Angels in the Swimming Pool

I'm sitting here with a home made ice pack on my left shoulder.  The pain and discomfort on my left side has grown over the last few weeks to the extent that what was an occassional tingling is now a constant, albeit not cringing, throb with tingling down the arm to my left hand, dancing all tingly like in my ring and middle fingers.  The ring finger is bopping to its own music even now.  Lucky I don't need it to type. 

So today is water therapy day.  I was hesitant to make the drive today as the Mets' R. A. Dickey was going for his 20th win and with the pain in my arm, etc. etc.  But I put on the big boy pants and went down the road to Seton Health anyway.  And, as usual, was glad I did.  The therapist had a few moments before splash in time and we talked about the arm pain.

"Maybe you can ice it," she said.  "Tone down the exercise.  See how it goes.  The shoulder could just be inflamed.  If you find its not changed by Tuesday (our next session), then maybe its inflammation not from exercise, but is being pushed by MS."

Maybe. Always maybe with this thing.

So into the routine, and into the water, bobbing around like an apple in a Halloween tub, in five feet of warm water.  I'm the youngest guy in the pool, sometimes the only guy, some times just the youngest, and I stay in my little corner moving arms and legs, using water weights lighter than I've used before.  Damn, this hurts.  Okay, not Spanish inquisition pain, but that's not my MS. I have the nibbled into a wheelchair by ducks version.  Longer breaks between stints of work.  Later, the therapist turns on water jets and the soothing spray numbs my back and arm throbbing for ten minutes or so.  I gab with the ladies on good places for dinner.

The hour passes and its time to head out.  Just before I leave the pool, a beautiful young lady of about ten years of age, and her mom, stepped into the water therapy room.  The girl's body was skin and bones.  She had the look of a child who has seen perilous times, but has come through it all with an amazing smile.

And a limp.  But take her from land and place her in the water, and she floated with wide eyes and a radiant grin.

"This is like walking on the moon!" she said as she moved serenely from one edge of the pool to the other.  Her mom smiled wanly and excused herself.  Her child was in safe hands.

I hope she does walk on the moon.

So, another week of doctor's visits and changes in prescriptions.  We doubled the Nuvigil to 200 Mgs and MY AREN'T WE UP AND PEPPY!  Time to do the laundry! Again! Done? Go next door and get the neighbors!  Do theirs! Finished that novel? Great, write the next!  Use exclamation points!

Quoting my psychiatrist:

"You've got MS and are bipolar.  There's nothing you can do about the MS,

so looking at your bipolar status, you can be depressed or manic.  Personally,

I recommend manic.  Within reason."

 

 

I'm reasoning as manically as I can.  But then I think of that sweet child moving about the pool, feeling weightless and free, if for only a short time in her busy life. Tis well.

 

 

All of us in that pool are damaged, looking to hold on to the side or feel free to float and dance.  Like angels dancing in the morning sun.  I see them there in that water every Tuesday and Thursday, whether helping or being helped.  There is no hope in my disease. But there is amazing peace. Like walking on the moon.

It's My Car, See, and I'll Cry If Want to....

You would cry too if you'd gotten the bill.  First, say hello to my car:

This is a 2006 Saturn VUE that has over 100,000 miles on it, and that I just finished paying for in July of this year.  Naturally, the moment the check cleared - kathunk, kathunk, rattle and shimmy like a Shindig go go dancer (anyone of the 3-12 people that read these entries get that yet?), and having a difficult realizing when to stop.  Then last week the sensor on the seatbelt went kerfluey (technical term) so I could not get out of the driver's seat as the belt clamp would not release.  Should I shout for help while I curse myself for not keeping a sharp knife in the car just in case this happens?  Well, its only 95 degrees in the car, so maybe if I pour out enough sweat maybe I can slither down the seat, leave me t-shirt there as a sacrifice, and then crawl over to the passenger side and make my escape.  The fact that I'm in the Home Depot parking lot, and of course in a handicap parking spot, makes looking for help somewhat useless.

By the way,  I've got one of these:

on my car.  And while not all of the time, I do try and park in the handicapped slot.  First, can we please get rid of that "handicapped" name?  The Merriam Webster dictionary defines "handicap" as "a disadvantage that makes achievement unusually difficult."  Look, I got to Home Depot in upstate New York in August during the Saratoga track season.  I caused no accidents or incidents.  I cut no one off, nor acted like I've never seen traffic before, nor did I drive like a banshee (if banshees could drive) because I am testosterone and/or alcohol filled twenty something nincompoop.  Achievement unusually difficult?  Local police, I am the least of your worries.  I also woke up today, got dressed on my own, made my own meals, and worked in my yard.  I can also type, sort of.  And I took all my pills.  I should get a red carpet rolled out.  Handicapped spot? How about a "You're Special" spot?

But all you get are those funny looks.  What's wrong with that person?  OK, old people I can understand, but that guy looks fine.  I find that I will sometimes pull a Homer Simpson, and limp a little more than the pain/discomfort/nerve problems call for as I get out of the car.  Especially if I'm with my wife in her car and she pulls into one of the "You're special" slots.  I slough along a bit to demonstrate that, yes, we're in that spot because the guy who's limping and walking slow is "special".

I have days when I park  a distance away, and make the stroll, if its not a bad pain day.  And then I eye those people in the "special" slots.  How come they have those ones that hang off the rear view mirror? When they'd get that, 1997?  Special people slots are for special people. Now.

So no matter where I park the car, its still how I get around and I finally bit the bullet yesterday, and took it to a dealer and got the litany of what's wrong with it and then sat four hours while most of it was fixed.  It's running better now and while its not the fastest car, or the most comfortable, (it was actually purchased to help take my wheel chair [special] bound mother in law to various doctor appointments - no longer necessary) it did get me back and forth on my 50 mile a day round trip to work and home, with minimal problem.  Saturns were always good like that.  Too bad the idea flopped.

So its running well and when I got the bill, I was starting to get that drained feeling that MS people get every day if fatigue is a factor in their lives.  The gentleman behind the desk was kind, and could see that all he was talking about was like he was speaking in Russian about differential calculus, so I merely asked him "Look, I need that car to get to doctor's appointments, and I've got a lot of them.  Will it do it?"

He just nodded.  "Yeah, its got at least another 50 thousand in it."

Miles, I hope. Not dollars. 

By the way, the seatbelt still needs some work, but I can get in and out.  And I was able to pick up my new drug, actually an old one. Nuvigil in its generic form.  New psychiatrist as well, and it will be interesting to see how his vision version works out.  He wants me to be the best bipolar I can be.  As long as there are no guns around.  All I have are non-working Star Trek phasers, though I know if I push those buttons in the right order....

More later.  850 checkins. Deeply appreciated.