Alrighty folks…here it goes…
With regard to the ALS the past 3 months have “sucked”. No other way to put it. Life normalized for a few weeks in May but the ALS really started making itself known in June and decided to deliver a “whoop ass” to both my body and my emotions throughout July. Today, the war rages on and I’m fighting, more like enduring, on 4 fronts of progression.
Front 1: Walking\Balance
Spasticity (hardness) has increased in my quads\hams and has impacted my mobility. Unfortunately, a walker is needed outside of the house and I’ve lost the ability to drive. My legs just can’t move that fast. Some folks have suggested that I move to the powerchair but I’m stubborn and won’t make that move. I have personal reservations (pride) on committing to this step and don’t want to go down that slippery slope. At least not yet. When I was healthy I always had a spring in my step but today my gait is stiff and I’m walking from my hips if that makes any sense. I struggle to get the balls of my feet off of the ground. Mentally, I have to focus upon each step which you can imagine is difficult to do. So I fall about every other day. Some minor and some that are just plain nasty. Honestly there are two falls from last week that I’m lucky to have survived. It makes me wonder how hard you have to hit your head to lose consciousness or worse yet, die. In my case, I fell with all my weight on my head. Don’t get me wrong, my bell was rung. I had a good ole fashioned concussion. I saw stars that I haven’t seen since my junior year when Scott Werner impaled me into the ground for the 3rd time doing db sweeping drills. I guess I’m lucky. The challenge here is not that I’m slowing down; I’ve accepted that part. It’s the fact that I still have hope that this damn disease will plateau but as time moves on a little bit more of my hope, and my life is lost.
Front 2: Hands\Arms
My arms\hands have atrophied, lost strength, while my pointer fingers have started the curling process. Everything is impacted: dressing, grooming, eating and all of the other things that we need our hands for have become a challenge. Even typing this blog is rough. Really rough. I can go on and on with specifics but you get the idea. You can imagine the loss of function in your hands. It would suck. It does suck.
Front 3: Speech
Speech tempo, volume, and pronunciations are a day by day thing. Some days, I sound bad, my new normal. And other days, when I’m tired, my speech is inaudible. But on this front I feel fortunate and that is solely due to our friend Megan Morris at the UW Medical Center. She quickly worked me through the system and now I have the phi slamma jamma speech device with the built in eye gaze system that very few people can afford. Again, I’m very lucky to have this and without her guidance I would’ve been lost. In time I will grow to depend on it as it becomes my life line to the world
Front 4: Emotional
The daily life\routine of my past is history. There is no upside to this condition and I have no grand words to share or silver linings to reveal. ALS kicks your ass and tests your limits each and every day. Every time I mentally adjust to a change I deteriorate and re-start the emotional battle. Each day I wake up and ask myself: “Is this going to be a good day or a bad day?” And by far, over the past few months, the bad days far out number the good days. I’ve wandered from the path. I’m running on fumes. Call it what you will…I’m tired… and I know it’s only going to become more and more difficult….I don’t know…I don’t know anymore where to find the strength, the courage, the motivation to endure; But, deep down I know I have to. I have no choice.
A special note:
To those who’ve called, texted, emailed, or facebooked I thank you for your efforts. I’m sorry for not getting back to you and sincerely ask you, again, for your enduring patience. It’s not personal to you. I know I’ve gone dark on communications but please realize I’ve been focusing all reserves on the basics of a day. The past 8 weeks have been challenging; the most personally challenging period of my life. Your communications have helped and were not in vain. Please keep’em coming. They help and usually result in a laugh or a smile. They, you, bring the much needed encouragement to keep moving forward; to endure, and know that I’m not alone.