Sorry, But Some Things Are No Longer Optional.

    here is a link to the audio version, in case you would rather listen to this blog: www.youtube.com/watch?v=0BVwtQvdR-g

    There are two small dogs who live at my house.

    In short, what this means is that during the day, I am the only one at home, and thus am the only one to provide walks and potty breaks for them. This, in turn, means that I wear slip-on shoes all day.

    Why? Because I have both inside shoes, and I have outside shoes. The inside shoes are so that I protect my feet when stumbling around the house, and the outside shoes are so that I can walk wherever I need, without the worry of tracking dirt and such into the house. If I didn't wear slip-on shoes, then my day would be completely tied up with the tying of my shoes.

    I would be spending six to seven hours each day just on my shoes alone, and two of those hours would be consumed by the rest stops and/or naps that have become necessary for the rebuilding of my strength after successfully conquering one shoe, and before starting on the other foot. Melissa would come home after a long and stressful day at work, ask me how my day was and what I did, and I would respond with, "well, I got my shoes tied", like it was some kind of major accomplishment.

    Seriously though, sometimes I wonder if splitting an atom, or bringing together matter and anti-matter would be easier and less time consuming. Alas, the days of the thirty second shoe-tie are a thing of the past and I only wear shoes with laces when I know that I will be wearing them all day.

I am pointing off into the distance to indicate that the days of the multiple-shoe-tying sessions have disappeared somewhere over the horizon.... 

   I  really don't want to brag, but it only took me thirteen years to discover that I can't just jump up out of my seat and rush somewhere when any old thought or mood strikes me. Those days are also long gone, and now I need to stand up slowly, while holding on to something, (something other than myself, because that just wouldn't be of any help), and just stand...frozen until I am confident enough to step forward, being sure that my legs will stand-up in their duty to support me.

    Most people would learn this lesson about themselves after one, or maybe two, bad experiences. But I am not like most people. I think that what it was, in all honesty, was that I have been running an experiment over the last thirteen years regarding my instant, on-demand balance. I am now ready to make a formal statement of my finding, which is.... that I don't have instant, on-demand balance. Took thirteen years, but I just wanted to be sure.

    Another thing that is no longer an option for me is, well....now that I have voluntarily given up my driver's license, I can no longer be a getaway-car driver. Oh, I suppose I could be, but it wouldn't be legal, and I wouldn't want to be caught fleeing a major crime scene without the proper documentation. Seems to me like a person would never really be able to bounce back, or fully recover from something like that. I mean, that sort of thing could go in my permanent record and could haunt me for the rest of my life.

    The only driving that I do these days is on video games.

Notice that I am turning the wheel to the right and the steering wheel on the t.v. is still straight? Yeah...I need to work on my video-driving skills.

Nope....not to the left either.....I'll keep working on it,

    Another daily chore in my life that looks different now, one in which, again there is no option to go back to, is brushing my teeth. To be fair though, not all of the credit for the predicament that I currently find myself in can be blamed on my neurological disease. There is another factor at work here.

    About a month ago Melissa decided that I should grow out my beard, and because I am no longer a spring-chicken, my usual red beard is half grey. This is only a problem when I have engaged in the previously mentioned brushing of the teeth. Because of my Ataxia, there is a lack of total control over the toothbrush, and it has subsequently been allowed to wander outside of the mouth, spreading tooth paste evenly around my chin, and cheeks.

    When my beard was kept short, this could be easily spotted because there wasn't very much grey, and as such the toothpaste was quickly identified and rinsed away. However, now that a lot of grey has come in, I can never be quite confident as to whether I am walking around with just an old-guy silver beard, or looking like I just really enjoy my toothpaste. The only way that I can know for sure that the grey coloring is my beard, and not paste, is to immerse my head in a sink full of water to completely wash my face, but then I feel like I should put a few apples in the sink so that I could at least do a little bobbing at the same time and make it a fun game for myself.

    The days of trying to do anything quietly around the house are, also,  all but gone. I don't know when the phrase, "it was so quiet that you could hear a pin drop", was first used in conversation, or who was the one to say it. What I do know for sure though was that they were not talking about me, because if they were the saying would be, "it sounded like a bowling ball that was being violently tossed about in a glass store".

    Oh well.....these days I find life to be much easier if I just drop the pretense of even trying to be silent. I am no longer surprised at dropping things four, or twenty times.... I am surprised if I don't. If this happens more than once a day I start looking for the thermometer and seriously think about calling my doctor.

    Well, friends, we are moving into the Holiday Season, and from my house to yours, we wish you a blessed time. It is hard for me to believe that 2015 is drawing to a close. Time seems to be moving ever swifter, and as I walk through life with Spinocerebellar Ataxia, I do so with the confidence and assurance that we walk this road together. Cheers, my friends.....take care and stay safe.

Rearranging What Is Changing.

  here is a link to the audio version, in case you :would rather listen to this blog: https://youtu.be/Bcd4tJK5iDU

    Unless you are referring to the kind of change that you will receive if you use, say, a one hundred dollar bill to buy a pack of gum, then the prospect of change can be an unpleasant experience.

    I don't know much, but one thing I do know, is that over the years I haven't always done the best job with being able to immediately handle the changes that have come barging rather rudely into my life.  I usually land somewhere in the middle of a sliding scale comprised of kicking-and screaming on one end, and a epic temper tantrum on the other.

    But whether I like it or not, change is a constant, always weaving it's way through my life. This is especially true with the presence of a degenerative neurological disease. However, given enough time, I will usually become reconciled with the forward-moving changes, and arrive at a place of acceptance, peace, and adaption to the newness that the these will bring to my life.

    Over the past two years that I have written this blog, I have done so with a light heart. I have exposed, and shared with all of you, the areas in my life that I have struggled with, been frustrated over, and found strength in and through, while at the same time, trying to show the humor that I see in it all. Not one word that I wrote in any of the past blogs was untrue, and yet.....it doesn't mean that there are not moments that arise in my life that I don't struggle with.

    My writing has been born out of a desire to be an encouragement to others, to lead by example, and to give support to everyone who lives every second, of every moment, of every day with a form of this neurological disease, which causes the condition known as Ataxia. To this end, I share the following:

    My life has been on a amplified course of change ever since the diagnosis of Spinocerebellar Ataxia in 2003, and I am again facing another change in my life. But, even though it is very frustrating, I have already determined that it will not get the best of me. I have arrived at the place where time, and my body have come together. My body, as I see it, is committing an act of treason, but again, I have become reconciled to the next stage of change, and this has led me to the inevitable conclusion that I need to give up my driving.

    Not just my driving but I also need to turn in my license. I will be honest, that as I write this, I just can't think of any jokes. I am doing better with this than just a few days ago, when I arrived at this decision, but it is still new enough that I am not seeing any humor in it. Well...accept for the fact that everyone else on the road can now give a collective sigh of relief. I mean, for crying out loud, I taught all my kids to drive, and that was...what, just last week! Okay, okay...the first one was eight years ago, and the last one was almost four years ago...but dang it, it feels like last it was just week!

    Anyway, I just wanted to be honest, to let you see the changes in my life, and to assure you all that these things may temporarily knock me down, but that I will yet rise again and continue to fight. That no matter what changes come into my life, that I will continue to rearrange and adjust. I also would like to encourage you, friends, that on this life journey we would face the changes together, and that you would continue to laugh, love, and struggle well, right along with me.

Change can be stunningly beautiful!

Something may come along that will try to block my path.....but I will just smile, peek around it, and move on.

Dining Out Ataxian-Style

  here is a link to the audio version, in case you :would rather listen to this blog: www.youtube.com/watch?v=NzF4HLqnqec

    Have you ever heard someone use the expression, "it's right there, on the tip of my tongue"? I think most people have heard or used that phrase before, but if you haven't it is just a simple way to convey that you either have a thought that you can't quite formulate, or that you are having a hard time coming up with the correct words to describe or explain something.

    This kind of situation happens to me quite a bit, and often it feels as if someone is dangling a thought or phrase, the exact one that I am currently looking for, just out of my reach as if I were a circus animal and they wanted me to sit up and beg for an audience. But, what usually happens, is that the minute I stop trying so hard to pull the thought into my grasp, it will simply appear before me. All I have to do now is reach out and take it, although with an SCA, I will have to grasp at the thought a few times before I am actually able to rap my mind's clumsy and wooden fingers around it, and obtain a firm hold.

    However, grasp it I finally do, and experience has shown me that once I have maintained a solid grip on a thought, I then need to clutch it in a stranglehold, and write it down as quickly as I can. Sometimes it feels as if I only have minutes before the thought will squirm itself out of my embrace, spring off the tip of my tongue where I originally found it, and slip off into the night never to be heard from, or seen again. Recently, however, I have been able to throttle a few thoughts about my personal experiences with dining-out into submission, and would like to share them with you.

    When it comes to eating a meal in a restaurant, be it fine dining, casual, or fast-food, I have been pondering on the importance of the proper attire. I knew that there had to be a connection between the choice of color, and style, of clothing worn to eat out, and that of the restaurant that becomes the selected place to dine. But the thought kept eluding me, I knew it was there, but it continued to dangle and swing seductively just beyond my grasp.

    Until, that is, the most recent time that I found myself having a meal in a restaurant. After looking at the carnage that I had left on the table, and the food that I had spilled on myself by the end of the meal, the thought finally edged close enough for me to grab. It finally dawned on me that I should be ordering my meal based completely, and solely on, the color of my clothing.

    An example of this kind of system would be, to only order, say, the Guacamole Burger when I am wearing a green shirt. This way I can walk out of the establishment with my head held high, and not resembling someone who has just spent a month engaged in a high-intensity food fight. Of course, I could just always wear neutral colored clothing when eating out but this would mean that I would have to stick to water, and spilling this in my lap may lead others to land on undesirable conclusions once I stand up to try to exit the building.

    Portion sizes, when this is an option, I have discovered to also be an important part, or consideration, when ordering a meal in a restaurant. If I am hungry, which just so happens to continue to occur quite regularly, then I find that I need to order enough so that food can be evenly distributed onto the table, floor, my clothing, and yet still provide enough to actually eat.

    Besides obvious reasons, like age, I wouldn't order a kid's meal if I was actually planning on getting anything to eat, (I do however wish that they would include a cool toy with the larger orders....this seems like a discrimination to me, but that's a subject for a later time). Sometimes I've wondered if it wouldn't simply be a whole lot easier to order an empty plate, sit in the booth for twenty minutes, tip the waiter, and go home. Or maybe one of Willy Wonka's sticks of gum that offer a full coarse meal.

    A close connection to the choice of the portion size, is the utensil selected. I will always choose the chopstick, as long as the chopstick is rounded at the end and can be used with one hand as a scoop, and.....well, pretty much resembles a spoon in every way. So, by this definition of the chopstick, I guess you could say that I always choose the spoon when given the option.

    I do this for several reasons, one of which is because the spoon permits me to carry a larger payload to my mouth, allowing at the same time for a certain percentage of food to fall off on it's journey. Also because the fork has sharp prongs that become potential W.O.M.D's, or, Weapons Of My Destruction with each bite that I attempt to take.

    I have also been known to fling fork fulls of food onto the floor, while attempting to cut it into mouth size portions. I apply so much pressure to cutting, that when the fork severs the piece that I am cutting, my hand doesn't stop and I launch the food into space. This would be a neat trick if it was intentional, like when someone throws food up in the air, and then catches it in their mouth. I could actually do this, if the object was to not catch the food in my mouth, but rather to hit myself in the eye, forehead, or throat.

    When this cutting-and-flinging occurs at home my dogs are the only ones who benefit. This phenomenon also manifests itself when I try to scoop ice cream, only this is known as the scoop-and-toss. It's kind of the Ataxia version of a game I played as a kid with little square beanbags called Toss Across.

    Eating is just one more of the areas that has been affected by the presence of Spinocerebellar Ataxia. But one in which, like everything else about this disease in my life, can be dealt with through a little creativity, imagination, humor, and a will not to give in or give up.

The Rabble-Rouser Who Would Be King.

here is a link to the audio version, in case you :would rather listen to this blog: www.youtube.com/watch?v=LoC31lYkTEg

    No one is quite sure where he came from, least of all me, but arrive he did. I have always suspected that before Ataxia came to live with me, that it's first thirty-eight years were spent on a remote island where only the crudest of men live, and the observance of societal norms or manners were non existent.

    Or maybe it grew up with a pathologically, psychologically, seriously-whacked out dictator. Or maybe it was a little of both. I don't even know what name "it" went by, before "it" came to live with me. I will probably never really know, but wherever the truth may lie doesn't really matter anymore. The "it" that I have been forced to live with, and am referring too now, has come to be known as SCA.

     However, lately I have come to refer to "it" as a "him". This is because in my last blog, giving him  his own persona is how I associated with my handicap. It struck me the other day that even the most vile of criminals and villains have names, and so it only seemed appropriate for my personal Neurological-thorn to have one too. And once that was decided, I really took the task seriously. I pondered, I paced, I meditated, I wanted a name that would perfectly sum up his persona in one simple phrase.

    I enumerated, struggled mentally, and reached for a perfect name...and then, three seconds later I landed on the name Brutus the Crippler, or The Crip for short. He really hates when I call him that, but it seemed fitting. The guy's an animal, a brute with absolutely no compassion.

    Of course, I would have rather given him a name that is meek and gentle, like Brian the Compassionate, or, Burt the Humble. I would even have settled for a feminine companion, like Grace, or, Faith. Seems to me that having an SCA with female characteristics might at least gain me a fraction of a chance that there would be an apology issued, as she joyfully, and without abandon pushed me down the stairs. As is the case right now, my only companion during the long and bumpy flight down is remorseless laughter.

    I also have a very strong feeling that The Crip didn't just happen upon me by chance. I think that he studied me before his actual physical arrival, and he strongly believed that I would be susceptible to his destructive ways. But this is where I believe that I can turn the tables on him.

     Because I don't think that Brutus was counting on the fact that I would, in turn, study him and discover that he has a predictable pattern. For example, what I have found to be the case is that the faster I try to do something, the harder that task will then become, and suddenly I will find myself engaged in a physical loop were I just keep quickly going through the same small motion.

    Everything from putting a key in a hole, to tying my shoes, to quickly sliding my feet into slippers so that I can go outside. I just keep missing the mark, and the more I try, and the more frustrated I get, the worse my overall attitude and outlook becomes. Brutus knows this, and his objective is to get me so worked-up and tired of trying that I will give up completely.

    He wants me to stay in the frenzied loop. But instead I choose to break the cycle, and his will, by stopping, taking a deep breath, refocusing, and trying again. Refocusing does not necessarily mean that my muscles will cooperate any better, and I may still have a difficult time, but I have let The Crip know that he is not the one in charge. He may want to be, and sometimes it may appear like he is getting closer to being the one who calls all the shots, but he is not.

    Ataxia comes at us in many different forms, with many different personalities. Some are big brutes, like my guy, and some are a little more subtle. Their goal, however, is a unified one; to make life miserable and to make us want to give up by throwing in the towel and wanting to quit.

    And to do that, every one of them (Ataxias) does the predictable by going after us physically. But I am here to remind you that in order for it to touch the Spirit....to take away your ability to love, your ability to show compassion, and to allow the feeling of joy to spread from you and to others...it first needs your permission. Ataxia does not respect you, nor does it need your ascent to take away the physical. However, it does need your permission to steal, redefine and reshape who you really are.

And I, for one, am not going to be giving the Rabble-Rouser Brutus permission, and my deep desire for you, my friends, is that you will not be giving yours permission either!

Hey, I just wanted to pop in and say, "Hi".

There, Following The Flinch, Go I.

 here is a link to the audio version, in case you would rather listen to this blog: www.youtube.com/watch?v=0S8R1Yrp3xc

   Before I begin writing on the subject of this next blog, I would like to expand on, or add something onto the previous blog. I introduced the idea of the Upright-Bug, and a few differences between the Unique, or handicapped, and everyone else who is affected by the bug.

     In my writing it appeared as if everyone is one or the other. I continue to hold this as true, but what is also true is that within the larger group of infected lies a sub-group that lives in both worlds. I call them the Passionately-Reformed. They are the ones who choose to walk daily beside someone who is handicapped, despite what challenges that living, and working in the world of the infected may bring.

     We are unique, and we are strong, but let's face it, we all need the loving support of the Passionately-Reformed. They help us in so, so many ways. This group does not receive nearly enough credit, and over the years I have encountered many, some who have made smaller gestures throughout the day that have reached into my world, and have helped me, like a coworker. Some who have been with me, laughed with me, cried with me, and walked beside me since the beginning of my journey, like my loving wife, family, and friends.

     I wish to express my sincere gratitude for the love, caring, and support given so freely by this special group of people, and if you are one of the unique, I would strongly encourage you to thank the Passionately-Reformed that have touched your life.

    Well, over the last several years that I have stumbled, fumbled, and bumbled my way through life, with Ataxia along for the ride, I have discovered the truth that everyone who has a received a diagnosis of Spinocerebellar Ataxia have a common physical affliction, but that over the course of time, will begin to develop and manifest their own unique twists, or physical quirks. Where the diagnosis begins, and the main connection in all of us who have this form of handicap, lies in a degenerating Cerebellum, which will always lead to a marked lack of coordination.

    We will all begin a struggle at this point to simply do the physical things that used to come so easy to us, and that were taken for granted. The difficulties of walking, eating, and speech are pretty much universal. However, there are some physical traits that are either shared by a few others, or that are individually unique.

    For example, I am a flincher. I flinch. I have always been a little "jumpy", but just like the addition of salt will enhance the flavor of food, Ataxia came along and "salted" my flinchiness. I don't think flinchiness is a proper word, but whether it is or not that is exactly what my Ataxia did for me, thank-you very much.

    Or like a wine that is added to an already fine meal to bring out the, yes...well, I'm sure you get the idea. The tendency that I have to jump, startle, and/or flinch has now been shifted into a higher gear by the very real presence of SCA in my life, and has become a potential source of injury as I more often than not typically break a simple rule learned from childhood by going right ahead and leaping before I look. Either that, or my reluctance to remain calm leads me to a mounting sense of frustration, as was the case just the other day.

    I had been using a spray bottle of disinfectant around the house, and was putting it away. But before returning it, I decided to fill it so that it would be ready the next time that I needed to use it. I then bent down to place the now full bottle in the cabinet under the kitchen sink, were I had several mouse traps cocked, locked, and ready to spring. Do you see it coming? Because I saw it coming, but when I touched one of those spring-loaded landmines with the bottle, and it shot up into the air, I....well, I flinched anyway, successfully jerking back in what can only be described as fluently-erratic, and threw the spray bottle towards the refrigerator.

    And even though I had twisted the spray nozzle back on the bottle firmly, it still popped right off, (because, you know, why wouldn't it?), gleefully spewing forth it's contents, sharing all with my newly waxed floor while merrily rolling around, completely unconcerned and free. I had a few things to say in that moment, and didn't feel any restraints in expressing myself, but when all the clean-up was done, I was able to look back on the incident and have a good chuckle at myself.

    I am not now, or ever was, a good dancer. I can admit this. I never had a friend brag to someone else about my mad dance-floor skills or try to talk me into entering any serious dance competitions, just simply because I would be a shoe in (get it) or because it would be a crime to not let people experience my brilliance and liquid movements on the dance floor.

    The fact of the matter is, that I have always found dancing to be extremely awkward, and as a kid I tried my best to avoid any situations that might call for the need to dance. But growing up I did have that one friend who loved to scare me because he knew I was a flincher, and that within the brief and fleeting moments of my startled flight, that I would invent some new body contortions and dance moves that would rival anything seen on Saturday Night Fever.

    And really, all that I can say right now about dancing is that Ataxia has taken an already awkward situation and enhanced it. This was done by a methodical extension of the repertoire of moves that already existed in my flinching bag of tricks. Forget about Saturday Night Fever, I could write and star in a movie called Twenty Four-Seven Fever. I could also change Staying Alive, a song from that movie, to Staying Animated.

    One of the things that has developed over the years, and that has really helped me to keep my handicap in perspective, is that I have begun to see my Ataxia as a separate person. This is the main reasoning behind the overall main title of this blog. My Ataxia is always there, and I see it as a constant journey, with Ataxia coming along for the ride.

    I have written before that my Ataxia is like that annoying person who is always wanting to tag along, always bumming free rides off me and never paying for gas. When I get up at night, I try to do so as quietly as possible so I don't disturb anyone else or wake up the enemy (Ataxia). Just once I would like to walk to my recliner or the bathroom at night without Ataxia tagging along. But it really doesn't matter how silent I am, (or think I am), Because the second I even open my eyes, there he is, staring at me like he has been watching me sleep, just waiting for me to wake up, and is now ready for anything. "What are you doing? Where are you going? I better come with you....." Ugggggghh, I can't make him stop! GPS units have nothing on Ataxia, he is the ultimate stalker.

    But, I said that thinking of my Ataxia as a separate person helps me, and here's why. One of the reasons is because thinking this way gives me someone else to point the finger at, someone else to blame. This works in a very similar way as when one blames a household pet. As in,"I didn't knock that plant over and spill all that potting soil on the rug", or, "don't look at me, I have no idea how that glass of water got spilled", or,"what? I don't smell anything". See how that works? It's always that guy named Ataxia's fault.

    The second reason is this....because I know that a day is coming when I will truly be free. Ataxia will get up, expecting the same old routine, and I won't be there. He will wander around, looking all over, but it won't do him any good. I can just imagine Ataxia coming back to my house, after having been out searching all day, to check and see if I have finally shown up and being told that, "he does not live here anymore, and sorry, but no he did not leave a forwarding address."

But until that day, I will continue to go where my flinching leads.

I Would Imagine That It's The Way You Look At It.

    here is a link to the audio version, in case you :would rather listen to this blog: http://youtu.be/W1SnjbA2NQk

    When I was a kid I spent a lot of time in a world of imagination. In my mind's eye, the imagined path was so real that I would have to alter my course so as to avoid a potential hazard. As in the case of when I would fly a futuristic spacecraft and have to dodge large asteroids (arms outstretched, while running, and making impressively realistic rocket-ship sounds).

     Or at other times, I would find myself safely standing upon of a large rock outcrop in a cave that I had been currently exploring. I would climb, crawl, and shuffle my way into a big underground room, only to discover that between myself and the next passage that I needed to explore lay a massive, (at least ten foot-wide), pool of molten lava.

     But this was no ordinary blazing-hot puddle of liquid fire that would mean a sudden, and painfully scorching death. No, this particular lava pool was also teeming and swirling with girl germs, and the only chance that I had, as a fearless four-year-old explorer, to gain safe access to the other side was to jump from one rock plateau to another. Although I was faced with the fiery liquid, and now this new bio-hazard, I never lost heart. I knew what challenge awaited me, and I knew what needed to be done.

     Never once did I question the seemingly simple things, like why three-thousand degree molten rock would melt everything else that it touched, but not seem to have any significant impact on other rocks. All I knew was that I could leap from one of those big rocks to the other and they would keep me safe.

     Of course, the rocks that I was leaping on were our living room furniture, and the important role of molten lava was being played by the living room floor, which was covered by a very 1970's-style orange shag rug. The orange colored carpet was a nice touch that really helped to sell the illusion in my mind, and to this day I have to wonder if the main factor behind my parent's decision to buy a carpet that resembled a bed of blazing fury, was just to aid me in my imagination-world. Probably not, but somehow it really helped to sell the fantasy.

     I don't really play this game much anymore, ( and of course I am using the term "really" very loosely) ,but if and when I do, it's a Ataxia-modified version, in which as such, I don't so much as leap from rock to rock anymore, but rather kind of just stand in one place with my walker and scream for help.

The carpet is brown now, so I have to pretend it's some kind of toxic-sludge/quicksand type of thing.

    Through the growing up years my imagination served me well, and helped me to end the boredom while engaging in the chores that were assigned to me by my parents. Raking the leaves in the fall, or the grass in the summer, became instead a call to gather in, and bring together all the leaves or blades of grass that where scattered throughout the kingdom of the front yard, or the distant villages of the sides and backyard.

     These gatherings would all come together in a centralized place to form several piles, or as I liked to think of them, several large armies. I would then walk from pile to pile with a transport vehicle, (wheelbarrow), and hall them all off to one big pile, (training camp). I was also called on to perform household chores, and sometimes when I would vacuum the house for my mom, I would imagine that there were little people living in the carpet, and that they were trying not to get entrapped by the large suction storm that had suddenly, and without warning, descended upon them.

    School was also a very fertile place for my imagination. I remember thinking, while I studied a world map in grade school, that if I would place my finger on my exact location, a rather large, and somewhat pudgy finger would descend out of the clouds to squish me. I also loved to read when I was growing up, but I would very often find that it was hard for me to read my school books.

    To get through them, and learn the things that I needed to know, occasionally I would fancy myself to be a secret agent. As such, I was in desperate need of finding a very important hidden code that was dispersed throughout a chapter that was my assigned reading for the week, and I would actually have to read all of the pages word-for-word to find what the secret was. If it turned out that I just so happened to absorb the other information that was in the chapter, while in pursuit of a code that would save all of mankind and make me a hero, I would consider this to be a perk of the job, one that could only serve to make me a more well-rounded agent.

    How does a vivid imagination currently work in my life, as pertaining to my Ataxia? Wow, that is a very astute question, and I thank you so much for asking it. I will attempt to answer.

    Lately I have begun to envision that there is a highly contagious, and rampant neurological disease spreading around the globe that has been tagged as the Upright-Bug. Symptoms manifested by the infected are perfect balance, clear speech, and the ability to eat without spilling or choking. There are several different manifestations, and groups, that are resistant to the virus, and these people have come to be known as handicapped, or uniquely gifted.
 
   One of these groups, or communities, has a resistance that has come to be known as Spinocerebellar Ataxia. Very little is known about these peoples' highly impressive ability to fight off the Upright-Bug, accept for an MRI that is undergone by people within this group which is known to show a significantly smaller Cerebellum. But don't let that influence you, because these people also show a higher brain function and intelligence  (I couldn't help but throw that one in there).

    The general population that is affected by this devastating Upright-Bug have lately become jealous of the unique people, and in an attempt to selfishly identify with this group, a few of the affected have begun to park their cars in spaces that are clearly marked for the handicapped. Some of the affected have also discovered that it is possible to achieve a temporary handicapped lifestyle through the consumption of alcohol, but always seem to sink lower into a jealous despair when they sober-up and realize all over again that their handicap was only for a fleeting moment.

     In fact, in an effort to cheapen the purely handicapped lifestyle, and make themselves feel equal, the affected have begun to accuse those that are legitimately unique, and resistant to the devastating Upright-Bug, of drinking and only pretending to be unaffected on a permanent basis.

Here I am, enjoying another beautiful day that has been unspoiled by the Upright-Bug.

So, do you see....It's really just the way that you choose to look at it. Don't let yourself be defined by someone else's misinterpretation of your unique handicap. Don't imagine yourself as less-then, but envision greater things. And....at least we can say that we don't have the Upright-Bug.

A Number Two Pencil Is Not Required

here is a link to the audio version, in case you :would rather listen to this blog: https://youtu.be/bQ_FUZvrXgI

Now that another summer has flown by, and a new school year is upon us, I started to think about what was the worst part of my academic performance. I would have to say that the hardest, and most challenging part, revolved around taking tests. Any kind of test, no matter what the subject was. It didn't matter because I would experience a brain freeze that was equivalent to sucking down a thirty-two ounce slushie in  about fifteen seconds, (I don't know if that is actually possible, but if it were I would imagine that a person would have a major head-rush). The panic would first take a firm grip on my young mind when I heard from the adult authority in my classroom that the test would require the use of a number two pencil. This statement was said with such surety, and in a commanding voice, that I was utterly convinced that if I had anything but the required number two, say even a pencil that was a two-point-one, that I would fail in every aspect of life from this point on. Next came the challenge of putting my name on the paper before the test could begin, which felt to me to be some kind of pretest, like the people who had put this standardized test together were trying to first determine if I was intelligent enough to even take their test. I doubt very much that it would even have helped at this point if the multiple choice portion of the test had begun here because I still, more than likely, would have even gotten my name wrong. I would have panicked, attempted to swat away the black spots that were dancing before my eyes, and picked choice number E, which stated that A, B, C, and D were all correct. I would have been playing the odds, because what I had discovered was that usually when there was a choice that would combine several answers, that this choice would invariably seem to end up being the correct one. Unless of course it was a trick question, designed to make you think. These kind of questions were the worst, because then I would always find myself trying to work out if this particular teacher was crafty enough to do that sort of thing. Everything would be factored into the equation, from what kind of car they drove, who they hung out with while monitoring the lunch room, who they spoke with in the hall, and what they snacked on at their desk while we were supposed to be reading. I was a profiler long before the word was tossed around on every major cop show on television. Really ,though, the only legitimate chance that I would have had at this point to get my name correct would have been if this part of the pretest would have have been true or false. Well...at least I would have had a fifty-fifty shot.

And that is exactly what my Ataxia feels like much of the time. A true or false, black or white, fifty-fifty shot at getting it right. Like my Cerebellum is saying that it doesn't matter that I stayed up half the night reading The Finer Points Of Walking, or, Clear Speech For Dummies. That it will decide how things will work, and that the best I can do is guess, and hope that I am right. Or at the very least, that my body is grading on a curve. It feels that way much of the time, but it doesn't actually have TO BE that way. Life with a handicap does not have to feel like a physical true or false test, like there is only one way for you to accomplish a task. It does not have to become a multiple choice test. It doesn't have to become any kind of test, unless you want it to be. In my life with Ataxia Along For The Ride, I have discovered that it has become about continually striving to learn new and better ways to deal, struggle, and coupe within daily activities. I have learned that my life has become one in which I continually have to adapt. The questions, I find, are always the same; how will I get dressed, how will I eat, how will I get from this point to that point,ect, ect. But I find that the answers continually change and are never wrong, just every one of them becomes a different way to solve the same problem.

And the best part of this whole thing? A number two pencil is not required.