More Progress

I really didn’t feel like taking the jog/walk again today but I did it anyway. I have to remind myself that this whole premise is doing something that my body doesn’t feel like doing, pretty much ever. And it is blazing hot out there. That doesn’t help.

I actually felt pretty OK and in control the first home length. I focused on lifting my legs during the second length and during the third I noticed some soft, involuntary groaning. I think it must help. Three was my goal today. But when I reached the third walkway I didn’t stop. This was becoming terribly uncomfortable but what did I expect? A lounge chair on the Mexican gulf coast? I made it to the 4^th walkway and then had to stop.

OK, my quick reckoning makes that about 100 yards (the homes in our neighborhood are pretty large). Am I really disabled if I can jog 100 yards? Is it not disrespectful to people who really are handicapped and struggle to amble 3 feet? I mean no disrespect, but I don’t categorize myself as immobile, at least not yet. My disabilities are more in the vision/vocal fields but clearly there is something wrong with gait, coordination, balance, and leg strength.

Why do I even have these thoughts? It’s not like I’m cheating the MS gods or anything. I continue to be hopeful that I can accomplish my one lap goal, even though I know it may not be possible and I know I’m not going to be on the medal stand for it. Well, maybe if they have The MS 500 meters in London, 2012! 47-year-old bracket.  I’ll keep you posted!

Progress

I didn’t feel like taking my walk today because I had a headache. But I did anyway. I jogged a lot farther than I thought I could. I was shooting for the first mailbox, maybe the street light,   but I was able to go two houses! (just beyond the 2nd mailbox)  It wasn’t pretty but it was definitely jogging. The ensuing walk did get pretty hard the last few houses but I made it.

Goals

Last week after a discussion with my otolaryngologist about how diaphragm strength affects voice, I decided that I somehow need to try to strengthen my midsection. I know that I am generally weak head to toe, but doing a few sit-ups couldn’t hurt, right?

It was worse than I feared. I could not do a single sit-up! How sorry is that? Not one! It is no wonder I can barely talk! Ten years ago when I would do sit-ups, I would stop at 20 or 30 when the searing abdominal pain became too great. It’s not like that now. It doesn’t hurt at all, I just can’t. I continued to try twice a day and was able to work up to a whopping 4.

This week speech therapist lady suggested that rather than focus on a limited muscle group, that I go for a walk each day or something similar to slowly strengthen everything (besides other benefits.) So the sit ups are on hiatus for a few days as I give the walking a chance to shore up everything else.

Three days in and I don’t feel any different BUT I am enjoying my walks. I just cruise around my block each morning, which is not too taxing. The first day I felt so good that (in the spirit of the Olympics) I decided to “sprint” last fifty feet just for fun. Uh, didn’t happen. After two very labored jog-steps I reverted to just walking. Yesterday for some reason my legs were extra weak so I was happy just to make it back home upright. But I did have the thought that if I wanted to try jogging a little bit, I should try it at the start of my walk when my legs were fresher.

This morning I felt a lot better than yesterday so I gave it a try right at the start. I did six steps. It felt really strange. And I know that’s nothing to write home about, but I was very pleased. You know, if I tell myself I can’t run, and don’t ever try, I’m guaranteeing that I can’t. There are no MS rules that say you can’t run, it’s just that everything in your body is saying, “Don’t.” Well, not your heart. It is saying “Try.”

My new goal is to be able to jog around the block. I know, maybe it is impossible, and even if I were to pull it off, so? It is one block. It will probably take less than four minutes. Don’t I have more noble goals than that? Sure I do, but this one seems monumental to me at present. Another goal I have, that may seem like a small thing indeed is to sing a musical number at church. But good, at least as well as I sang the last time I sang over the pulpit in 2004. I know these are small things, and my body might not ever achieve them, but they are huge to me and that is what I am working towards.

Just David

On the last post, my baby cousin left a kind comment that I don’t know that I deserve. I mean, I’m still just David. Here is the thing: we all have talents and gifts, right? One of my sister’s myriad talents is organizing decorative pillows. I stayed a night at her home and the guest bed was like a work of art. I didn’t want to mess it up so I just slept on the floor. Not really, which she knows because she had to fix my feeble attempt at throw-pillow reassembly. I bet she spends no more than five minutes a week on this skill. What if she suddenly had four hours a day? Might she be even better? It is hard to imagine but yes, I think she would be. And if that is all we saw of her handiwork, we might be impressed. What we wouldn’t be seeing is her neglect for everything else.

For the past 15 years I’ve enjoyed writing, and I think I do OK at it. But over the past two years as my MS symptoms have limited most of the few talents/hobbies/skills that I had (like singing, reading, working, and playing softball and tennis) I have focused on writing, which has been mostly unaffected. Combine that with the blogging phenomenon and I end up with some pretty powerful David-propaganda. It is akin to the keen sense of hearing that the blind develop.

But that isn’t the whole picture. My wife, who has never been a fan of my writing, sense of humor, or blogging, experiences the whole me. In her world and with her priorities and pressures, I’m not nearly the help I used to be, despite being home all day. I will say that it is not for lack of effort. Whereas before I probably exerted 95 on the husband scale with 97 results, my “effort” now is probably at 120 with a result of 30. Given our present cares, she can’t grade on effort, so she’s faced with the very real 70% husband helpfulness slump. It Is maddening to both of us.

I was touched by Joanna’s kind words, as I am everyone’s. I feel blessed to call her cousin too. I guess I just wanted to go on record that I am not drinking, or necessarily selling, the Kool-Aid. I’m still just David, but with an inordinate time spent writing!

Lesson in Optimism

Last night following Ryan’s court of honor, I met a bi-lingual woman from a neighboring ward. With her was a girl that was high-school age and had just moved from Colombia. She spoke very little English and was nervous about school, which starts next week. I spoke a little Spanish to her, although my vocal issues are apparently bilingual too! I was able to introduce her to Amanda and Ryan, who both speak a little Spanish, and they exchanged cell phone numbers.

Later that evening I mentioned to Ryan that it was frustrating that I know Spanish, but I can’t speak much of it. It seemed like a waste. He said, “But you still understand it. If you were in Mexico or somewhere, you could at least understand what they were saying, even if you couldn’t say much. That is better than most people.”

You know, that was an excellent point. I need to be more of a “glass half full” guy.

Opening the Floodgates

3 Nephi 17:5

And it came to pass that when Jesus had thus spoken, he cast his eyes round about again on the multitude, and beheld they were in tears, and did look steadfastly upon him as if they would ask him to tarry a little longer with them.

I noticed two things in this verse that I had not noticed before. First, they didn’t ask him to stay. He perceived it through their steadfast looks “as if they would ask him.” The fact that our Savior is infinitely perceptive and compassionate is where my mind usually goes, but this time I wondered why they didn’t ask. Did he seem unapproachable? Did it seem like he was on a tight schedule.

• 10:30 a.m. - Nephites
• 11:00 a.m. - Other sheep.

Or, more likely, did it seem like too great a blessing to ask for? Probably. I think I am guilty of this at times.

The other thing I hadn’t noticed before is that they were in tears. Were they just so moved by his presence and counsel or were they tears of sorrow anticipating his pending departure? I’m sure it was some of both. Every time I cry nowadays I deride myself, and complain about it being a neurological condition. Why do I feel the need to do this? I suppose it is societal, even though I’ve never worried much about society’s definition of masculinity. (By that I mean that I don’t have a gun rack, or even a gun, a fish on a hook creeps me out, and I sang tenor.) I don’t know that it is a manhood thing as much as I fear that I am making everyone else around me uncomfortable.

I don’t know, but maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on myself, or make light of that emotional manifestation. Not only did the multitude have tears, but Christ openly wept (v21) and wept again (v22). It happens, and it is a part of who I am at this time. No more apologies. No more jokes.

Good for Little

Yesterday I had my 4^th infusion. It isn’t a bad procedure, just an IV prick and about two hours of your day. The worst part is playing co-patient roulette. The infusion suite seats two, so you always run the risk of being opposite a patient with a lot of medical/emotional issues that require extra vigilance from the attending nurse. It does make me feel very healthy and blessed in comparison. Most of the patients are just fine, but there are a few special cases.

The nurse is good though. She’s a little older than me, and seems to be very knowledgeable and level-headed. More than that, she is extremely kind and compassionate. I suppose that is the make-up of most nurses, but I realized yesterday that she really goes above and beyond the call of duty, even for nurses. I was the last patient, and decided that as I was leaving, I should thank her for not only her medical knowledge and skill but also for her kindness and compassion. For a guy that often strains to find positive ways to contribute to society despite limitations, this was good. My voice is still strong enough to compliment.

And I did. I got as far as the “skill” part when I was forced to contend with the thin veneer of my emotional stoicism. Dang. I felt it starting to choke my words so I hastily cut off the comment at “kindness.” I am a mess

Weight Loss Plan

Dave’s Simple 3-Step Diet

1. Get MS
2. Begin treating MS symptoms with steroids and interferons, and then address the drug side-effects with anti-depressants, sleeping pills and a handful of other stuff that you can’t even classify.
3. Eat whatever you want

Warning: Step 1 makes you want to eat as healthy as possible. Step 2 makes you not want to eat at all, so Step 3 is not as fun as it may sound. Perhaps Step 3 should read “Three times a day, muscle down something to raise energy level from zombie to pathetic.” OK, that is an exaggeration but you can’t dispute the results: I’ve lost 25% of my body weight in just two long years!

1,000 Sermons

While I was in Arizona visiting family, twice I found myself at the start of comments that I couldn’t finish. Actually, I eventually was able to fight through and finish one of the comments but the other was more of a story and there was no chance of finishing it. I felt there were several large waves of emotions waiting to crash down on me if I proceeded. After a couple of false starts, I wisely aborted. I considered that it would be easier to write than to verbalize, in more ways than one!

(Side note: When the first wave overtook me, one of my sisters said, “It’s OK, we understand. We read your blog.” Yes! It was so great that I didn’t need to try to explain it all again. My brother’s wife then commented that the loosely-tethered emotions are akin to having PMS. Good point, besides, it is just one more letter than MS.)

Anyway, we were talking about raising teenagers and one of my younger sisters said, “David, I vaguely remember you and Dad arguing, something about music.” I’m not sure if she wanted me to confirm and flesh out the memory or if she wanted to know how I felt about that debate now that I am the father of an oft-belligerent 15-year-old son.

I didn’t wait for a question; I jumped right in with the story; at least as far as I could before sounding like a tortured seal with a cold! But here is the story.

It was 1981. I was 16 and had purchased one of my very few albums. (I think I bought three during my entire teen years.) Unfortunately, the last track contained a vulgarity. I was embarrassed by it, and each time the music reached a certain point, I quickly got up and found the volume knob so I could mute the offensive word.

When Dad learned of this he was concerned. Seated alone at the dining room table, he voiced his concern over the inappropriate lyric. His comment was neither inflammatory nor untrue. However, for some reason I dug in and tried to stubbornly defend my position. Any position. (I think it had more to do with the sibling that had “ratted” on me and was not out of earshot of this discussion than on my affection for this somewhat drippy rock band.) My arguments included that I didn’t know about the lyric when I made the purchase, I hear that word and worse at school each day, AND I always turn it down anyway. I used the “logical extremes” tactic that if he thought I should get rid of the record, then perhaps I should also quit school. I also used the irrelevant “big picture halo” approach, by pointing out that there are worse sins I could commit and at least I turned it down each time. And I even combined the two with “I try so hard to be good and then you focus on this one little thing and think I’m an evil sinner.” (Oooh, I loathe that approach and believe me, I’ve been heartily repaid in-kind for using it.)

The debate grew longer and louder. He couldn’t concede his point that I probably shouldn’t have such music in our home and I wasn’t about to concede my points that (1) it was far better than schoolyard talk and (2) through my efforts it was harmless. Notice that our positions were not necessarily opposites. He wasn’t arguing that schoolyard jargon is better than the lyric, nor was he saying that it was harmful despite my censoring. But those were the only points I could defend.

Anyway, these kinds of debates typically end when someone storms off in exasperation. It is a tactic often employed by the party that has the weaker case, as if the “storm off and door slam” somehow add merit to the argument. And so it was that night. I angrily reiterated my points and marched upstairs to my room. I didn’t often slam the door but I did this night. I wanted to really emphasize my points by banging lumber! Oooh I was mad. I lied in my bed, seething. I mulled over my points, entrenched myself deeper in my flawed logic and continued to convince myself that I was right! Ten minutes later I was still fuming when it happened.

There was a soft knock on my door. It was Dad. His countenance had changed. He wasn’t there to argue. He apologized that he had gotten angry, and asked my forgiveness. He added some words affirming his high esteem of and love for me. That was it. There were no conditions nor counsel, no preaching nor pride. He turned and quietly left the room.

A thousand sermons on humility (or on effective parenting) were never more powerful. I was no longer seething. I wasn’t even angry, except at myself for being so stubborn and difficult. Literally within a minute I fetched the record, snapped it in two, and threw it away. I don’t know that I ever reported this act to Dad, but it didn’t really matter. What mattered is on that night, a boy learned that his father valued their relationship more than his own pride, even when Dad was “in the right.”

I’ve found that experiencing this as a teen and replicating it as a father is not as natural as I had envisioned, especially given that this was not an isolated occurrence. My son takes identical approaches and defends “logical” strongholds. It can be so exasperating and our relationship has waned. I forget that being “right” doesn’t always justify my sternness. I have no excuse for not knowing better. I will try.

Doctor Visit

Yesterday was my quarterly neurologist visit. She’s keeping me on my infusion therapy and it going to try two new drugs. One for my loosely tethered emotions and one to address walking/general coordination. The latter one is designed to help the nerves transmit better. Side effects? Just possible seizures. Yeah, I’m real excited about this one. The improvement better be dramatic and soon or else this one won’t last.

I stepped onto scale and was gratified that the digital read out said 166. Last time it was 161. Kara mentioned something about too much weight loss. My eyesight had betrayed me. It really said 156. Dang. I eat three times a day and often stuff myself. Well, not really but I eat until I’m too tired to eat more. How pathetic does that sound?

It doesn’t seem that long ago that I outweighed the rest of my family…combined! Now I don’t even outweigh my boy. I guess too skinny is better than too fat. For breakfast this morning I had a bagel, a tall glass of Ovaltine, AND a brownie. Pudgy Dave is going to make a comeback!