Fumbling And Bumbling.....A True Triathlon Story.

here is a link to the audio version, in case you would rather listen to this blog: www.youtube.com/watch?v=9iGlsWCPMFs

I never was one who was into sports in a big way. In any kind of way, actually. Okay, sure, so I played little league baseball, flag football in sixth grade, and grade school basketball for one year. Mostly, though, I played for other reasons than because I found enjoyment in competition. That's all behind me now, and all that I can really do at this point is look back and imagine that, had I liked sports and competition, I would have lived, breathed, and practiced the craft until I became truly proficient. Of course, I can currently only speculate, but the reality is, that if I HAD become some kind of sports phenom, that by this point, I would already be retired and done. I guess that is kind of like saying that if Elvis were alive today, he'd be dead by now. Anyway, it would have been a career that was cut short by the ceaseless ravages of Ataxia. However, all would not be lost, because on the plus side I could then become the famous face of this Neurological disease, and be the spokesman to bring public attention, and awareness, that so many are striving for.

I am, however, in endless competition with myself, and as such, wondered what it would be like to execute simple household chores while being timed. I could then strive to break my own record, while enthusiastic sports commentators would be delivering a blow by blow account of the frenzied action. And when I say, "frenzied action," think half-frozen molasses being poured through a pin hole. So, with that thought in mind, I set my sights on three everyday activities that I engage in. They are:

1. The Beverage Lid Screw-ON....I have mentioned this one before, that I seem to have great difficulty putting screw type lids back on containers without dropping the cap multiple times and becoming very frustrated. This particular competition will encompass the retrieval of the beverage from the refrigerator, the removal of the cap, the successful pouring of the chosen drink into a glass, (I say successful because something usually gets spilled, although I am not convinced this is entirely my fault because the glass always seems to be moving, and dodging about), and finally the re-twisting of the cap. My personal best in this event is just under three minutes, that is if I don't become disqualified for spilling. I will be working hard to beat that score and hold the record in this competition for one. I keep confetti in my pocket so that at anytime I can whoop and holler in unbridled joy because I never know when that moment may arrive. When it does come, I will also have to cup my hands around my mouth, clap, and make sounds like a large crowd of spectators. In the picture below, I am preparing to train for this event.

2.  The PB And J....I enjoy a healthy nutritious lunch which usually involves the regular peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Also, the sandwich is the usual staple of my lunch because I am lazy and it has become a habit that has been carried over from my childhood. Those were the days when I could slap one of these delicious cuisines together it about 15 seconds. I think it takes me twice that long now just to get the two pieces of bread out of their heavily fortified plastic bag. And so, in the coming days I will be training hard, ( at least once a day, roughly between twelve p.m. and twelve-thirty p.m.). Since I am my own competition and do not need to keep my training regime a secret, I will let you have a peek into my training, as seen below:

3. The Mouse Trap....Perhaps the most physically challenging of the Triathlon. This rewarding, but sometimes brutal discipline, can alternate between triumph, or tears. It is definitely not for the weak, and should not be attempted without the proper training or supervision. Lives have been lost. I have been doing this for a number of years now, and it never gets easier, in fact, it is becoming more challenging, and I have included it in the Triathlon Event because it demands dexterity and a high level of concentration. The idea will be to try and set a trap in under two and a half minutes. I think that if I focus than just maybe....... And as long as there are mice that want to come into my house, I will continue. Pay attention mice, the No Vacancy light is on. My training pictures are below:

All the activities that I just mentioned were, in a very simplified way, letting you all know that I have not given up. My encouragement to you is that you would not quit on yourself either. That you would continue to fight and to attempt those things that are in your everyday life that used to be so simple. So many things were taken for granted, and I know, my friends, that it is a struggle. One that can be very disheartening, frustrating, and painful at times. The key I believe is to focus on what you can still do. You can bring support to someone else who might currently be having a tougher time than you. You can bring wisdom and experience to those who have newly received a diagnosis and are scared or confused. You can bring inspiration to many by sharing your stories of triumph, victory, or even times when it didn't go so well. You all have touched me and inspired me in one way or another, and I just want to say, "Thank-you," and encourage you all to keep on keepin on!

Always There.....If You Wait Long Enough.

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

Let me be totally honest,( I say that for my own benefit, because, let's be completely up front, if I weren't, then you would be left without knowing what you could believe). The experience with the Social Security Administration that I recently had on the phone was the perfect end to what has been a two-and-a-half year pleasant journey.  The years were enjoyable, much in the same way that being pushed over a cliff is enjoyable. I swear to you that I must have struck every rock and tree root on the hillside as I pick up speed while hurtling head-over-heels towards the bottom. After picking myself up off the ground, and dusting myself off, I had a few questions, so I made a phone call. What I experienced was pretty close to the same, I imagine, as having a paramedic present at the bottom of the fore-mentioned hill as I came tumbling down. He doesn't so much as rush to my aid, however. Instead, he stares, and continually reminds me, that although my visible lacerations, bruises, and broken bones are important to him, he is very sorry that I am experiencing a long wait time and, he assures me, he will be with me just as soon as possible.

I waited and waited for assistance, but when the wait time became too long, I opted to leave my call back number so that the next available paramedic could tend to my wounds. After an hour, in which I almost bled out, I finally received a callback. Unfortunately, my pure rapture at the immediate thought that the wait was over was short lived. I had been misled into believing that I could simply answer the phone and begin talking to, and have a polite and helpful conversation with a human. Oh no, that would be expecting too much, because what actually happened at this point was very reminiscent of a situation that I have found myself in often when I have gone to see my doctor. I am sure that this is a universal experience, one in which finds me sitting in the main waiting room while dodging numerous air-born virus clouds, flying phlegm, and at the same time, leafing through germ infested old issues of Field and Stream and People magazines. I do this for what feels like at least an hour, but in reality, has really only been fifty-seven minutes and forty-five seconds. Then the moment arrives. The nurse calls out my name. I have never heard anything sweeter. I am having visions in my head and remembering all the times I scoffed and made fun of the overly exuberant people on The Price Is Right. The ones who would shoot out of their seats, begin jumping up and down, screaming, and waving their arms as they ran down the aisle much in the same way as I would imagine a lunatic to do. Because it just so happens that at that exact moment I feel like joining them and becoming one of those lunatics. This, of course, is all done in my head, but one of these days, after an unusually long wait, I am going to do this. When my name is called I will spring straight up, begin waving my hands above my head in a frantic pattern, and alternate between shouting gibberish, laughing and crying.  Because who among us isn't more deserving of witnessing a spectacle or to enjoy a truly good laugh, like your ex-former doctor's office detainees.

I am, at this moment, very excited because the nurse has finally picked me, and I fall in behind her as she leads me towards my important meeting with the Doctor. The first item on her agenda, though? I have to take my shoes off and step on a scale so she can record my weight and height. I can only imagine that this is done in the eventuality that a prize fight breaks out in the office. I mean, if this does happen then they will need to first announce my qualifications and stats over the loud speaker. And so, just like when I received the call back from Social Security, I assumed that my waiting was over and that my next encounter was only moments away. This, of course, was wrong as all that actually happened was that I was shown into the next little waiting room. But I draw your attention back to my present situation.

Finally, upon receiving the return phone call from the Social Security Department, I am greeted by a second automated voice that needs to confirm who I am, if I am currently available, and would I mind waiting while the next available agent is located? I want to scream that, yes, actually I would mind! Why can't you wait to call me until you ACTUALLY have someone first that is ready to talk to me? However, since I had invested so much time already, and as arguing with an automated attendant has not been posted on my agenda for that day, I put the call on speakerphone and began to enjoy the soft rhythms of hold music. Within a few short minutes, I was greeted by a very charming voice, that produced in me an instant flashback to my childhood and my father starting up his old chainsaw. All my questions did eventually get answered, however, and afterward, I had such a feeling of warmth and caring.

Shoot, I just remembered that I didn't ask for the lady's name so that when I call again I can ask for her. Oh well, I guess I can just ask for chainsaw girl.

Well....It's Not ALL Good.....

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

After a lifetime of research, and an acute attention to detail, I am now ready to state my astounding, but true observation. What I have discovered over the years is that not everybody likes to be surprised. Do you find that surprising? I remember the first time I came to this realization, just like it was yesterday, (actually it was last week). I remember thinking to myself that this certainly is a shocker, (you thought I was going to say surprise didn't you? You think you have me figured out, and in fact, I'd be surprised if you didn't think I'd say that). The thing is that there are different kinds of surprises, and it really doesn't take any stretch of the imagination to realize that the vast majority of us do not like a bad or unexpected and unwelcome surprise. My official diagnosis of Cerebellar Ataxia in two-thousand and three comes to mind as a particularly unpleasant surprise, for example.

On the flip side of the bad, or nasty surprise, is a pleasant surprise. Events that spring into your life that bring vast amounts of joy, feelings of warmth, friendship or love.  When, twenty-five years ago, my then-girlfriend said yes, or a few years later when I first learned that we were starting a family, I was overwhelmed. These were a few of the good surprises in my life, and are among other past events that I will always cherish.

Sometimes, however, the surprises start out as one type, but quickly fade into the other, say from good to bad. Such was the case a week ago when our van broke down as we were passing through the Oregon Coast Mountain Range, on our way home from the beach. The Highway we were traveling on was a very narrow, winding, and busy road, with only a few places that one can safely pull their vehicle off. Luckily, as soon as our car started to act up, we came upon a long and wide spot to pull over. The next problem we faced was that we were on a stretch of road through the mountains where there is absolutely no cell phone coverage, so we were entirely dependent on a passing motorist to stop and offer us some assistance. We turned on the emergency flashers and sent the universal message out to our fellow drivers that our car was broken down, by raising the hood. We also showed that we were desperate by walking around and waving our phones, in an attempt to obviously display that, "I don't have a signal over here, do you have one over there...ten feet away?".  What appeared to be a pleasant surprise came about five minutes after we broke down. A car began to signal that it was going to pull off the road next to us and offer help. With a feeling of relief, I walked towards the car that had indeed started to pull over. But when the car stopped thirty yards away, it became evident that they were not stopping for us, but for another reason, which had become apparent when a young man and woman came hurtling out of the car. The bikini-clad woman ran into the trees for privacy while she made her contribution to nature, but the man had no fancies for anonymity. He only ran a few feet, stopped where all the passing cars could see, and......well, it was not a pleasant surprise. They sped off afterward. On reflection, I don't know if they even realized that we were there. The funny thing was that they had just passed a rest stop about a mile back.

In my third blog, named Reflections On Reflexes, I talked about my cat-like reflexes. One year later, although I still have cat-like reflexes, the rest of the story is that, sure, they continue to be cat-like....but it's a cat that has gotten into some fermented catnip, has already burned through eight of its nine lives, and is halfway through the last one. It doesn't take much to make me jump, and I have been trying to anticipate and limit surprises in my life. You might also remember from one of my early blogs that motion activated paper towel dispensers in public restrooms, and I usually don't mix. I never know if I'm expected to dance in front of it to get the quality paper towel to come out? Is that why there is music being pumped into the bathroom? Well, anyway, the reason I mentioned my reflexes, and paper towel dispensers, is because of what recently happened to me. While at a restaurant, I went to use the facilities and found myself in a small narrow room with only a sink and a toilet. I didn't notice the towel dispenser on the wall between the sink and the toilet, until on my approach to the bowl, my passing shoulder activated it, resulting in a loud grinding sound. I jumped but was afraid to turn around lest I hear laughing and see a drill bit menacingly approach as it twisting through the door. I soon realized what was going on and all was good....that is until I washed my hands and tried to activate the dispersal of a towel. No amount of hand waving would make the box give up its paper prize, and so I had to resort to bobbing back and forth in front of the blessed machine so that my shoulder would activate it. Maybe if they would have had music being piped in?

But, despite my best efforts to eliminate the everyday surprises in my life, with ataxia along for the ride, most of the time the best that I can do is grab a railing with each hand and hang on.

Faced With An Empty Roll

Recently I wrote a blog, titled, Literally.....There Is More Than One Way,  in which I shared the thought that there are multiple ways to approach and execute, everyday tasks. Along with this is the idea that there are also certain subjects that deserve to be added to, or expanded upon. I believe that the discussion surrounding the topic of creativity and the adoption of everyday tasks, faced by those with a handicap, to be just such a subject. It also came to my attention, through the response from a reader of the last blog, that there are several other methods of writing that they are currently using. They are ones that I also find very helpful, and which I would like to share with you. I often use these other methods, thereby successfully avoiding the need to clutch a pen in a death-grip, while trying to scribble anything remotely legible. Something that minutely resembles having come from modern day civilization, and not what appears to be the crude etchings on a cave wall that could either be a massive group buffalo hunt, or the depiction of an Amway Convention.

However, before I continue with the various methods of writing that I will......write about, I would like to share with you an alternative way that I have learned to button my shirt. Like tying my shoes, some days are worse than others when it comes to trying to maintain my grip on a little button. It can take me three or seven tries sometimes because just before I push the little guy through the hole, he will slip out of my fingers. The hardest part of the whole process is just simply trying to maintain my grip long enough to shove the button through to the other side because the one thing that experience has shown to me is that once he's successfully through the hole and settled on the other side, he's not getting back. Not unless that button breaks the multiple loops of thread that are holding him down, or I grab him and shove him backward through the hole, which I am not going to do until the day is over.

Anyway, the button-tying method is called The Paperclip. The first step of this particular method is to select a paperclip. This is where your creativity can really shine as there are quite a few size and color possibilities and I have included a picture as an example of some of your options.

Lot's of options. Somehow a safety pin got in the picture....another option, sure....but not one that I would recommend.

After you have made your selection and chosen a paperclip that fits your style, the next step is to figure out how you would like to control it. By that, I mean that it is up to your wild imagination to either choose to mount it onto a handle or just bend it and use it in its natural state. Again, I have provided a picture as a guide. You will notice that one of the mounting suggestions is a Popsicle stick. This is my particular favorite, as the stick had to be obtained by first consuming the Popsicle that was wrapped around it. In this case, it was a Mixed Berry Fruit Pop. 

I will now proceed to show you the Paperclip Method with a series of four pictures to illustrate:

Step 1.  While holding the button with one hand, use the other hand to insert the paperclip of your choosing into the button hole and bring it close to the button.

Step 2.  Insert the button into the paperclip.

Step 3.  Pull the button back through the button hole while you gently but firmly guide it with your thumb. The pressure is now off of you to maintain your grip on the slippery little plastic disc, and you can breathe easier. One more step and you're done.

Step 4.  Lay the button flat and release the paperclip. Congratulations, you successfully buttoned a button, and there are only five or six more to go. Refer to step 1 if you need a reminder.

Like many small details in life, writing is a skill and a useful tool that most people don't think about. When they need it, the process just needs to be there, without forethought or effort. Writing is a lot like toilet paper in the regard that you really don't give it much thought. Variations of toilet paper do not consume your day, but when you need it, that paper had better be there. I find the need to write to be much the same as reaching out, only to find an empty paper tube. The skill is just not there when I call on it, and it can be very frustrating.

Once in awhile, I have a need to write a note. Usually, it is something along the lines of instructions, or a form of information that I want to leave for my kids. Since I do not have any large stone slabs lying around, or a chisel, or even the necessary skills needed to avoid self-inflicted blunt force head trauma as I attempt to hammer out a message, I use a type and print method. I open a blank Word document, type whatever I want to say, and print it out. That method of communication is handy but becoming used less as I have been able to send a text message. Which is the subject of the next method. I am able to do a lot of what I need through the use of my phone. I already mentioned that I can text, but what is really helpful is that I can speak my messages, which I do almost all of the time. I have found this method of talking into my phone very useful for creating lists as well, from grocery lists to simply things I would like to accomplish or remember, throughout the day.

The last method I want to mention is one that I had written a blog about several months ago, but one that bares repeating. The blog was titled, Enter The Dragon...So To Speak, and was about my first experiences and impressions of the voice recognition software, Dragon. I find it to be a very useful tool, and when I use it to write a blog, one that cuts my writing time by more than half.

Through practicing the various methods of writing that I have outlined in this, and the previous blog, I have been able to eliminate a significant portion of the need to write. Certainly not all, and I still face the empty roll now and again. I just do the best I can, and let the rest worry about itself.  

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.