actually spent a lot of time there, eating their food, and watching their television. They were like second parents to me and didn't mind us hanging out there at all. Fact was they encouraged us, as was evidenced by their frequent question of, "Why do you guys always want to come here?". See what I mean? They wanted us there. So anyway, back to the story, one day a few of us found ourselves in their garage. One guy finds a loaded air rifle, pumps it ten or eleven times, and fires it at a metal shelf. At this point, you need to know that the kid that shot the gun was currently a 4.0 student and at College on a scholarship. Well, the rest of us quickly went into the universal Bob-n-weave stance, because the speeding BB had now ricocheted off the metal cabinet and was bouncing around, and none of us wanted to get hit, (apparently they all knew the game of Bob-n Weave too...they must have played as kids, also). We were in a single car garage so there really wasn't many places to hide. After the initial shock wore off, (two to three seconds), we laughed, decided it was fun, and did it again. It was either this, or do some homework, so....
I say that my present condition reminds me of that stupid kid back in that single car garage. It reminds me because.....well.....because that WAS me, and because not only do I still do a version of the Ol' Bob-n-weave, but I can now empathize with the BB that was spit out of the barrel of that gun, only to smack into a hard-metal shelf, and then to spend the rest of it's short travels bouncing, and pinging off other surfaces. The BB that never got to be a part of the decision making process concerning it's movements, (I would tell people that I have B-B-Ataxia, but then it would sound like I am stuttering). Whenever I stumble, and can't seem to stop the forward motion because there seems to be an unseen force of air pushing me, I see my old friend from College days, as he gleefully and methodically pumps that air rifle.
Another story from my childhood that reminds me of my current situation happened when I was somewhere around the age of four or five, and my two older brothers would have been eight and nine. I don't really remember where we were going to go as a family, but Mom had dressed us three boys in matching sailor's suits. She had gone to great lengths to clean us all up and dress us in the white outfits. All she asked of my brothers and I was that we stay clean while she finished getting ready, and we waited for my Dad to get home. So we promptly headed innocently outside to play, where an argument quickly ensued between my brothers. Things quickly escalated to the oldest brother throwing dried, (and some not so dried) , cow-pies at the other brother, who was returning throw-for-throw with dirt-clods. I somehow ended up on the brother's side who was getting hit with cow-dung, and even though I had a wood pole to stand behind for protection, managed to get hit numerous times. We were a complete mess by the time the fight was over. My brothers then decided, that since I was the youngest and couldn't resist their combined force of will, that I should be the one to calmly explain what happened to our Mom. I do remember walking into the house, seeing the look of sheer, unbridled delight in my Mom's face, and saying, "Bob and Jon did it."Beyond that I truly don't recall anymore details. Major trauma at that point may have something to do with this. I just can't imagine that my Dad was very pleased when he came home and Mom told him what his three darling little boys' latest adventure had brought about.
I relate this story to my Ataxia, in much the same way as I do the story of the Air Rifle. Things get thrown at me, and even though I may be an innocent bystander, Ataxia is always there to inflict it's force of will on me. BUT like I have said before, AND will say again...Ataxia does not dictate who I am, what I think, touch or dampen my Spirit. These are just snapshots of memories from a past that made me who I am today. I will never hand my disability the victory. I will never surrender. Ataxia may win a few battles, but will never win the war. Be strong, my friends.
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