Holy crap! I forgot to blog! Oh, title, I need a title. Ummmm, New levels, that's it. New Levels.

Wow, I've been working on a bunch of things when I'm up to doing anything, and not working on anything when my body says "oh, no, not today, bubbie."

Like today.  I signed up for a yoga class that would meet every Saturday morning in Troy during April and May. I have been to exactly zero of them.  My wife and I attended a yoga class at the same place a few months back.. That was fine because, first, my wife could prod me into going, and second we headed out for a nice breakfast after class, and third, since we two were the only ones in the class, the yoga instructor could adjust things for the slightly slower of her students (me)  Could I set an alarm and get up on time? Yep. The latter half of this week has been very slow.  The energy levels are just not as usual.  Just because I went home.

I've been writing stories about growing up in Lansingburgh (part of Troy, NY) for about six months now.  My stuff, along with a lot of other folk's recollections about the 'Burgh from the 1940's until the 80's, have been anthologized into two books so far.  My stories run the gamut from the day I was born  to the house where I spent my childhood to where I played baseball. The amazing part of the stories of the other contributors is how we all shared the same experiences of growing up in what for us was a small town, and that for many of us all we needed was there already in the 'Burgh or in Downtown Troy.

To write these stories I have had to go back the Burgh first in my mind and then with a camera so I can see what the places I wrote about look like now.  The pictures end up in the book. But I can see the house where I grew up, or house(s) and think of the good and also the sad things that happened there. Down the streets to the schools I went to.  The ballfield where I played.  Where historical figures of America strolled the avenues, not knowing they were going to be historical figures.  People like...

 Chester A. Arthur, 21st President of US

 Herman Melville, Author of Moby Dick

And Loretta Young, but she was kind enough to sign the picture for someone so you have less guesswork.

These folks are long gone now, as is most of my family.  My parents are in Oakwood Cemetery at the top of the hill, my sister lays in a smaller graveyard down the hill.  Relatives still above ground are scattered.  But in my mind when I go to the back to the Burgh, for me it is 1973.  No one is sick, I'm in high school wondering about college, and will the Mets get back in the pennant race?  Everything is potential, no idea what's coming.  Scary, but also the sky is the limit.  And when the sky came crashing, and then did it again and again, you learn to pick up what is left and keep on going. Another day, you open your eyes and let's see.

Richard Cohen, Meredith Viera's husband, has MS and has also written extensively on coming to terms with disease and mortality, including his own.  In a recent book, he interviewed, and pretty much moved in with, 5 families dealing with everything from cancer to ALS. And these people just keep on going, living their lives as best they can, denying immediate demise for some later date, and enjoying what can be enjoyed with family and friends, and a support network (both internal and external).  The book is a few years old now, and circumstances change (he says not knowing if all the folks in the book have since died or not) but it is inspiring.

For the past year or so I've been in a writing group at a book store down the road apiece.  The writers are congenial, talented, and the laughs come easy.  Now we are in a break and brought my stuff to a new group in Troy.  I seem to be spending more time in Troy over the last two years than I have over the last twenty five, even when I worked there.  Of course, in my head is 1973 Troy, but I can also see a new generation is trying to forge new businesses.  They have to up their game, as the saying goes.

My writing with this new group has to start fresh and I can not depend on old stories to get me through with this group. Gotta up my game, take the time I get each day to go for more.  Will it poop me out? Yep.  But the next day I can rest some.  I know where things stand, like the people in Mr. Cohen's book.  Do I have a health problem? Yep. Will it kill me? Not really, but it can open doors to other things, and meanwhile turn me into a peanut with a baseball cap on my head.  Anything you can do about this disease? Nope, just keep moving. Keep moving. Eventually I'll fall into a hole and dirt will be pushed over it, but that's always been part of the deal anyway.

Mr. Cohen is still moving. The three people whose pictures are in the today's blog are not moving anymore, but in their time, they  lived as best they could. President Arthur had Bright's disease, and he did his best especially in the latter part of his Presidential term to keep things going while combating the exhaustion.  Chester just upped his game for the whole nation.  Imagine if we all did that.

Later. Thanks for reading. Move.

Notes from the Battle Front

The title does not reference Afghanistan, Africa, Tatooine, or anywhere else our brave troops battle the dark forces, and, even worse, the stupid people who will cause death and pain because they can, or because their version of a deity said so, or both.  Nope.  These are the MS and BP battle lines.  No one can see them, and the only map is what made be found on MRIs.  But we fight nonetheless.

I've spent quite a few hours recently in support groups for both MS and BP, and I think I've talked about them before, but the groups change to reflect the minute.  The two worlds collide along many lines, so its like you are fighting (or I am) two wars at the same time, and who you are fighting are Allies of a sort, but each one is looking for the advantage for themselves.

Some of the folks in the bipolar group take medicines I use for MS, and guys in the MS group take some of the bipolar meds,and mostly both are mood stabilizers (the meds,not the people). The MS group guys are mostly on the A/B/C or T group (all the possibilities are listed here ) but there are we hardy few who take no pills or  treatments because we there's no point at least in MS for us to waste time on them.

For the human factor, the people in both groups amaze me with  their acceptance and heartiness.  Both of these diseases can get to you and depression is their specialty.  Yet we press on.

Bipolar group meets in a local church and there are normally (to coin a phrase) four of us, and oddly I am the youngest most days. We get the occasional one shot visitor, whose story, if they share, are usually darker than our own, as they are still searching for the light out.

I live in a world of government work, and good pensions, and my wife in the health field. The economy never actually touched us.  In group, you hear it from others each time.  How are they surviving with lost jobs, homes, and health insurance, struggling with changes internal and external? I heard it certainly in my job from some of the poorest folks.  But this is a middle class neighborhood. This can happen to us?  There are a lot of hugs.  Not much in the way of answers, but we listen and understand.

In the MS men's group, time is marked by how many men are using walkers, canes or stumbling around.  We meet in a nicely paneled medical waiting room that has comfy chairs and coffee and cookies. It's after hours so we have the place to ourselves.  So that many guys in one room in the Northeast US means it's Yankees versus Red Sox (with the odd Mets fan - in my case very odd - here and there) but we all have MS and that we all share.  That and liking the cookies, and the coffee, and therefore needing to use the bathroom and you can see how guys struggle with just the trip there, those who will accept the help of an inanimate object rather than human help. It hurts male pride.  I was in my water therapy yesterday, and was changing back into my civvies when the dressing room door opened and in came a young man on crutches for his hour in the pool.  I'm used to opening doors for folks all the time, but this young man did not appreciate the help.  Son, I know you're macho, but you'll be glad of the help along the way, and pass it on.  I am lucky. I can walk fairly well without assistance, though I can sympathize with some of the guys who have memory problems.  One guy could not remember the name of his doctor that he had seen earlier in the day.  I still can't remember the name of my grandniece, and I've been trying for six months.  This can also show that my family is distant in more ways than one.

We do get interesting questions.  Is Indian or Chinese food better for you? What is tumeric? and With the passing of Annette Funicello, who is the patron saint (aka Celebrity Voice) of MS?

Is it                                                                          

Teri Garr

Or:

Squiggy

We can also add Jack Osbourne or the actress on the soap The Young and The Restless who plays Nikki and has MS (on the show).  It seems our group here is sort of on the "C" list celebrity type.  I'm open to others.

But bipolar, now we do OK:

Sting

Or:

Catherine Zeta-Jones

The support groups are basically white people.  One time in BP we had a gentleman from the middle east, but he might also be part of the "dabbler" bunch as he visited only once.

Both diseases tax your mind and body.  But you are not alone.  We're here hoping you'll come visit. There's a cookie waiting. 

Year 4 - Exhaustion as a true art form.

I've been channeling a lot of Burgess Meredith lately.  Now I'm of an age when the name Burgess Meredith is mentioned, I think:

Right, the Penguin from the original Batman TV series.  No disrespect meant to Danny DeVito from the movie, or whoever voiced him on the various Batman animated series.  For me Mr. Meredith is the Penguin.  And I'm not even talking about that character.  Mr. Meredith's other iconic role (aside from Of Mice and Men [assignment: rent and watch] ) was as Mick, the trainer in the Rocky movies.  This guy:

 

 

"You'se got fight this guy harrrdddd, like you did the last time! Dat was beautiful!"

 

And there I am, trying to do one handed mental push ups, while "Gonna Fly Now" is playing in the background (which, when you've tinnitus, is not always helpful). 

 

Last week I wrote about my late sister's 65th birthday, and how she touched our lives.  The following day I was in my home town of Troy, NY  to attend a meeting of Facebook friends who lived in our area of Troy called Lansingburgh (aka: the "Burgh").  Over the past year I've become more involved with the group as I've added to its published book pages a number of articles about Burgh life, and more in the next tome on its way later this year.  I've spoken with classmates from high school and got caught up on the Burgh's highs and lows.  Now in my mind, it's always 1973.  I live at home with my folks, no one is sick, I'm getting ready to be a senior, and playing baseball.  That's the Burgh I know, and what I am grateful for.  Life has moved on in this small area of the State, ain't no doubt.  But in our Facebook gang, we can hop in our time machine and go where we will.

 

Toward the end of the luncheon, the stories were being swapped around and I added in my favorite story of my sister's wedding.  When the laughter turned to another yarn, I was approached by some folks and asked how my sister was doing. Thud. Not the fault of these nice people, but I had to talk about Barb's passing again.  I was mighty glad the luncheon was over, and I headed for home, oddly driving from a beautiful sunny day right into a rainstorm.

 

I had low energy on Thursday as thoughts remained too far in the past, and then Friday began  with a get together of family and ended with yours truly sharing a drink with a friend from college days, and having to relive my college romance breakup from Someone Else, and then answering questions from my spouse about those days as well.

The first thing to know is that while stress    

can make us feel worse, whether upsetting

our stomachs or knotting our neck muscles,

no research group has been able to prove

any direct cause-and-effect relationship

between MS and stress. Many have tried.
(www.nationalmssociety.org/InsideMS)

More family over the Easter holiday, more thoughts, and fortunately more drugs. The last few days being a little quieter I've adjusted, but the energy level remains low.  No swimming this week, but we've extended the pool time into May! Plus One! I'm still writing albeit slowly, Plus Two!

"Hit the guy hard!"

My neurologist, who can only tell me to touch his finger there and there and there, said I am doing great as long as I take it slow.  "You're a marvel."

"You got him, Rock!," says Mick.

I've shared a lot of my life over these past few months here and other, and I grow stronger at the broken places for it.

OK, Mick, I'm ready for the sequel.  Bring it on.

(Cue Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger")

 

 



For my sister on her birthday...

I was having some difficulty coming up with a topic, especially since it was a down in the dumps day.  Normally I talk about days where things don't go right, and how I still try and make something good of my time.  Not today.  I'm not sure if its the bipolar depression or the MS version or perhaps they met up somewhere and joined forces, but its a downer. 

Maybe because today would have been my sister's 65th birthday.  Someplace in the 76 posts already done, I've talked about her.  Her name was, and remains, Barbara Jane Martin Canfield. She died of cancer in 1991.

I don't have many pictures, a handful, really. My brother has a few.  Barb's family the rest that survived.  My mother tossed out lots of stuff because it was painful to see so many reminders of Barb around her.  In her own grief of a parent losing a child, and then trying to work through that pain in the fog of her own bipolar disorder, with no professional guidance, only made it even more difficult. She has my sympathy, my forgiveness, and my asking of forgiveness for my own sins.

Let me tell you about Barb - she was called BJ, Bezh, and amongst my cousins, No-nee. I have no idea what that last one means but that's who she was.

She was born 65 years ago this day to Marge and Lou Martin of Troy.  She was the middle child.  My brother Bob was born in 1945 (sorry, Bob, you are NOT a baby boomer), and then I was the little surprise in 1956 (but so cute and adorable).  Barb and Bob were much older than me which of course made them the perfect babysitters, which they so loved (not).

We moved to a big house in Lansingburgh, a section of Troy, New York around 1958.  The house was historic and had cubby holes and pantries and back stairways to hide in.  A perfect place for a little kid.  Barb is already 10 at this point, and by the time I can call up a few thoughts of life at The House, I'm 5 and Barb is 13 and we are in the 1960s.  I had that big house and toys and a dog, and I was fine, and Barb was busy being a teenager.  Now and then she would bring me to downtown Troy for lunch and a run around the toy store. One thing I was aware of was that Barb smoked a lot.  But I thought everyone did (father, mother did, but my brother and I never did) and if you look at the pictures from the 60's house parties, you'll see full ashtrays, and less stuff in the peanut bowls.

So Barb lived her life and I did mine.  She graduated from Lansingburgh High school in 1966, and was voted the best dancer which she was.  She had go-go boots (Wikipedia that, if you need to).  She dyed her hair blond. She had various clerical jobs around the area, even worked with our Mom at one time.  She dated guys, all kind.  I recently found a newspaper clipping from 1964.  Barb had written on it BM & KS Forever.  Nope. She dated another guy, and then another, then the third one's brother, and she married that one.

And what a wedding.  It is still The Wedding.  I could write about it, but this wedding must be performed with actors, alcohol, actresses, lots of vomit (fake, please) and cigarettes.  It remains the focal point of all Martin weddings, perhaps all weddings.  Book me in your town, or for my Russian readers, a stay over in your dacha, and I will regale you with this story.   And Barb was the star attraction.  Mostly because she did not run out of the church screaming.

The following spring Barb gave birth to her first son, Robert, three years later came Kevin, and finally Kristen in 1980.  Now for readers of this blog, 1979 is known as not the best year in family history, as my father was losing his battle with a brain disorder, and there were financial consequences and a whole heap of crap as well.  I thought Barb having another baby would be a tonic to a tough time, a celebration of life after so much misery.  And Kristen brought that sunshine.

And Barb kept smoking.  I am no expert, but there has to be a connection between all those cigarettes over the 30 or so years she smoked and the cancer that would claim her eleven years later in 1991.  There were cookouts and fun times in between, to be sure. I have two pictures of Barb from my wedding in 1985, one she is dancing with the rest of the family, in a kicking line.  The other is just a picture of Barb, a niece, and Barb's daughter Kristen outside the Chapel where I married Jackie.  Kristen looks just like her own daughter Karly.

And then it was gone. She was gone.  She kept up the fight after the diagnosis, did the chemo, lost the hair, lasted 10 months and died in September 1991.  Her family watched their rock crumble and turn to dust and spirit, and they have lingered waiting for advice from that spirit, but they were given unconditional love as the final gift, which will have to do. I hope I too can receive it for not making it to the hospital to say goodbye. 

What's happened to Barb's family after her passing is not up to me to write.  But here's some things I remember.

She bought me some goldfish from Woolworth's, and a fishbowl and food.  The fish's names were Winklin', Blinklin', Nod and Owen.   The last name was because the pet store guy liked my sister and tossed in Owen, even though he was silver and seemed to be blind in one eye.  Owen was the pet store guy's name.  That's all he received from my sister. We all chipped in to change the water and feed the fish so they lasted a year or more, especially Owen who just kept on and on.

Barb and my mother had some big fights and in the family annals was the time when Barb said something to annoy my mother (Hint: do not annoy bipolar people) and my mother hit Barb over the head with a cookie jar.  Fortunately it was a Tupperware cookie jar (green and white), so it kept its shape while crashing into Barb's head.  No damage of course, except to the cookies within.

Barb flew out to Denver to see a boyfriend who was in the Service, and on her way back home her plane was rerouted, and she ended up in Chicago.  She called our Mom to come up with an answer to this dilemma.  Mom said, "Stay there. Get a room. Come home tomorrow." So Barb did that.  The airline rented a hotel room for her and she stayed in that room, did not leave, did not undress, did not get under the covers (luggage on the plane), but sat on the bed all night and looked up every Martin in the Chicago area phonebook.  We are not related to any of them. 

I think Barbara Jane Martin Canfield had a good life, a happy life.  I wish it could have been longer, but it wasn't. It would have been great for her to see her grandkids, but maybe she does. I am grateful she was here, and I'll tell her that next time I visit her grave.  If there is an after life, I know I'll see my mother and Barb at the Celestial Colonie Center.  We'll have lunch at Friendly's and go to Sear's.  Maybe I can get goldfish that lives forever.

Hearing Shakeszzzzzzzzzz (Part II)

Last week I told you about my ill fated trip to a local production of Shakespeare here in upstate New York.  I arrived too late to get a seat so I sat on the steps that led to the theater, and listened, but that proved futile and I left.  This past Sunday ol' do or die Tom made the trip again to beautiful Cambridge, New York and this time I left home 30 minutes earlier, and got there soon enough for a ticket and a chance to stroll the Battenkill Book Store for a few minutes.  Jackie had opted not to go so this gave her some time to relax without yours truly sucking up all the oxygen.  She gets to watch some DVR'ed shows and I get to sit with other devotees of the Bard.

At least for half the show, anyway.

I'd brought my paperback collection of Shakespeare as I like to follow along. I got a corner seat up in rafters with a klieg light shining next to me that would light up my book pages. Peachy! and snacks right next to me. Shiny! And the play started, and the light went out next to me. So much for the book. Everyone around heard the words of the actors easily.  I did if they spoke slowly.  This is the "Scottish Play"(the one that starts with Mac-) so it starts with the Three Witches and they all have one or two lines, and that was fine.  Then came the main players and they spoke so fast - to me- that it was hard to decipher what was being said. I've seen the play performed before so I knew the basic story, and should you be interested I recommend:

 

 

And it does not have a thing to do with my being a Star Trek fan.  Anyway, no matter if it was Patrick Stewart or whomever as the Thane of Cawdor, the wordsranalltogethermakingitverydifficult to understand, and there was, for some reason, this hissing sound around me like I had sprung a leak and would at some point go as flat as a Goodyear with a nail in it. My mind would give up now and then and not even pay attention to what was going on on stage. The hissing sound continued at intermission (when I left for home - why sit and hear gobbledygook when I can go home and turn on MSNBC or Fox News and hear it?) and on the drive home and even right now, on a Monday afternoon.  For the last few months I'd been getting a constant popping sound in my ears when I was laying in bed and it could prevent me from sleeping or wake me up.  And it is a change of pace from hearing the voices from the air vent.

 

Per the Mayo Clinic:

 

Tinnitus (TIN-ih-tus) is noise or ringing in the ears. A common problem, tinnitus affects about 1 in 5 people. Tinnitus isn't a condition itself — it's a symptom of an underlying condition, such as age-related hearing loss, ear injury or a circulatory system disorder.

 

So this will just be another thing to deal with.  I will not stop going to performances. I just have to be aware of this change and adjust accordingly.  Then I'll see what MS has in store for me after that.

 

Having MS is like being in a boxing match, except you're Joe (or Josephine) Palooka and MS is the Heavyweight Champion (whoever that is) or Rocky and Apollo Creed in the first match. Jab and run, jab and run.  Wear him down as he wears you down.  See who falls first, and then gets up

 

I'm giving another reading this Saturday at the Library in East Greenbush.  This time one of my mystery stories.  Looking forward to it.

 

We're nearing 3000 visits. Thank you.

 

 

 



Hearing Shakespeare, Living in a Closet, and Money Money Money!

I've got a lot of things to tell you about today, instead of one long story. So here we go.

1. Last Sunday I was driving to Cambridge (NY)to attend a presentation of MacBeth by a local troupe. Jackie had opted out, and I was glad to let her have some time on her own. The only new wrinkle is that I have to have my cell phone with me at all times, in case I fall down, forget where or who I am, or need to check a score (Mets fans are masochistic enough to want to keep up with failure). The drive to Hubbard Hall in Cambridge is a real stretch of back roads and horses and cows, with the occasional llama. I've done the trip many times but this time it took well over an hour and by the time I found the Hall, the play had begun and the main door shut. Ten minutes late and no way to get in. Oh, well. Now, class, here is what I did. I could hear the Scottish play from outside the door, the opening scene with the witches. So I sat there on the step and the Bard's mighty words. Bipolar reactions could be anything from tears to yelling and pounding on the door to numbness. Me, I knew the play would be held the following and vowed to leave the house at least a half hour earlier. The drive through the small towns and farmlands was soothing as was the fact the Mets were winning. A coffee beverage in the round slot next to my seat, and all was well. Also the fact that Hubbard Hall was built in 1880, and watching Shakespeare there is like watching the play over in the same place 100 years ago. I will get to it.

2.Fast forward to Tuesday, and I've got water therapy at a local center(see previous post). I left earlier than I usually do, and was heading south down the Northway (I-87) in a good mood and in my Saturn, with a reminder to get gas after class on the way home. I slowed down once I got to exit 11 (my center is at exit 9) and settled for a few minutes wait as a lot of cars and trucks, I guessed, were getting on. My class began at two PM. So I waited and waited, and waited some more, and we all stopped moving. 2PM, 2:15PM (maybe if everyone starts moving right now, I can get there)2:30 PM (hey, I've moved a few feet) and suddenly it was 3:30 pm (and as my window of opportunity fades like the sun behind the mountain) now almost 4 PM and finally we move. There's that bizarre angry part of me that says when I get stopped by some traffic problem, I want to see carnage. Busted up cars. Small fires. TV cameras. How dare you inconvenience me! Peasant! I am the great and powerful Tom! And my gas gauge is on empty! Out of my way, I have to walk around a pool and move my arms and legs. By five PM, I was home and the only actual complain is the fact that I sat seat belted for three and half hours and drove two miles, causing back spasms. But a number of people were injured in the crash, and one died. While I was sitting in my car I was listening to a Buddhist lesson on my iPad. Its always good to be reminded of patience, compassion, awareness. I hugged my wife tight when I finally got home.

3. Wednesday we met our financial advisor and started the talk that no one wants to have....death. Our adviser has been with us for a long time, and is there in good times and bad, and she has had a rollercoaster ride in her own life as well. We could speak easily of the fact that I am not as well as I was the last time we were all together, that I stammered, talked slower and would occasionally stop in the middle of a sentence and forget what point I had if any.  We started the talk about transferring assets, long term care insurance (for Jackie, not me - too late for me) and look toward other changes as time goes on.  One thing I have sworn since Jackie and I married, is that she will not be in the financial mess my mother had.  Jackie and I have worked hard to put a few dollars aside.  My parents tried but my mother's mental problems, especially after my Dad died, made it impossible, and she would not listen to anything I said. She was wiped out financially, and after her death I had to handle the mess. That and my time working in the Medicaid unit of Albany County demonstrated to me how essential it is to make sure you've got everything in order.  Wills, health care proxies, living wills, protecting assets, setting up pensions, annuities, it is needed - check it out.  I'll discuss them in another post, but at my last breath I'll know my wife will be fine financially. If she screws it up after, well, too bad.

MS is considered a disease of the young, but the average age of diagnosis is 40, a disease that affects women mostly (men do get it - trust me - or ask my father - only you can't) and you can live a full life with proper treatment and support - unless there is none available.  What you can do is determine for yourself what life may and can be, and how you, and the ones you love, can keep a legacy going but the only true legacy, as Captain Picard said, is how we live.

More soon. Thanks.

How to be Normal, Part 2 - Naked in a small cold room

I am back in water therapy, an hour in a warm pool (90 degrees F) so that I can stretch muscles and move everything around to stay loose for another few days.  The physical therapist is welcoming, and my fellow back hurting, muscle cramping, rebuilding themselves cohorts keep things lively with conversation, perpetual teasing, recipes for good food.  My schedule for a normal week is now two days of therapy, one hour of bipolar support group, and a writing class (which is just as much therapy as anything else mentioned). This gives me three days to be with my wife and others for activities from dining out to movies to ball games, a chance to be, uh, normal.

But it is all so thin, that line we walk, and my goodness how the smallest thing can knock it off stride.  Yes, I'll get to the reason for the title in a moment.  Tuesday I was scheduled to have therapy at 2 PM.  I pulled into the parking space, and saw that one of the other folks in my group pulled in at the same time.  She told me to go ahead, and I opened the door to the health center and walked toward the pool area.  I was stopped by the reception people.

"You can't go back there, sir."

Uh-oh, said the Bad Part of my brain, here is a terrible moment in your life.

"Why?" I asked, telling Mr. Bad Part to shut up.

"The therapist had a family emergency and needed to go home. She'll be back for the 3 PM class. You can wait an hour, can't you?"

You know why she said that?, asked Mr. Bad Part.  Because you don't have anything else to do, like a job or sump'n. 

By this time my therapy cohort had arrived and we discussed options and said we'd be back near three.  As a courtesy, the health center gave us Dunkin Donuts gift cards and held on to our swim gear so we would not have to lug it back. Very kind.

Just all part of the plot to destroy you, said Mr. Bad Part.  Deeper into depression.  Whoosh City.

No one seemed to notice my mumbling as I made for the door, and drove off to Dunkin Donuts, while my cohort headed for Walmart.  I had an iced coffee, read the paper, checked e-mail, and then ran an errand.  Soon it was time to return to the health center.  I pulled in, then waited for my cohort, and we both walked in together.  Everything all right? Yes.

We went to the changing rooms, her to hers, me to mine. Only guy in the pool today, so the room was my own.  I got my trunks on and headed out. Exercise, Exercise, Exercise.  I lasted a half hour and then just took a seat. Wiped out.  Hmmmm.

If I could get in a comment, said Mr. Bad Part.  I'd like to point our that it is now 3:30, normally when you are home.  Energy and all the pills you take have done their job for Tuesday and they clock out at three.  Your brain is winding down, and you know what that means.

I left the pool, grabbed my stuff, and walked to the changing room.  I slid my swim shorts off and heard them plop on the floor. I blinked my eyes, and stood standing before my locker.  Why am I standing here naked? What do I do next?  It was just for a few seconds and then my brain rebooted and I got dressed, and got out of there.  I made it home and plopped on the couch.

I was lucky. There was no other person in the changing room, or would there be, and it was just for a few seconds.  Mr. Bad Part made it clear that this could be what waits for me as it did my father.  Maybe yes, maybe no. We shall see.

It is our choice to battle, to learn, to fight back, and maybe not win, but to make our losing as unpleasant as possible to our foe.  Mr. Bad Part should rue the day he ever crossed paths with us, and also used that lousy cartoon to represent me.  I've got less hair in some places and lots more in others.

Thanks for reading.  More soon.