Why Would You Want to Go Anywhere Else?

It looks like the snow last week is going to be the highlight, weather-wise, of the next couple of weeks. This is looking gloomy, even for Seattle, even for this time of year. Gloom, gloom, gloom.

It was Scarecrow's birthday yesterday. His first day of unemployment, which took some of the fun out of it, but still, having a birthday is better than not having one. And it's not like birthdays seem to have much of any effect on him. Although, as a 'nom de blog', Scarecrow is a pretty good fit on many levels, I could just as well have gone with Peter Pan:

I'll never grow up,
never grow up,
never grow uu – UP,
not me!

And the Yakima Fruit Market is open for the season. It always opens around Scarecrow's birthday. And since it's between our house and the vet clinic and the library, we go by there often. (The vet clinic and the library are close together, which is convenient.)

Scarecrow is going to talk to somebody about a job tomorrow afternoon, which means a couple of things:

1. He had to get a haircut. Well, he may not have had to, really. I think this is going to be pretty informal, but still, it's the done thing. I can't remember when he last cut his hair. Probably when he was refereeing wrestling, when Tuffy was in junior high (she's now a junior at UW). Anyway it was long enough ago that he had a waist-length ponytail. 'Had' being the operative word here.
2. This meeting is way the heck the other end of town – several towns, in fact. It will take a couple of hours, at least, what with getting there and back, and Tuffy has to work, so we're doing the home care thing again. It's the safest thing to do. I need to get used to the idea. It's not really that bad. Really. I know I'll get used to it. Eventually.
3. The meeting might lead to a job. And that would be good.

Well Now, That Wasn't so Bad, Was It?

Last Thursday night, Scarecrow went up to the high school to keep score at a wrestling tournament. And I stayed home.

It wasn't such a big deal, really. He wasn't gone that long. It was mostly an excuse to do what we've been meaning to do for years, but kept putting off. We had a home care person stay with me while he was gone.

Neither of us wanted to do this, but we need to have a backup plan in place in case anything ever happens to Scarecrow. Or, you know, he just needs a break. From me. Or whatever. So we'll have this agency send somebody to help out for a couple of hours every now and again, just so we've got somebody we can call if we ever need someone to take over for Scarecrow. For whatever reason.

So we did it. They sent a perfectly nice young woman who seemed willing to do whatever I asked of her. She fed the dogs. She reheated some leftovers, and fed them to me for dinner. She swept the dog hair and dust bunnies off of the floor, and, without being asked, took a damp mop to the kitchen tile, which was really pretty disgusting. That all took, I dunno, maybe a third of the time she was here. I'm just not very good at asking for help. I couldn't think of much for her to do.

No. That's not true. There was plenty to do. There was laundry. She could have trimmed my nails. I could have had her help me clear the detritus off the desk. There was plenty to do. I just felt bad about asking her to do it. Even though she was perfectly willing and cheerful, and that's why she was there, for pity's sake! Fortunately, I didn't need to go to the bathroom.

I'm telling myself I'll work up to it. This should be a real milestone, finally getting set up for home healthcare, but it doesn't feel like we're there yet. I need to learn to do this. I need to stop feeling like I should be entertaining the healthcare aide. We don't need to chat. I don't need companionship or conversation. I need to learn to ask for help with chores. I need to learn to let someone help me with those icky personal care things. I can do this.

There's another wrestling tournament next Tuesday. I'll need to be ready.

Who knew it would be this hard?

Still in the Middle

There is progress, however slow, on several fronts:

We met with the wheelchair guy on Tuesday. He made a list of the bits we will need...

Whoa, wait... there's a bald eagle soaring outside my window...

OK, where was I?

... the bits we will need to drive my chair using a head array control. The next step is to figure out how much they will cost, and how much of that my insurance will cover. This ball is not in my court.

We met with the rehab medicine guy yesterday. I could (and did) report that we were working on a different method of self propulsion (Yesss!), we were in the process of setting up home/respite care (Yesss!), and the referral to the pulmonologist hadn't happened yet, but it's not my fault. The clinic is supposed to call to set up an appointment. This ball is not in my court.

In a few minutes we'll be leaving to meet one of the home care folks. I'm sure they'll be very nice.

Constant vigilance has prevented Jasmine from causing extensive property damage or incurring large vet bills, but on a couple of occasions Tuffy turned her back on partially-constructed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Jaz took them apart and was caught licking off the jelly. But she's very sweet...

In the Middle of Everything

I suppose being in the middle of something, while not as emotionally satisfying and morally laudable as having finished, is better than not having started it yet.

Project: Come up with a different way to control my power chair before I'm trampled flat (again) by the Red Queen.

Status: Given that these projects always take longer than you expect, probably not as far along as I'd like to think. I spent the weekend trying out a loaner chair outfitted with a head array control. I decided it will eventually work better for me than a joystick, which is unfortunately not saying a great deal. The next step is to find out how much it might cost to outfit my current chair with such a thing. The first step in the next step is to meet with Mike the wheelchair guy again. We're doing that tonight.

Project: Arrange for backup/respite home care.

Status: I called up a couple of the places on the list of referrals we got from the MS society. We'll meet with one later this week, another early next week. I'm playing phone tag with a third place. I admit the thing that finally got me moving on this was that the last time I saw the Rehab Medicine guy, two months ago, I assured him I would take care of it. I've got an appointment with him on Wednesday. I find shame and humiliation to be very effective motivators. But hey, it's better than not having started it yet.

Project: Acquaint new pack member with the rudiments of civilized behavior.

Status: We're not there yet. For such a narrow dog, she's kind of a mooch at meal times. Her taste in literature, while enviably broad, apparently prompted her to devour a couple of Tuffy's books. Scarecrow found little doggy footprints in the kitchen sink this morning. But she's very sweet...

More Distractions

My task for the day was to contact some people about backup/respite home care, and I may yet get to it. I was distracted by a conversation I had yesterday with my mother, about a picture of my grandmother.

My cousin, who sent me the picture, says it was taken when Grandma Helen was 17, which would've been around 1907. It was obviously taken at a farm. As far as I knew, Grandma Helen was a city girl, born and raised in Toledo, Ohio. I asked my mom if she knew how my grandmother came to have her picture taken at a farm.

My mom confirmed that my grandmother always lived in town, but she remembered visiting an Aunt Louise and Uncle John on a farm when she was a little girl. That was the only farm she could think of. Although my mom had, conservatively, a million aunts and uncles, she did not have an Aunt Louise or an Uncle John. She thought they were related to my grandmother somehow.

After a little digging around, it turns out my great-grandmother had a sister named Louise, who married a guy named John. They lived near Toledo in 1920 and 1930, which would've been about the right time. They would've been my grandmother's aunt and uncle. Good enough for me. I'll call the mystery solved.

So that was the distraction du jour. It's only 3:30, so unless I come up with something else I'm going to have to get back to that list of home care referrals.

Wait, I found a couple of bills I need to pay.

Easily Distracted

OK. I'm sitting at my desk, dutifully working my way through the list of referrals for home care I got from the MS society. I haven't actually called anybody yet. I'm still visiting webpages, comparing services, that kind of thing.

Whoa!

There's a pileated woodpecker on the tree right outside my window! (Credit where credit is due. I did not leap up and grab my camera for this shot. In fact, this is a male. The bird outside my window was a female. But she was about this close -- without a telephoto lens. Credit for this photo is to Tom Munson of the Idaho Department of Fish and Game.)

Even though they're not uncommon around here, pileated woodpeckers are very distracting birds. They're big and flashy and she was really close and when I'm doing something I don't want to do I have the attention span of a gnat on crack.

(I didn't take this picture either. It's another male.)

Well it's 6:30 and Scarecrow is working on something that smells really good for dinner. Have you ever noticed how it's hard to concentrate when you're hungry? With the long weekend and everything, maybe I'd better come back to this home care thing on Tuesday, when I can  focus.

Yeah. That's what I'll do.

I Know, I Know...

Why do I hate this idea so much? I know I need to arrange for some home health care. Scarecrow is currently doing everything for me -- everything -- 24/7, literally waiting on me hand and foot. He insists he's OK with that, but even he admits we need backup, just in case. If anything happens to him, I'm toast. I know I need to do this. I really hate the whole idea -- we both do -- but I know I need to do it.

OK. So. I dig out the list of referrals I got from the MS society a couple of years ago. I'm looking at the list. From the names, these places all seem to specialize in services for senior citizens. I understand the overlap between services for seniors and services for people with disabilities. I was prepared for that; at least, I thought I was prepared for that. I was perhaps not as prepared as I thought I was. And of three suggested contacts, two are apparently out of business.

That was actually a couple of weeks ago. Yesterday I finally got tired of ignoring the item on my to-do list. I contacted the MS society for a more recent list of referrals. I figured it would take them a couple of days to put it together. It was in my in box 10 minutes after I hung up the phone. I hate it when that happens.

OK. So. I've got a list of referrals from the MS society. I'm looking at the list. From the names, these places all seem to specialize in services for senior citizens. I'm still not prepared for that. I'm going to call one of these places. I might as well start at the top of the list. I'm looking at the list.

In years past, we always spent a good chunk of Memorial Day weekend at the Northwest Folklife Festival. I haven't tried it since I've been in a wheelchair. It gets pretty crowded, particularly if the weather is good. I'm not that big on crowds in the first place, and in my experience places that are crowded, standing up, are claustrophobic sitting down. I did Pike Place Market on a sunny summer afternoon a couple of years ago when my brother was in town (and ran over somebody's foot, to their considerable and noisy dismay), but I haven't been brave enough to try Folklife. Maybe, if I get a better way to drive my chair, I'll brave the butt forest next year. If I run over somebody's foot, at least I'll do it on purpose.

While I'm at it, here's a shameless plug for the group I used to dance with, and later played music for. The Eclectic Cloggers are dancing on the International Dance Stage at 1:50 PM on Monday (May 31). Music by Minnie Pearljam. If you're in the neighborhood...

OK. So I'm looking at the list. It's six minutes to five. Scarecrow says he's ready to go home.

Tomorrow for sure.

Why do I hate this idea so much?

Monkey Mitts

I spent some time over the last couple of days trying to figure out what we should do about emergency or respite care. Right now, Scarecrow does it all, everything, all the time, 24/7. We have no backup. And he has a full-time job. T'ain't right.

We should have done it long ago, I know. Although I admit I can be stubborn and selfish, I'm not the one dragging my feet on this. It's not me insisting that I don't want help from anyone else. If anything, Scarecrow has been more reluctant than I am to hire outside help. Still, we've got to do it. If something happens to him, I'm screwed.

OK, so I'm looking up some resources suggested by the MS Society. There are all kinds of places called Helping Hands Somethingorother, so as usual I get distracted by the bizarre things a web search turns up, not least of which is a place where the helping hands belong to capuchin monkeys.

Really? Monkeys as service animals?

Granted, they're small, they live a long time, they're intelligent (whatever that means), they have more-or-less opposable thumbs. Their dexterity means they can perform tasks that the most willing dog simply can't manage. They're cuddly and cute. When they're young.

But no, not for me, no thanks. Even tame monkeys are still wild animals. As adults, they're temperamental and unpredictable. They bite. (Monkeys trained as service animals frequently have some or all of their teeth removed, for safety and liability reasons.) They're messy. Unlike a dog or cat, which is predisposed to keep its nest clean and hence is easily housetrained, a monkey will defecate wherever it happens to be, particularly if it's upset. Some combination of potty training and diapers may be at least a partial solution for a juvenile, but will likely be less successful as the animal reaches maturity. Seems a lot to put up with to have discs loaded in your DVD player or your microwave turned on.

Now, before you light up your flamethrowers, I will admit I've never actually lived with a monkey. My personal experience with monkeys is limited to the six months I spent working at the Oregon Regional Primate Research Center many years ago. I learned that monkeys bite, and they smell bad. My personal experience living with a wild animal is limited to the pet raccoon we had when I was a kid. Imagine a whippet, with fingers.

If I were looking for helping hands, I don't think I'd want them to belong to a monkey. But that's just me.