Women complain that guys are lucky because they can pee almost anywhere they want. And it’s true: the world IS our urinal. I now have an even better perspective on just how cool it is to be able to pee like a guy.
As your movements become limited to being much like a Three-toed sloth strapped in a really exotic rolling La-Z-Boy, draining a vein takes on a new dimension: enter the condom catheter. What a great invention! Once you wrap the little guy up and strap on the bag, you can leak your lizzard whenever you want… as long as the bag is not full (another area where you don’t want to piss off your caregiver). This is extremely useful when watching football games and drinking beer.
But, get an itch on Mr. Happy, and you enter a whole new world of torture. It’s bad enough that you pretty much can’t scratch anywhere else (damn hands just don’t work) but now Mr. Johnson is encased in some rather thick latex and fingers just don’t get the job done getting rid of the itch. So, being a fan of McGyver (who can make a bomb out of a paperclip), I had a significant brain fart and determined the bristles on my wife’s hairbrush were exactly what the doctor ordered. So, being the devil-may-care kinda guy I am (and keep in mind my caregiver looks for any opportunity to torture me) I instructed her to get my wife’s hairbrush. It worked like a champ! I’m not too sure what the neighbors thought, seeing as how we were having breakfast that morning in the little patio in the front yard. But hey! Some things you just gotta take care of! Oh yeah: don’t tell my wife.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Popsicle toes
Michael Franks wrote a very cute and popular song named “Popsicle Toes” in 1975. My wife and I both enjoy this song and it always makes us smile when we hear it. Since we’ve come to know and love ALS, “Popsicle Toes” has taken on a significant new meaning.
Circulation slowly becomes problematic as you become more sedentary thanks to friend ALS. One of the manifestations is having toes that feel frozen to the touch. I have been assured it is not frostbite and I am in no danger of them falling off which is good news since I really enjoy pestering my wife with them when we get in bed. It’s the little things you know.
Circulation slowly becomes problematic as you become more sedentary thanks to friend ALS. One of the manifestations is having toes that feel frozen to the touch. I have been assured it is not frostbite and I am in no danger of them falling off which is good news since I really enjoy pestering my wife with them when we get in bed. It’s the little things you know.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Spa dunking
For the past 25 years we have enjoyed a spa in our backyard. It is a truly marvelous invention providing enjoyment and solace in equal measure. Getting in and out of the spa was another one of those non-thinking habits that just happened. Once your mobility starts being compromised, these kinds of activities force you to think about safety like never before.
Fortunately for me, I have some clever brothers-in-law who love nothing better than working out some engineering project over a beer or three. These guys came up with a way to make an inexpensive body hoist. Some pipe, a small electric lift motor, and a nylon sling from a medical supply, and voila! No more worries about climbing in or out of the spa. But (there’s always one of those) we now have some new opportunities for levity and harassment.
Seems that when this hoist swivels from the pick-up point over to the spa, it must traverse closely to some plants, one of which being a rose bush. This is one of those times when you don’t want to stop and smell the roses. My wife thought it was rather funny watching the look on my face as I closed in on this rose bush with visions of thorns attacking me. She of course grabbed me at the last moment preventing any contact. She still had that mischievious twinkle in her eye (payback?). Once you have cleared the potential rose bush hazard, you have a clear shot for the spa.
It’s really rather pleasant being slowly lowered into the spa sitting in a sling. But my loving wife, ever on the alert, thought it would be a hoot to turn the sling into a carnival dunking game. So there I was trapped, going up and down, and up and down. This is a good time to bite your tongue and just smile.
Fortunately for me, I have some clever brothers-in-law who love nothing better than working out some engineering project over a beer or three. These guys came up with a way to make an inexpensive body hoist. Some pipe, a small electric lift motor, and a nylon sling from a medical supply, and voila! No more worries about climbing in or out of the spa. But (there’s always one of those) we now have some new opportunities for levity and harassment.
Seems that when this hoist swivels from the pick-up point over to the spa, it must traverse closely to some plants, one of which being a rose bush. This is one of those times when you don’t want to stop and smell the roses. My wife thought it was rather funny watching the look on my face as I closed in on this rose bush with visions of thorns attacking me. She of course grabbed me at the last moment preventing any contact. She still had that mischievious twinkle in her eye (payback?). Once you have cleared the potential rose bush hazard, you have a clear shot for the spa.
It’s really rather pleasant being slowly lowered into the spa sitting in a sling. But my loving wife, ever on the alert, thought it would be a hoot to turn the sling into a carnival dunking game. So there I was trapped, going up and down, and up and down. This is a good time to bite your tongue and just smile.
Happy Feet
I have always thought of myself as a pretty good dancer. The music would start and my feet would want to move. Of course, the rumor was there had been some quantity of alcoholic beverage involved, but I can neither confirm nor deny. No doubt, some envious cretin spreading scurrilous slander.
Recently, when transferring from my wheelchair to the car or the toilet, I have been trying to practice my dance steps but it seems the people holding my arms to keep me upright get a little annoyed when I try to do the fancy footwork. It seems there is no appreciation for the artistry. I mean, c’mon, just because we all end up in a heap on the floor is no reason to get annoyed and threaten to leave me lying there. It’s just pure jealousy I say!
Recently, when transferring from my wheelchair to the car or the toilet, I have been trying to practice my dance steps but it seems the people holding my arms to keep me upright get a little annoyed when I try to do the fancy footwork. It seems there is no appreciation for the artistry. I mean, c’mon, just because we all end up in a heap on the floor is no reason to get annoyed and threaten to leave me lying there. It’s just pure jealousy I say!
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Impromptu Golden Shower
Ok, now don’t get your panties in a bunch. I’m not talking about what you think I’m talking about. If you remember earlier I mentioned the wonders of the Condom Catheter. And it truly is useful. But you really gotta pay attention to the bag.
There are many different styles of these bags and all of them go out of their way to help you slosh in your slippers. Ok, I’m sorry, I know it sounds gross, but you just gotta laugh. Invariably, you will get all wrapped up, strapped up, and feel good to go (pun intended) and as you feel that relaxing sensation of relieving the pressure on your bladder, at least once you will be rewarded with a really warm feeling in your shoe or slipper. At this point, it’s way too late to do anything but laugh at the Golden Shower you just gave your foot.
But there is a silver lining: it is pretty much a self-correcting problem, guaranteed to never happen again, unless your caregiver or wife is pissed off at you.
There are many different styles of these bags and all of them go out of their way to help you slosh in your slippers. Ok, I’m sorry, I know it sounds gross, but you just gotta laugh. Invariably, you will get all wrapped up, strapped up, and feel good to go (pun intended) and as you feel that relaxing sensation of relieving the pressure on your bladder, at least once you will be rewarded with a really warm feeling in your shoe or slipper. At this point, it’s way too late to do anything but laugh at the Golden Shower you just gave your foot.
But there is a silver lining: it is pretty much a self-correcting problem, guaranteed to never happen again, unless your caregiver or wife is pissed off at you.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
The Rules
Scores of people make a living trying to convince us through every means possible, that they have the secret to a happy and fulfilling life. Hmmmm… No. I have determined through some painful trial and error that no one else can make you happy. You and you alone must do this for yourself. And I believe there are two rules to help accomplish this:
1. Don’t sweat the small shit
2. Most everything is small shit
It’s really very simple. Attitude is everything. Try it. Don’t worry, Be Happy.
1. Don’t sweat the small shit
2. Most everything is small shit
It’s really very simple. Attitude is everything. Try it. Don’t worry, Be Happy.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Payback
As ALS begins to worm its tentacles throughout the muscles that help you breathe, (and let’s face it: none of us EVER think about breathing… until we can’t), you find yourself becoming reliant on some form of breathing support apparatus. In my case, it’s a BiPap.
One of the really great things about being on a BiPap is that all your air is filtered. Now, while this is a little disheartening when you’re in the kitchen and something good is cooking, it takes on almost life-saving proportions when someone (including moi) has the temerity to create odiferous emanations from a lower bodily orifice. The Flatus Maximus emanations generally never breach your nostrils.
But there is a really, really important secret you must never tell anyone. Otherwise, your life will be at risk. The filter on the breathing apparatus intake is readily available to those miscreants who would thoroughly enjoy harassing your crippled ass. If they find out about the filter, there is nothing on this earth you can do to stop them from putting the nastiest, and filthiest smells next to the filter intake. Trust me, it will give them hours of non-stop enjoyment, totally at your expense. The bastards will claim it’s recompense for prior benevolent gaseous donations to the atmosphere. The winners always change history!
One of the really great things about being on a BiPap is that all your air is filtered. Now, while this is a little disheartening when you’re in the kitchen and something good is cooking, it takes on almost life-saving proportions when someone (including moi) has the temerity to create odiferous emanations from a lower bodily orifice. The Flatus Maximus emanations generally never breach your nostrils.
But there is a really, really important secret you must never tell anyone. Otherwise, your life will be at risk. The filter on the breathing apparatus intake is readily available to those miscreants who would thoroughly enjoy harassing your crippled ass. If they find out about the filter, there is nothing on this earth you can do to stop them from putting the nastiest, and filthiest smells next to the filter intake. Trust me, it will give them hours of non-stop enjoyment, totally at your expense. The bastards will claim it’s recompense for prior benevolent gaseous donations to the atmosphere. The winners always change history!
Saturday, May 1, 2010
The little voice
Most of us learn to drive a vehicle of some kind starting somewhere around 14, 15, or 16. As we grew older and our driving skills improved, most guys fancy themselves a cross between Mario Andretti and John Force. While we hate to admit it, truth be told, we’re not even close.
When you find yourself the proud owner of a really tricked-out electric wheelchair, the first thing you’re looking for is the speed switch. It really is true: I feel the need, the need for speed! And hot on the heels of learning the Go-Fast button, that little voice starts speaking in the back of your head. You would think, since you’re relegated to a wheelchair, the damn little voice would take a year or two off. Not so much.
For some reason, though not clearly explained to me, there seems to be a direct correlation between the speed switch and drywall or door-jam damage. But the stalwart speed afficianado must suck it up, let the recriminations roll off your shoulders like water off a duck’s butt, and stick to your guns full speed ahead.
When you find yourself the proud owner of a really tricked-out electric wheelchair, the first thing you’re looking for is the speed switch. It really is true: I feel the need, the need for speed! And hot on the heels of learning the Go-Fast button, that little voice starts speaking in the back of your head. You would think, since you’re relegated to a wheelchair, the damn little voice would take a year or two off. Not so much.
For some reason, though not clearly explained to me, there seems to be a direct correlation between the speed switch and drywall or door-jam damage. But the stalwart speed afficianado must suck it up, let the recriminations roll off your shoulders like water off a duck’s butt, and stick to your guns full speed ahead.
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