Signature Required

Scarecrow put our ballots in the mail a couple of days ago. All voting is by mail in Washington state, which is very convenient, although I admit I miss the ritual of going to the polls in person, carving out time before or after work, braving crappy November weather, crossing paths with friends and neighbors, waiting for a little stanchion to open up so I can step up and mark my ballot. With a mail-in ballot, Scarecrow can fill in the circles for me. Voting is easy. The tricky part is signing the outside envelope, to assure the powers that be that the enclosed ballot was submitted by a registered voter.

Yesterday we were notified that the Powers That Be are not too happy with the signature on my envelope.

I understand that. I'm not too happy with it, either. My hands first went numb in spring of 2002, and signing my name has been a problem for me ever since. Some of that time I could do it, kinda; the result just didn't look like my signature. Now I have trouble making a mark on paper, even if Scarecrow shoves a pen into my fist and moves a piece of paper underneath. It does not look like a signature. It does not even look much like an X.

If I ever gave any thought, before I became disabled, to the ways MS could make your life interesting (which, I admit, I never did), not being able to sign my name would not have wound up on my top 10 list. Or my top 25 list. Or probably my top 100 list. I don't think it would've ever occurred to me. But it's a real problem. It surely is.

Really, you wouldn't think it would be that hard. I can't be the first person with this problem. I just need a way for Scarecrow to write my name for me. (He has terrible handwriting, and although mine was never that great, the thought that anyone would take that signature for something I would've written causes me almost physical pain, but I'm willing to cope. That's how far I'd go.) There's the whole power of attorney thing, and making Scarecrow my attorney-in-fact makes sense, but it's kind of scary. It says I can no longer manage my own affairs, when really the thing I can't do is write my name on a piece of paper. It's not that I don't trust Scarecrow to act for me. I do, absolutely. It's just a control thing, I guess.

We're supposed to close on a refi here pretty soon. In case you've never had the pleasure, closing a mortgage loan entails signing your name 8267 times. I'm really looking forward to this.

Balancing Act

Balancing my checkbook is a job I find myself saving for a time when I need to feel like I have control over something. When I can't do anything about anything else, I can balance my checkbook. I can be totally obsessive about chasing down that three cent discrepancy. I can make the numbers line up. This is something I can do.

On my retirement income this is not a task for the faint of heart, mind. Like watching a train wreck, it can really get my heart racing. When I still had my day job, I could be reasonably confident that the balance, when I got to the bottom of the page, would be positive. Now it's somewhat more exciting. The number at the bottom of the page is another thing I can't entirely control, but whatever its value, I can sure as heck make sure the bank thinks it's the same as I do.

I need to balance my checkbook.

A Chat with Your Mother

Well, I guess that went about as well as could be expected.

I talked to my mom and dad on the phone this morning. In addition to the usual status updates, I meant to have a chat about their transportation problems. After years of being able to go wherever they want whenever they want, mom can't drive, and dad shouldn't. Their public transportation options are very limited. They find this frustrating. Infuriating, even. I understand that, I really do. But they can't go taking it out on my brother and his kids, who are only trying to help. The plan was to talk about all that.

I wouldn't say the conversation was a total failure. I got an opening when my dad mentioned his visit to the ophthalmologist. Apparently his vision is not appreciably worse than it was at his previous visit, which is not saying a great deal. Apparently the ophthalmologist feels dad's vision is borderline for driving, although the DMV seems to think he can see just fine. Dad told me he only drives around home, he doesn't drive at night, he doesn't drive in the rain (not reassuring -- this is Southern California, it's a desert), he only goes "over the hill" to shop at Costco (a trip of 15 miles each way over a windy canyon road). If I was waiting for the opportune moment, this was it.

"Dad," I say, "I'm with my brother and the kids on this one. I really think you need to stop driving."

He didn't get mad. This is good, we're still talking. He didn't tell me I'm an idiot, which is usually what he tells my brother. We talked about how he hates to impose on family and neighbors for rides, but acknowledged that sometimes letting people help you is a good thing for both of you. We talked about his trip to the doctor yesterday, taking dial-a-ride on the way in and the bus on the way home. It was a nice day, the trip went mostly as planned, and cost $.35. We talked about using the power scooter he bought for my mother to get to and from the bus stop, and about taking the scooter on the bus. He hadn't thought of that, and sounded intrigued by the possibility. The upshot of the conversation was that he said, in the nicest possible way, something like "I know what you think. Thanks for your concern." All in all, I am not feeling like I accomplished a great deal.

My conversation with my mother was even less helpful. When I brought up her problems getting around, she said she'd let me talk to dad about that. When I said it sounded like it was a real problem for her, she said she'd let me talk to dad about it. OK fine. I know this whole situation really makes you mad. But Ma, you've got to stop taking it out on my brother and the kids. They're just trying to help.

"How is Tuffy doing in school this quarter?"

A Chat with Your Mother. I couldn't find a clip of Peter and Lou Berryman, or Cathy Fink and Marcie Marxer, but this rendition is interesting in its own way.






A Chat With Your Mother
(Lou & Peter Berryman)

There are pirates in their fetid galleons
Daggers in their skivvies
With infected tattooed fingers
On a blunderbuss or two
Signs of scurvy in their eyes
And only mermaids on their minds
It's from them I would expect to hear
The F-word, not from you

We sit down to have a chat
It's F-word this and F-word that
I can't control how you young people
Talk to one another
But I don't wanna hear you use
That F-word with your mother

And the lumberjacks from Kodiak
Vacationing in Anchorage
Enchanted with their pine tar soup
And Caribou shampoo
With seven weeks of back pay
In their aromatic woolens
It's from them I would expect to hear
The F-word, not from you

There's the militant survivalists
With Gucci bandoleros
Taking tacky khaki walkie talkies
To the rendezvous
Trading all the latest armor
Piercing ammo information
It's from them I would expect to hear
The F-word, not from you

There are jocks who think that God himself
Is drooling in the bleachers
In a cold November downpour
With a bellyful of brew
Whose entire grasp of heaven
Has a lot to do with football
It's from them I would expect to hear
The F-word, not from you

There's unsavory musicians
With their filthy pinko lyrics
Who destroy the social fabric
And enjoy it when they do
With their groupies and addictions
And poor broken-hearted parents
It's from them I would expect to hear
The F-word, not from you

Copyright Lou and Peter Berryman

Home Alone

Scarecrow just left for the grocery store. He won't be gone long. It's only a mile away, and he's only going to pick up a couple of things. So I'm here by myself.

It's scary.

I haven't been a quadriplegic for very long, so I'm still getting used to it. Being entirely by myself, nobody within hollering distance, is probably a bad idea. Since I'm very good at imagining, I can imagine all kinds of things that might happen that would require opening doors, or pulling plugs, or turning knobs, or pushing buttons, or calling 911, or, oh, I don't know, anything. None of which I can do. None of these dire circumstances are very likely, I know, but still.

I don't like this. I always liked being by myself. I got testy and unpleasant if I had to be around other people all the time. I do not like being entirely dependent on another person, to an extent I never could have imagined.

Oh never mind. He's back. I know we need to make provision for times like this, I know I know I know. I know we need to get some respite time for Scarecrow. I know we do. Tomorrow for sure. I'll think about that tomorrow.

I Have Been So Looking Forward to This

Today is Tuffy's last day as a teenager. Tomorrow she turns 20.

As teen years go, I have to say I think we got off pretty easy. I have no teen-zilla horror stories to relate. Aside from the occasional Sunday night emotional core meltdown, she has always been even-tempered (for a teenage girl-type person) and kinda nerdy, taking nerdy classes, playing a nerdy instrument (viola), and participating in a nerdy sport (wrestling, two-time All-American, hence the nickname). She has never felt obliged to do what everyone else does, and doesn't care about being cool. Gotta like that, in a kid.

Still, I'm relieved to no longer be the parent of a teenager. I don't understand her preference for English and philosophy and drama classes instead of chemistry and zoology, but I don't have to -- she's 20 years old. I don't understand going to the gym six days a week, doing mixed martial arts, but I don't have to -- she's 20 years old. She's learning to go her own way, and I'm learning to let her do it. It will be an adventure for both of us.

Why Doesn't My Life Have a "Ctrl" Key?

I admit it. I have always been a control freak. If you're not doing it my way, you're doing it wrong. I know this is not an attractive aspect of my personality. I would have been a nightmare micromanager, had I ever really been a manager, which, fortunately, I was not. Even now, calendars and planners and to-do lists are my life, although the plans and tasks are for someone else to carry out. For people like me, MS is a total poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

It's not just the unpredictability of the disease, the symptoms that flare up unexpectedly, the complete inability to anticipate what I will, or will not, be able to do, even a few hours in advance. That's bad, but, for me, that's not the worst.

It's not even having someone else turn me over in bed, or adjust my clothes, or choose a bite of food for me. I am grateful that I have someone to do this for me -- I am I am I am! -- and I try not to complain unless it's causing physical pain. I try not to complain, even if it's not the way I would do it. And it never is. Even that is not the worst.

The worst is watching Scarecrow prepare Thanksgiving dinner.

I am an ungrateful wretch, I know, to even think it. Scarecrow has taken over cooking responsibilities like everything else he does for me: cheerfully and without complaint. If he resents the imposition, or the interruption, he never, ever, lets on. Unlike housework, which he doesn't like any better than I ever did, he finds cooking entertaining. He is looking forward to this.

Truth be told, it will be OK. It's just for the three of us -- no guests, no family, no distractions, no pressure. Although Scarecrow cooks with more enthusiasm than skill, he will manage well enough. I'm sure he won't leave the water running in the sink and flood the kitchen and dining room and laundry room again this year. He cooked Thanksgiving dinner last year, and it turned out fine. It's just one meal. We are fortunate to have it. Let's keep some perspective here. If he needs help, he will ask for it. If he doesn't ask, I will remain respectfully, gratefully, silent.

Even if he doesn't do it the way I would. He's doing it. That's good enough. That's plenty good enough.