DME-Day

Having finally decided to get a head array control installed on my power chair, and given Mike the Wheelchair Guy the go-ahead to get the parts, I was starting to think it had been kind of a long time since I'd heard anything. (I'm bad like that. I take forever to decide what I want, but once I make up my mind, I want it yesterday!) I even put a note on my calendar to call and pester them. Then, on Wednesday, they called to say they had the stuff and wanted to see if Mike could take my chair off to the shop for a while on Thursday, that would be yesterday, to install everything.

You bet, I says.

So that's what happened. He picked up my chair, took it away for a couple of hours, and brought it back with a head array control. I was too tired yesterday afternoon to mess with it much, beyond noticing that I need a speed that's slower than Slow. Unlike the proportional speed control you get with a joystick, the switches in the head array are either on or off. To get moving, the chair starts off with a surge of speed that's a little faster than it's set to go. Even at the slowest speed setting, that's a little too exciting for negotiating tight spaces. Easy fix, but I'll need to get Mike to do it. They don't let me mess with the software, which is probably just as well.

Thus far, I'd say that I do not love it. Navigating menus to control various functions is something I have to think about. I still need to use a couple of micro switches, and can't figure out where to put them. The steering on this buggy is pretty darned touchy. But I can see that all these things will get better with tweaking and practice. And it sure beats having Scarecrow drag me around.

And then there's the Patient Lift. Mike brought that yesterday, too. Yeah, I know we need it. We've been all over that. If something happened to Scarecrow, I couldn't go to the bathroom until he was better. I get it. But it's huge. Huge. When we remodeled the house to make it accessible, we neglected to add a wing for storage of durable medical equipment. There's the power chair. And the charger. And the shower chair. And the passenger seat from the van that we took out so I don't have to sit in the back. When you're not using it, all this stuff has to go someplace. And now this ginormous patient lift. Which is really big. Did I mention that?

Maybe we can leave it in the middle of the living room, and string it up with twinkly lights.

Inspiration-Free Zone

"No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money."

-- Samuel Johnson

I'm starting to accumulate partially-written posts that I set aside for one reason or another. Sometimes I didn't know what I wanted to say. Sometimes I knew what I wanted to say, but decided it wasn't interesting enough to write about. This being a typically self-indulgent blog, I don't give a moment's consideration to whether it would be interesting to read, but I need to find the writing at least mildly entertaining. Sometimes I'd be chugging away on something and I'd think, 'Nah. This is starting to feel like work.' And I'd stop. Hey. I can do that.

When I had a regular day job, waiting for inspiration to strike wasn't an option. If I felt inspired (not very likely, considering the subject matter), I would write. If I didn't feel inspired, I would write anyway. That's what writers do.

I don't think I ever would've said I love to write. My situation was better summarized by a quote I took from Linda Ellerbee, which she attributed to her grandmother:

"If you don't read, you can't write, and if you can't write, you must work for a living."

For me, writing always beat working for a living.

I'm not a writer anymore. I'm a retired person. I don't need to write. If I feel like writing, I do. If I'm not inspired, I don't have to. I'm accumulating partially-finished blog posts, but that's OK. I may come back and finish some of them. Others may never see the light of an LCD display, and that's OK too.

While I'm nattering on about inspiration, I should make it clear that I'm talking only about being on the receiving end, myself. If you're looking to be uplifted and inspired, keep looking. This is not the place for you. I'm not good at it. Plenty of bloggers strive to be inspirational, and do it much better than I. If you need inspiration, try one of them.

While I'm writing about what I don't write about, I could add that I don't blog about MS symptoms, either, unless I have them, or MS treatments, unless I'm taking them. There are plenty of websites that do a much better job of that than I would.

At this point, I could go back and try to figure out what I was writing about. But that would start to feel like work.

Bareit's Busy Day

Jasmine is not really all that fond of squeaky toys. Nylabones are OK. Dental chewies are nice. Scarecrow's knitting bag, however, is irresistible.

This is what we found when we came home the other day:

Bareit was obviously involved in this escapade. He likes to take his toys outside. Through the dining room...

 

Into the kitchen...

 

Through the kitchen to the utility room...

 

Through the utility room...

Out the (narrow) dog door...

Around the corner...

And out into the yard.

Note to whippets: if you want Scarecrow to finish your new sweaters before the weather gets cold, you'll want to stop doing this, even if he forgets to put his knitting bag were you can't reach it. Assuming there is such a place.

Where Did I Go Wrong?

Tuffy started her junior year at UW today. She's an English major.

Nothing wrong with being an English major. Some of my best friends were English majors. I just never expected my daughter would be one.

Looking back, I guess I should've seen it coming. She has always been a relentlessly verbal child. She had rules of grammar, even for made-up words. Instead of 'forget', for example, she used to say 'getfor.' But if it happened in the past, she would say 'gotfor.' Perhaps I should've realized it was a bad sign for a toddler to conjugate made-up verbs.

Instead, I was encouraged when she referred to a pair of objects as 'two ones.' I thought it reflected a sound understanding of basic mathematical concepts. And she always did fine in math and science -- at least as well as I ever did.

So where did I go wrong?

We always spent family vacations outdoors; camping, hiking, birdwatching. We bred and showed dogs, and more recently worked with retired racing greyhounds. How could she not grow up to be a little naturalist? A mini-me?

I held out hope last quarter when she took a comparative psychology class from David Barash. Animal behavior is fascinating, and if Barash teaches anywhere near as well as he writes, it should be a great class. How could she not be sucked in?

She liked the class. She did fine. She's still an English major.

It's not the prospect of dire job prospects that concerns me. A zoology degree doesn't buy you much, either. I spent the majority of my working life as a tech writer. She'll find something to do. That's not the problem.

It's just that whole nature-nurture thing. The idea that a child is a blank slate.

Nope. No blank slate here. Some behavior must be hard-wired. My daughter is an English major.

It could be worse, I suppose. She could be majoring in psychology. Or philosophy. Or she could be dealing drugs. Or voting Republican.

I'll deal.

Last Chance

For the past week or so it seems like I've been inundated by e-mail inviting me to donate now and help end MS. Well, that would be cool, wouldn't it? Right now, they say, we are closer to ending MS than ever before! (The exclamation mark is theirs.) They couldn't say that if it weren't true, could they? The missive I got this morning says if I donate by midnight tonight I will help accelerate their efforts to end MS forever. Imagine that. I'd better hurry. Wouldn't want to miss the midnight deadline; maybe they stop accepting donations.

Psssh.

I don't mean to rag on the National Multiple Sclerosis Society. They do a lot of good stuff, and I've taken advantage of their services on several occasions over the years. I realize that if they want to accomplish anything, they have to raise money. I know that. Services cost money. Research costs big money. They obviously don't know that MS already costs me plenty. How could they? How could they know that every nickel I spend on this stupid disease feels like money down a rat hole? And that apparently bottomless rat hole, my friends, has taken a lot of my nickels.

Although it totally hacks me off, I can almost ignore the tone of their communications. Some marketing/PR person probably spent a long time on the wording of those solicitations. They were probably reviewed and scrutinized and tested on focus groups. They can't help it if I don't belong to their target audience. I never liked writing that stuff, I was never any good at it, and I really don't like reading it. It sets off my manipulation detectors. Exclamation marks make me suspicious.

I'm waiting for the point of this post to become apparent, and starting to think it's not gonna happen. I don't know why this makes me so cranky. It just does.

The MS Society wants me to donate?

Nah. I don't think so. I spend enough on MS already.

Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head

As weird MS symptoms go, I was thinking this one had to take the cake. It almost felt like... a drop of water on my face. But it's the middle of the night, and I'm lying in bed. How crazy is that? Maybe I dreamed it.

In the morning, there was a smallish puddle of water on the windowsill above my head. OK, so I didn't imagine it. And it had rained that night. But it wasn't windy, and even if it had been, the window is under a broad eave. The outside of the window -- a brand-new window, by the way -- was dry. There's no water anywhere else. Why was there water on the windowsill?

The next night it rained again, and yes, we did indeed have a leak in the roof. It was dripping right through our brand-new sheetrock ceiling, onto the head of the bed. Scarecrow set out buckets to catch the worst of the drips, and moved the bed away from the drainage. We went back to sleep as best we could, listening to water plink into buckets.

In the morning he went up in the attic to find our roof perforated by a tree branch about 18 inches long, maybe 2 inches in diameter. Yeah, that would do it.

Now we remember that some weeks earlier we had been sitting around the house one afternoon when we heard/felt a huge WHUMP!!, like maybe a large tree branch landed on the roof. This happens from time to time. We have a row of black cottonwoods along one side of our house, and they drop stuff. The trade-off for this known risk to the roof is that they provide very effective and inexpensive air-conditioning during those rare spells of hot Seattle summer weather. You pays your money and you takes your chances.

When Scarecrow checked it out he didn't see anything on the roof, but there was a really really really big branch in the front yard. Maybe it just clipped a corner, made a lot of noise but didn't do any damage? We figured we'd dodged a bullet. A limb that size could have caused some serious grief.

Turns out we did dodge a bullet -- a limb that size would've taken out our roof -- but we weren't entirely unscathed. The thing that actually made the noise was a much smaller branch that punched a hole right through the roof, into the attic, where you couldn't really see it from the outside. You wouldn't notice until it started to rain.

Scarecrow cobbled together a patch, and one of the guys who worked on our house during our remodeling project came by and patched his patch. It must've worked. This was a couple of weeks ago, and it hasn't rained since.

The Last Day of Summer

The sun's not up yet when the alarm goes off in the morning, and the leaves are starting to turn. The days really get shorter fast, this time of year. I'm resigned to fall.

I can celebrate winter -- even if it's gloomy, the days are getting longer. I can celebrate spring -- the trees leaf out, and everything goes green. I can celebrate summer -- the days start early and go late, and they're occasionally even sunny. But fall -- I'm resigned to fall.

Even in Michigan, where the crisp fall days were a welcome relief from the hot muggy summer, and the sugar maples in September looked like they had batteries, I couldn't help but anticipate the cold, dark days coming up. Once the leaves were down, fall was gray, gloomy, and seemed like it went on for a really long time.

Around here, the fall foliage is not nearly as colorful. The deciduous trees let go of their leaves without much fanfare. Scarecrow and Tuffy shovel them into limp, sodden piles that nobody would be much tempted to jump into.

Today is the last day of summer. I'm looking at blue sky outside my window. Fall doesn't start until tomorrow.

Use Your Words

For toddlers, using newly-acquired language skills is really hard. Preschool teachers are always reminding kids to "Use your words", instead of using a right roundhouse to express their feelings more directly. Even my relentlessly verbal daughter would sometimes resort to "point and grunt", and, when her rudimentary vocabulary proved frustratingly inadequate, was occasionally reduced to smacking a schoolmate upside the head. (Some things never change. Eighteen years later Tuffy is still relentlessly verbal, and still smacks people upside the head. At least now she does it at the gym.)

On one occasion a teacher broke up a physical altercation between two little boys, telling them to use their words. One of the combatants marched up to the other, got right in his face, and shouted, "WORDS!!!"

My dad tells a story about a long-ago conversation between his older brother and a high school counselor. My uncle did well in science and math, but saw no point in studying English. When the counselor pointed out that mastery of grammar and spelling would make my uncle better able to express himself, my uncle replied, "I ain't never had no trouble expressin' myself." I'm not sure the story is really relevant, but I've always liked it. My uncle was a real jerk.

I've always thought I had a reasonable facility with words. Now that I find myself having to use words and nothing else, I'm learning that it's a lot harder than you'd think.

For example.

One of our regular weekend tasks is clearing off the detritus that accumulates on top of the desk in the office. It's something I used to do myself, because Scarecrow doesn't much care where stuff winds up. Now that I can't shuffle or file papers myself, I need Scarecrow to open envelopes, extract contents, sort stuff into piles to be paid, or filed, or otherwise dealt with, and file the papers that we need to keep. It sounds easy enough. The physical part of manipulating paper isn't something you have to think about. Until you have to do it using your words.

To keep things simple, let's assume I can actually think of the words I want to use, which is not always the case. The routine goes something like this:

"Can I see that? No, the other one... the one on the left. On the left. Put it on my keyboard, so I can see it. The first page. The one on the top. Closer. Not that close. OK, can I see the next page? No, the backside... turn the page over. You can recycle the rest of the stuff. Where did that come from? No, not that... keep the statement, the first two pages. Put it in the pile to be paid. The second pile. Second from the left. Stack it so I can see the balance and the due date. OK, that was easy. Next?"

The only reason it goes as easily as it does is that Scarecrow has developed an uncanny ability to read my mind. If I had to do this chore with anybody else, it would be a lot harder.

Situations that take a whole lot of words to do something really easy come up all the time. You have no idea. They say a picture is worth 1000 words, but I tell you what: when all you've got is the thousand words, just being able to do the point part of "point and grunt" would save me about 10 zillion words a day. And I'm not exaggerating.

Sometimes I just want to whap somebody upside the head.

Weenie Whippet

The other morning I was lying in bed, trying to pretend it wasn't morning yet. Scarecrow, having fed the dogs and started the coffee, had progressed to the bathroom phase of his morning routine.

Suddenly, from the other end of the house I heard a prolonged, agonized SCREEEEAMM!! followed by chesty, I Am a Very Big Dog!!-sounding barking.

WTF?

Scarecrow obviously didn't hear it, couldn't hear me, and there wasn't a darn thing I could do about it besides imagine a rat... or a squirrel... no, an opossum... no, maybe a raccoon! coming through the dog door. I have a very active imagination, but none of the things I was imagining would be good. Scarecrow was still in the bathroom.

Presently, everything was quiet. Jasmine trotted down the hall and jumped on the bed. No sign of copious blood loss. I know Bareit was in his crate, so unless our local vermin are very determined and exceptionally talented, he was OK.

WTF?

I never realized how long Scarecrow spends in the bathroom in the morning.

Anyway, when he finally came out, I told him what I had heard and suggested he might want to go down and check it out.

He found a mouse in the kitchen sink. Munched.

Apparently Jaz encountered the mouse in the course of her usual morning inspection of the kitchen counter. The mouse, being outweighed some 300 to 1, got the worst of it, but didn't go down without a fight. I'm pretty sure it wasn't the mouse I heard screaming. It was our weenie whippet.

So far, the effectiveness of various mouse eradication systems we have implemented stack up as follows:

• kitchen trash can     4 (that I know of)
• mousetrap              1
• whippet                 1

If we were to award a score for drama, however, the whippet would definitely win. it's a good thing she's cute.

Doc Ock

It might not be quite as cool as this, but it's pretty close.

TinMan (Scarecrow's senior sibling) was pretty sure he could design and build a better hands-free cupholder than the one I had. I needed something that would attach to my chair or a table, and hold a drink where I could get to it without needing to use my hands. To my surprise, there weren't a lot of commercially available devices that would do this. The closest thing I could find was a bright yellow plastic baby bottle holder that worked, kind of, but broke the first week I had it.

TinMan was all over this. Scarecrow sent him photos and measurements of my chair, and the two of them had lengthy discussions about various design and material options. He contacted the chair manufacturer (Permobile) for dimensions of possible attachment sites. He put his son, who was home from summer session for a one-week summer break, to work building it. (Sorry, Tin Jr. This was not my idea!)

It arrived Thursday, and I've got to say it's pretty cool. There are brackets to attach it to either side of my chair so it reaches around over my shoulder, and it's quick to install or remove. It can also attach to a plate that slides under the seat cushion. The gooseneck is flexible (duh), swings out of the way, and is attached to a telescoping rod for height adjustment. The cup holder part snaps onto the end of the gooseneck. Designed for use on a boat, it's self-leveling, so tilting my chair back doesn't dump the contents of the cup in my face. It's no uglier than the rest of my power chair, in fact, it kind of blends in. And it's sturdy. It may just be a cupholder, but this puts the durable in durable medical equipment.

Although in my past-tense day job I've been through lots of software development cycles, this is my first experience with hardware development so I don't know if you'd call this a prototype, or an alpha, or a beta, or what. Anyway, I expect software and hardware development are similar in that having the first example be perfect in every way would:

1. be a miracle, and
2. take all the fun out of it

So, yeah. I'm having to take back what I said about engineers being impervious to user feedback. TinMan and Scarecrow have already been modifying the attachment bracket, so installation and removal will be quicker. The gooseneck needs to be able to support more weight without sagging (hence the tasteful and stylish lightweight plastic cup in the photo, a relic of the days when Tuffy, who is now 20, could order from the kids' menu in a restaurant). The self-leveling cupholder is a brilliant idea, but it turns out, in practice, that you want more control over the position and angle of the cup than this allows. I expect this batch of fixes is only the first of many rounds of tweaks and adjustments.

But you know, for now, I can drink (from a lightweight cup) without pestering anybody for help. Scarecrow doesn't have to keep handing me my drink at meals. And the utilitarian design, far from detracting from its appeal, makes me feel like Doc Ock. How cool is that?

TinMan said he could build a better cupholder than the one I had. And he was right.

Enablers Needed

The wheelchair guy has figured out what bits I need to install a head array control on my power chair, and my insurance company has graciously granted the regal okey-dokey. My coinsurance is 20%, and they'll let me pay half now, and half at installation. So we're good, right?

So, yeah. There's that 20%, and 20% of the lift, and 20% of the lung vac... But here's the thing. 20% of a big number can still be a pretty big number. Especially if there are dollar signs attached.

And what is it going to get me? For now, I would be able to drive my monster robo-chair more-or-less safely, and adjust the seat without help. I would be able to get out of the house, without leaving a trail of devastation and chaos in my wake. At least, not all the time. That would be cool. But for how long? We would be throwing a significant chunk of change at a solution for a progressive disease. Another run with the Red Queen. If I knew I would be able to use it for a year, say, it would be easier to commit. For six months? Maybe. For only a month or two of enhanced mobility, it probably wouldn't be worth it. And, of course, there's no way to know.

it's not like I can't think of other things to do with that money besides pouring it down the MS rathole. Assuming that MS always has first priority when allocating family resources just seems wrong to me.

But it would be cool to walk through the park across the street with Scarecrow and the dogs. It would be very cool.

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.

Forever Young

Why don't you ever hear anybody lamenting the fact that middle age is wasted on the middle-aged?

I just finished reading Best Love, Rosie by Nuala O'Faolain, a wonderful Irish writer with the coolest name I've ever heard. It's about a woman trying to figure out middle age. Being about there myself, it got me thinking.

I remember being startled the first time I heard a woman my age refer to herself as middle-aged. Wait... she's the same age I am. If she's middle-aged, that would mean... Really? Middle-aged? Me? How can this be?

I still feel young, which is clearly at odds with reality, and getting odder all the time. People must think of me as old. I've got gray hair, and creaky joints. I'm quadri-frackin'-plegic, for criminy sake. But I still think of myself as young. When does the inside catch up with the outside? Does it ever?

I don't think I'm particularly phobic about the prospect of getting old. I don't agonize over every line and wrinkle. In fact, I can't remember when I last looked in a mirror. I don't dye my hair. I wish I could do a lot of things that I can no longer do, but that's more an MS thing than a getting old thing.

I remember my grandmother saying, in her Yiddish accent, 'I'm getting younger and younger, every day.' I never really knew what she meant by that.

I still don't.

Letting Go

This is the ad I posted on craigslist:

---

Vintage Raleigh Alyeska Touring Bike

Classic loaded touring bike, purchased new in 1988. It has been greatly loved, gently ridden, and well cared for. After sitting for a while it needs new tires and general maintenance, but otherwise is in excellent condition. Includes cateye cyclocomputer, two water bottle holders.

Specs:
Color - Bordeaux/Rose
Frame Size - 21"
Frame - 555 chrome moly double-butted main tubes
Frame/Drop-outs - Forged vertical
Fork - High tensile, forged end, low rider braze-on
Handlebar - Kusuki WPR-B randonneur style
Stem - Kusuki "WIN" AH
Seatpost - Alloy micro-adjust
Crankset - S.R. Triple one-piece forged alloy. Detachable alloy rings 50/45/32 -- 170mm
Freewheel - 14-30 -- 6 speed -- gold
Hubs - Sansin RE-50, large flange alloy. Q.R -- sealed, 36° front, 40° rear
Gearing - 18 speed -- 29 to 96
Front Derailleur - Shimano Z206
Rear Derailleur - Shimano Z505GS
Shifter - Shimano Z408 down tube braze-on
Brakes - Dia-compe 960/161 gum hoods, alloy cantilever
Rims - Araya SP-30 27 x 1 1/4 alloy, 36° front, 40° rear
Tires - 27 x 1 1/4 skin wall
Pedals - S.R. SP 154, alloy quill type
Grips - Grab On foam

---

There's no point keeping it. It's not like I'm going to be able to ride it anymore, and it doesn't fit Tuffy. But still.

I bought it when I lived in Michigan. Lansing is a great place to ride a bike. In five minutes you're out of town, on country roads. No traffic to speak of. No hills. Of course, you've got to like cornfields. We had plenty of destinations. There was the ice cream store in DeWitt, the Quality Dairy in Mason, the dairy store at MSU, the place in Wacousta that made killer shakes and meatball sandwiches. No wonder I never lost any weight riding that darned bike.

Tuffy went for her first bike ride when she was four months old, riding in a car seat strapped into a Cannondale bike trailer. (She was born in the middle of December; we didn't get decent riding weather until April.) Scarecrow pulled the trailer and I rode behind, watching a little hand or foot appear above the edge of the car seat. Scarecrow was a much stronger rider than I, but that trailer was the great equalizer. Pack it with stuff for a weekend camping trip, and I could keep up, no problem.

Several people have responded to the ad. There are a lot of bicyclists in Seattle, and it's a pretty cool old bike. Somebody will take it.

But I will be sorry to see it go.

Everybody's an Engineer

I know a lot of engineers. My dad's an engineer. My brother was an auto mechanic, and is now an electrician, so is an engineer in a practical sense. I worked with more software developers than I can remember. Some of my best friends are engineers. (Scarecrow is not an engineer. Might this be significant?) If there is one personality trait that engineers share, it's that they're never happier than when they've got something to build. Whether it's a machine or a software program, tell them, "I need something that will do XYZ...", and they're off.

After my post the other day about trying to find a no-hands beverage holder, I wasn't surprised to find that a lot of people were surprised that there weren't very many off-the-shelf choices available. What surprised me was the number of people who suggested something that might work.

Scarecrow's brother (I'll call him TinMan), was on the phone that very afternoon. TinMan is an engineer, for real. He designs and manufactures large machines. He has a machine shop, and a son who is an engineering student, conveniently home from college for the summer. His son is, as yet, blissfully ignorant of the project his dad has in mind for him. TinMan asked Scarecrow to send photos of my chair, so he could decide how a cupholder might best be attached. They discussed at length the best way to hold a cup. He says he can come up with something better than what I've got.

For as long as I can remember, my mom found the solutions my dad designed and built for household problems to be a seriously mixed blessing. Missile guidance systems are one thing; an indoor clothesline is something entirely else. While they generally performed the task for which they were intended, the execution was frequently not at all what my mom had in mind. Whatever the problem, my dad was always pretty sure that his solution was the best way to solve it. He was not real receptive to what we would call "user input." I thought it was just my dad, but I've since come to believe it's an engineer thing.

When TinMan says he can design and build a better hands-free beverage holder that I've got now, I believe him. He's a talented guy, with a lot of resources at his disposal. And I appreciate the heck out of the fact that he's even interested in having a go at it. And he reads this blog so I can't say anything bad about him even if I wanted to, which I don't. I'll leave him to do his engineer thing, and I won't try to tell him how it should be done. He wouldn't listen anyway. He's an engineer.

He'll come up with something that works better than the yellow plastic baby bottle holder I've got now, for sure. It is, after all, a pretty low bar. As durable medical equipment goes, it wasn't very. It already broke.

Lost Post

We lost our Internet connection for a while yesterday afternoon. The idiot who lives next door to us was doing some ill-advised excavation in front of his house. He had a contractor out there moving around a bunch of dirt and some really big rocks, and cutting a drain in our shared driveway. It wasn't actually his property he was working on. Part of it is ours, part is a utility easement along the street, and part  belongs to the neighbor on the other side, who was already pretty cranky about this project. I don't know what-all he managed to break, but there were a bunch of utility trucks parked out there and flaggers directing traffic and a bunch of people trying to put everything back together. Since he didn't get a permit, the city is not too happy about this development. This is all going to cost him some serious money. I take some comfort (I think the word is schadenfreude) from the fact that the idiot next door has caused himself a great deal of grief. It couldn't happen to a nicer guy. But in the meantime, our Internet connection was down.

No 'net.

You don't realize how much you expect it to be there, until it's not. No 'net. No e-mail. No phone, since our home phone is VoIP. No IM, which is the way I usually let Scarecrow know I need some help, even if he's just in the next room. We don't have a TV, but no streaming movies from Netflix. I've got some real paper books, and a couple of e-books on my laptop, but no browsing the library online. The Greyhound Pets newsletter is on Google docs, so I can't work on that. I can't balance my checkbook, because I can't get to the bank's webpage. I can't update my blog. Why do I all of a sudden want to update my blog?

So I wrote a blog post, figuring I'd publish it when we got our Internet connection back. I shut my laptop down without saving it, and I forget what I wrote. I'm sure it was brilliant, just brilliant, but now it's gone.


But we've got our Internet connection back. Maybe I'll balance my checkbook.

Gotta Want It

There have been times in my life when I knew that pursuing a particular course of action would invite ridicule, and test my capacity to endure public humiliation. Sometimes I did it anyway. If I wanted it bad enough.

An example that comes painfully to mind was competing in obedience trials with a Gordon setter. Although Gordons are lovely dogs, people looking for an obedience prospect don't typically choose one, for good reason. It's not that they're stupid. They've just been bred to have, how shall we say?, an independent turn of mind. In consequence, commands are likely to be perceived as suggestions. Instant and unquestioning obedience will never be at the top of their list of priorities. That's just the way they are. I knew that.

On top of this, the individual at the center of this story was a born clown. She was never happier than when she was the center of attention. She loved to make people laugh. You can imagine where this is going, and that's pretty much the way it went. Her interpretation of commands issued when she had the show ring all to herself were amazingly creative and, I admit, pretty darned funny, although it took me a while to appreciate the humor. She collected a devoted gallery of spectators who could be counted on to show up at ringside to see what she would come up with this time. She eventually earned an obedience title, even ranking among the top 10 Gordons in obedience in the nation that year, although it might only have been the top seven or eight, since I'm not sure there were 10 Gordons competing in obedience that year because most people know better than to try this. In the pursuit of this goal, I learned that my capacity for public humiliation is greater than I ever imagined. Gotta want it.

I don't remember when I last could pick up a cup and drink out of it like a normal person. It was that long ago. I'm almost getting used to drinking everything with a straw. Coffee, hot as well as iced. Wine. Beer. Scotch. But a straw only solves part of the problem. A drink with a straw is still no use to me unless it's sitting on a table where I can reach it by bending over (a maneuver of which I suspect Emily Post would never approve), or there's somebody to hold it for me. What I wanted was a way to drink wherever I happened to be, without having to pester anybody for help. Preferably without creating a spectacle, although I can do spectacle, if need be.

I didn't expect it to be that hard. I am not, after all, the first quadriplegic on the planet. I wasn't surprised that the bountiful array of cupholders available for walkers or wheelchairs generally assume the user can extract the cup from the holder and convey it to the user's mouth. Most people can, but that's not what I need. We could rig something with a mic stand and boom, but I was hoping to find something a little more portable. I eventually located only two commercially-available devices that would attach to my chair or a table and hold a drink where I could get to it. Only one looked like it might work for me.

This particular example of assistive technology was intended to clamp onto a stroller or crib and hold a baby bottle, hence the Fisher-Price color scheme. So much for being inconspicuous. There was no choice of color. The plastic clamp is about as sturdy as it appears in the picture, which is to say, not very. It can support maybe 12 ounces of liquid in a lightweight cup. My 16-oz double-wall stainless steel insulated coffee cup with a full load of coffee is definitely not happenin'. It's huge and bright yellow and looks like, well, like a baby bottle holder. But it works. Scarecrow can load it up and go about his business, and I can drink whenever I want. I had forgotten how cool that was. If it makes my ginormous black Robo-monster power chair look even more ridiculous than it did before, Ch. MacTyke's Heartbreaker CD showed me I can deal with worse than that. Way worse than that.

In Patrick's immortal words, "Freedom is always fashionable." You've just gotta want it.

Vacation. ish.

We are on day five of a vacation. Of sorts.

I'm having a little trouble figuring out how to do it. Used to be, we'd take a couple of weeks and go someplace. First, we'd have to find a time when Scarecrow and I could both take off of work, and Tuffy would be out of school. Some years, it seemed like trying to find this chunk of time was like solving an n-dimensional jigsaw puzzle. We'd usually be camping, of one style or another, or going up to Scarecrow's family's cottage in northern Ontario, which is like camping except with a roof and it takes a lot longer to sweep the dust and mouse poop out of the cottage than it does to set up a tent. Or we'd go visit family somewhere, which is not like camping and we'd have to be nice. Before we left there'd be planning and organizing and packing, then there would be places to go and people to meet and things to do. And then we would come home.

This is different. For Scarecrow you could call it a staycation, or more precisely a FixStuffAroundTheHousecation because he's got a list of stuff to fix that he will never live long enough to finish even if he works from sun up to sun down and finally goes back to work to get some rest. For me, particularly since I no longer have a day job and still can't really steer my power chair well enough to go anyplace, it's not much different than any other time except if the weather's nice I can sit out in the backyard instead of being cooped up in one office or another. So I'm doing what I always do, which is nothing much. If I'm not doing anything, why would I need a vacation from doing it? And what would I do instead?

So I guess I feel like I should be doing something different from what I usually do, but I don't know what that would be. If life is like being on permanent vacation, who am I to complain?

Mighty Hunters

Note to local squirrels: whippets are really fast.

Note to whippets: squirrels bite.



PS to note to whippets: if you get past the bitey part, squirrels make a noise kind of like a squeaky toy.

PPS to note to whippets: the squeaker doesn't last very long.

Publish or Perish

Sometimes (like now) I find myself trying to come up with a blog post just because it seems like it's time. It's been a while since the last one. I don't have anything in particular to go on about. It just seems like it's time. Why is that, I wonder?

I don't have to do this. It's not like my livelihood depends on it, or there is information only I can convey, or anybody cares whether I write anything or not. I'm not trying to amuse or educate or entertain an audience because, aside from a handful of blogger buddies, I don't have one. My day-to-day routine is no more interesting than anybody else's. I don't confront and surmount, or fail to surmount, heroic challenges. I can't share deep philosophical insights, because I don't have any. I don't know the solution to anyone else's problems. Everyone around here knows what the weather has been like, and nobody else cares. I don't need the discipline of writing everyday. Been there, done that. Sometimes I'm just doing it for me, because trying to write about a thing can be a good way to sort through what I really think about it. I get that. But is there any point in trying to scratch together a post when I really don't have anything in mind to write about?

For the past, oh, 30 years or so, I've always had a deadline. Always. Sometimes more than one. While it's never been literally Publish or Perish, it has usually been Publish or Something Really Bad Is Going to Happen. There has always been a date by which I had to have something ready to publish. It's not always imminent, huge, looming, taking precedence over everything else, blotting out the sun. But it's always been there.

Now it's kind of fun to not post anything, because I don't have to.

Sometimes sitting down and writing just because I ought to turns up some unexpected things.

Today it didn't.

Feeding the Mosquitoes

An entomology grad student and amateur photographer I once knew had a photograph on his office wall, a close-up of a female mosquito dining on what was obviously a human arm, the blood she had already ingested clearly visible through her translucent abdomen.

People seeing the photo for the first time always had the same response:

"Whose arm was that?"

Who in their right mind would stick their arm into a cage full of hungry mosquitoes, and sit still while one drank her fill?

Another time, Scarecrow and I were up at his family's cottage in northern Ontario. Against my better judgment, we took a canoe out on the lake at sunset.

"They're flying around, but they're not biting," he said.

"They're not biting you. I'm getting lightheaded," I replied.

When we bought our house I thought it would be nice that it was across the street from a park. There was even a paved path through the park, so I could roll along when Scarecrow took the dogs for a walk. Perhaps I should have given a little more thought to what the name Swamp Creek might imply about a park.

After a relentlessly gloomy spring, we're finally expecting a weekend of sunshine and blue sky. I'm looking forward to spending as much of it as I can out in the yard. This is not without risk, you understand, particularly in the evening. It's an interesting experience to watch a mosquito land on your person and begin tanking up, and not be able to do anything about it.

But what the heck. Live dangerously. It will be worth it.

Welcome to Jurassic Park

Whenever I think about using a patient lift, I see the scene in Jurassic Park where they've got a cow in a sling, and they're lowering it into the dinosaur pen.

Some of the adaptations I've had to make to accommodate advancing MS-related disability have been fairly easy for me. Not physically, or financially, necessarily, but emotionally; acknowledging that it was a step I needed to take. Cane? Manual wheelchair? Adaptive driving controls? No problem. Makes life easier. Voice recognition software? Sounds kind of cool. Other adaptations, for reasons that are not entirely clear to me, I fought tooth and nail, long past the point where a reasonable person would've given in. Nothing rational, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Letting someone help me eat? Sorry, no. Power wheelchair? No. No way. Don't want to go there.

Patient lift?

The rehab medicine guy wrote me a prescription for a lift the first time I saw him, over a year ago. I took it, thought "Yeah, yeah, whatever, I'm not even close to needing this," and stashed it someplace. Last time I saw him, he wrote me another one. As much as I'd like to lose this one too, I need to get real. Before we can realistically expect anyone to provide home care backup or respite for Scarecrow, we need to have a lift.

If Scarecrow and Tuffy hadn't been wrestlers, we would've had to resort to this long ago. They're both strong, fit, and know how to move another person around. Even so, as Scarecrow has had to provide more and more of the muscle power, the antics involved in transfers and getting dressed have evolved from a fairly conventional stand and pivot to a series of bizarre contortions that I can't reasonably expect anyone else to manage. It's getting harder and harder for Scarecrow to do it. It's not safe.

So, the lift. We're there. It's time.

Talk about adding insult to injury, I not only have to accept adaptive equipment I really really really never wanted to use, I have to go through the hellish process involved in procuring durable medical equipment to get it. I'm still trying to get a head array control for my power chair, for criminy sake. Not happy. Not even a little bit. Don't tell me how lucky I am to have insurance that will cover most of the cost. I'm not ready to look on the bright side. I need to be crabby for a little while. Don't tell me it's my fault for having put it off so long. I'm not ready to be reasonable.

Welcome to Jurassic Park.

Are You Listening to Me?

On the way home yesterday, there was a piece on NPR about a blogger who asked what you might say to your 20-year-old self, if you had the chance. One of those If I Knew Then What I Know Now sorts of things. As a topic for a blog post, it sounds kind of intriguing. Also self-indulgent, self-absorbed, all about me... what's not to like? Totally my kind of thing.

Not that I think there's anything I could say that would make a dent in my 20-year-old self's hard head. I was a stubborn, self-centered, not particularly likable control freak. If there was something I wanted, I would do whatever it took to make it happen, even if it meant running roughshod over other people. I had no social skills to speak of. What can you say to a person like that?

I know she won't listen. But for what it's worth:

• Most of the things you wake up at three o'clock in the morning worrying about will never happen. If there's nothing you can do about it, right then, go back to sleep. Preemptive worrying is a waste of time.
• You do not need a man in your life. Fortunately the men you have been/will be involved with are all good people; you'll be lucky that way. They are just not right for you. Fear of being alone is not a solid basis for a partnership. Learn to be by yourself and like it.
• You will never in a million years imagine the kind of guy you will eventually wind up with. Never in a million years. You'll be lucky to have him, for sure. He's just not what you would expect. Ever.
• You're not fat. The women in your mother's family, back to the flood, have big butts. There's nothing you can do about it.
• It's OK to be goal-oriented. A certain amount of determination is not a bad thing. That doesn't mean you have to be such a little s#!t about it.
• If there are things you really want to do, do them while you can. I'm just sayin'.
• You don't control nearly as much as you think you do. I know it's hard to let go. Believe me, I do. Try asking yourself, "500 years from now, what will it matter?"

That's enough for now, but I'm not through with you. We'll come back to this. Are you listening to me?

Greyhound Gig

One of the things on my list of Things to Do After I Retire was to volunteer for something. It seemed like a good idea. Isn't that what everybody says they're going to do after they retire? One ought to make a contribution somehow, oughtn't one, even if one isn't paid for it? The trick would be finding something I can actually do.

The obvious victim was Greyhound Pets, Inc. Scarecrow and I have volunteered with this group since we adopted our first retired racer in 1997, but haven't been as active lately as we used to be. We used to host regular meet-and-greets at local pet supply stores and a nearby shopping center, and I can't do that very well anymore. We played music for their annual adoption fair, and I can't do that anymore at all. Their current webmaster has everything under control, thankyouverymuch. I wouldn't be much help at the kennel. It was not entirely clear to me what I could do, volunteer-wise.

As it turns out, GPI needs a newsletter editor.

Hey, I can do that!

Ironically, since we lost our last greyhound a couple of months ago, I'm editing The Bark. I don't think I'm overcommitted. Due to budgetary constraints, it only comes out twice a year and it's only 16 pages long. There are three people working on it. The next issue doesn't come out until November. It's not a high-stress job. I can do this.

It's kind of nice to have a deadline again.

The Lung Vac

Seems like I've had a flurry of doctor appointments lately. Two weeks ago, I checked in with the rehab medicine guy. Since I was whining about being short of breath, he referred me to a guy in the pulmonary clinic. I expected it would be a total waste of everybody's time; they would listen to my chest, decide I didn't have pneumonia or asthma, and send me on my way. The rehab guy allowed as how that might be the case, but said he was referring me to somebody with a particular interest in neuromuscular disorders. I was pretty sure they wouldn't find anything wrong, and if they did, there wouldn't be anything they could do about it. But I went.

So last week I show up at the pulmonary clinic. After some puffing and blowing, they tell me my lung capacity is about 50% of normal, and ask if I have any trouble coughing. Well, yeah, as it happens, I do. Giving in to my penchant for overstatement (hyperbole is the best thing ever!), I tell them I'm afraid if I ever get a respiratory infection, I'm toast. So they make me an appointment with a respiratory therapist.

So on Monday I see the respiratory therapist. After some more puffing and blowing, he tells me if I ever get a respiratory infection, I'm toast. Somehow it's more disquieting, coming from him. He gives me a thing that looks like a purple balloon with a hose, and takes Scarecrow and me through some exercises that he describes as range of motion for the lungs. Then he pulls up a machine that is basically a vacuum cleaner with a mask attached. It blows air into your lungs, then sucks it out. It feels... weird. It sounds like, well, like a vacuum cleaner.

The dogs are going to hate this.

Summer Solstice

Celebrating summer solstice today, the longest day of the year. The longest chilly, grey, dreary, gloomy day of the year.

Don't get me wrong. I love living in a place where it starts to get light at 4:30 in the morning this time of year, and isn't really dark until almost 10 at night. I love living in a place that's green all year round, and ferns grow wild. I realize that the flipside of these things is that you get about 15 minutes of daylight in the dead of winter, and it rains a lot. I realize there is a price to be paid. But really, even in Seattle, by mid-June a glimpse of blue sky at some point during the day ought not be a remarkable occurrence. This year, it is. A friend referred to it as June-uary.

So, today is the first day of summer. I'm ready.

Time Flies...

One year ago today was my last day of gainful employment.

It's not an anniversary to celebrate. I wasn't ready to retire. Although my job wasn't my passion -- I was a tech writer, for Pete's sake -- it was interesting, challenging, and I was good at it. It accounted for much of my self image, provided most of my social interactions, and was a reliable source of nerdy techie toys. And, of course, there was the paycheck.

Sometimes I think I should've thrown in the towel sooner than I did. Other times I wonder how I managed to hang on so long.

Other than the significant and painful drop in income, I expected the transition from working to not to be more painful than it was. Since I was already working in a remote, empty office at Bob's Books and Day Care Center, the only difference in my day-to-day routine was that I didn't do any work. Every morning the realization that I don't have to actually accomplish anything still comes as a real relief. I still feel guilty about not having to do any work, and about feeling relieved that I don't have to do any work.

At first, I spent a lot of time getting disentangled from my former day job, and getting disability insurance and SSDI set up. Since then, I'm afraid I've been lamentably indolent. I have made no inroads on the lists of things I thought I would do after I retired. I expected to be bored, but I haven't been. Perhaps I'm just easily amused.

They say time flies when you're having fun. I must be having fun.

Who Am I Hiding From?

I'm still trying to figure out what anonymity means in the blog world, and how anonymous I really am, and how anonymous I want to be. I don't use my name in this blog or in my profile, but really, come on. This is the Internet. If somebody wanted to find out who 'zoomdoggies' is, it wouldn't be hard. So who am I hiding from?

The majority of people who read this blog -- all four of them -- don't know me. We will probably never meet in person. Why do I need to be anonymous to people who don't know me anyway?

I don't. I'm hiding from people I know.

A lot of the stuff that comes up in this blog I wouldn't talk about with most of my family, friends, or acquaintances. It would feel extremely weird, being with them in person, knowing they had read some of these posts. I couldn't say why that is. It's not that they don't know I have MS. I mean, duh. Somehow, it's easy to expose the gory details to people I don't know and will never know. Sharing them with people I know is hard.

It's not that I try to keep the blog secret or anything. This is the Internet, for Pete's sake. I know Scarecrow reads it, and I admit I consciously try not to write anything that's going to piss him off. A couple-three friends know about it; people who, for one reason or another, I trust to read past all the MS and disability stuff and still be my friend. It seems rather a lot to ask, so I generally don't.

I think this came to mind today because I missed the chance to meet some Seattle bloggers, and a couple of not-Seattle bloggers, live and in person. It sounded like a fun get-together and I was really looking forward to it, but the stars just didn't line up. I'm mildly devastated, but I'm dealing with it.

Anyway, it got me thinking. From reading their blogs, I feel like I kind of know these people, even though I really don't. How would it feel once they went from being kind of anonymous to being people I've actually met in person? Even though I still don't know them, it would feel more like I do. Would thinking that people I actually know might be reading what I write change the kind of thing I'd be inclined to write about?

As it turns out, I won't have to confront that question just yet. Maybe I'll find out next time.

Mighty Hunters

The wolves are on the prowl. Narrow wolves, but wolves all the same.

Tuffy is off at the gym. Scarecrow just left to run some errands. The front door clicks shut. No sooner does the sound of the van fade into the distance than I hear narrow little feet trot down the hall towards the kitchen, circle through the utility room, past the dog food bin, back to the kitchen and dining room, down the hall to see if Tuffy left her door open, back up the hall, a quick sweep through the living room, and back to the kitchen. The sharp click of narrow feet on tile means they were scoping out the kitchen counter. A resonant thump on hardwood indicates that anything toothsome that might have been on the dining room table is there no longer. If any of these are followed by the sound of gnawing, I can only hope their hunt came up empty, and they had to settle for a Nylabone. I can usually tell. Paper towels or napkins shred into little tiny bits without much sound. The rustle of a plastic bag or the rending of fabric is probably bad.

At this stage, the slap of the dog door most likely means they found something interesting enough to haul out into the yard. I really hope they didn't find any toilet paper. If it's Tuffy's underwear again, she's really going to be pissed, but maybe she'll stop leaving her laundry on top of the washing machine.



I suppose I should follow them around, telling them "No!" or "Off!" or "Leave it!", as appropriate, even if I know they'll be back into it as soon as my chair is turned. But by the time I catch up with them the hunt is over, the mighty hunters asleep on the couch, or in a patch of sun in the yard, awaiting the return of the rest of our pack. If they ate something, it's been eaten. If they chewed something up, it's already chewed. If they TPd the yard again, at least it's not raining.

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...

Watch It!

Some years before Scarecrow's dad died, he suffered a closed-head injury that left him with a variety of cognitive problems, including severely impaired short-term memory, and social skills that were rudimentary on a good day. I have a vivid mental image of this retired Air Force pilot careening down a grocery store aisle in an electric cart, grumbling at all the little old ladies (this would be Tampa/St. Pete, so, statistically speaking, most of the other shoppers would be little old ladies) to "Watch it!!"

Yesterday afternoon, the wheelchair guy brought a loaner chair outfitted with a head array control for me to try for a couple of days. It has proximity switches in the headrest that control all of the chair's functions -- forward, reverse, direction, tilt, recline, everything. The loaner even goes up and down, which my own chair does not. I realize that, at this point, my options for self-propulsion might be this, or nothing. I realize it will take a while to learn to use, although it's looking like my surroundings could take quite a beating in the interim. I'm sure the controls on my own chair could all be customized to work better for me. While I imagine it would all become second nature after a while, I'm not finding this... ah... intuitive. I'm trying not to be in too much of a hurry to decide I hate it.

Unlike the proportional control of a joystick, with a switch you're either moving, or you're not. If the speed is set so you have a chance of safely negotiating corners and turns, you won't live long enough to get where you're going. Selecting a different speed involves stopping, performing an arcane sequence of taps and bumps to bring up a menu on the display, selecting Speed, choosing a different option, tapping and bumping your way back to the menu, and then proceeding on your way. Wasn't that easy? At least, I think that's the procedure. I wouldn't really know, because banana-slug-speed is still way more than I can safely manage. Although as Patrick at Caregiving Yours pointed out, "Freedom is always fashionable," the additional hardware makes my power chair look even more like a robo-monster than it did before. And, while I'm whining, my neck really hurts!

OK, I admit that one of the less attractive aspects of my personality is that my first response to any new idea, unless of course it's my own, is probably No. I need to keep an open mind. I'll use this contraption until the wheelchair guy comes to reclaim it. I may even get crazy and take it somewhere. You've been warned.

Watch it!

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.

Good Company

Coming and going outside my window this afternoon, in no particular order:

• robin
• black-capped chickadee  (I love these little guys!)
• downy woodpecker
• Steller's jay
• Bewick's wren
• Oregon junco

And eastern gray squirrels, of course, careful to stay out of whippet-reach.

Just puttering around. Nothing exotic, even if I could recognize something exotic, which I probably couldn't. But good company.

I really need to put out a feeder.

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?

World MS Day

Second annual.

woot

Look, I am indebted to organizations that raise awareness of MS, and raise money for research, and all that. They do good work. I appreciate it. I do. I asked my local MS Society chapter for help on a couple of occasions, and got it. A couple of years ago I took advantage of an aquatics program they sponsored at the local YMCA. They sent me information a couple of times, and I appreciate the resources they make available through their web site. I owe them. I know I do.

I guess I feel like I should be more of a booster. It just seems that in the great majority of my interactions with MS organizations, they are asking me for money. There's nothing wrong with that. I know fundraising doesn't just happen. If you want to raise money, you have to ask for it.

Please forgive me if I can't get more excited about the second annual world MS day. I just feel like MS has already taken everything I had to give.

Stop Me if You've Heard This Before

My dad tells the same stories, over and over.

It's hardly surprising. He's almost 90, after all. He's got a lot of stories to tell, and although I've heard most of them before, occasionally he comes up with a new one.

I, on the other hand, am not almost 90, even though some days I look it, and most days I feel it. Still, I'm becoming painfully familiar with the fixed smile and glazed look that Scarecrow and Tuffy get when I start to tell a story they've already heard, but they're too polite to say so. Nothing makes me feel old and absent-minded like getting caught repeating myself. Did I say that already?

Lately I find I forget what I've written about in previous blog posts. The titles don't even sound familiar. I tell myself it's OK. If I repeat myself, I'm just being considerate. After all, one can't assume that anyone who might be reading a blog has read every previous post. If being considerate happens to coincide with being absent-minded, this is one circumstance where I guess it's OK. There are way too many, after all, where it's not.

So if you've heard this before, don't stop me. I want to hear it again.

Celebrating the twentieth of May

One evening the king will say, 'Oh, Liza, old thing —
I want all of England your praises to sing.
Next week, on the twentieth of May,
I proclaim Liza Doolittle day!

Audrey Hepburn was beautiful, but Julie Andrews will always be Liza Doolittle. Just so you know.

OK, I admit it, dark shameful secret: I love musical theater. That's even more humiliating than admitting I like old-timey music, but there it is. Now you know.

It never bothered me that characters burst into song for no apparent reason. The production number with only a tenuous tie to the plot line? Whyever not? Camelot! My Fair Lady! Oklahoma! The Unsinkable Molly Brown! I could rarely afford to see a live performance, but when I did it was a big production, so to speak. A Chorus Line. Irma La Douce. Richard Kiley in Man of La Mancha. Debbie Reynolds and Harve Presnell in Annie Get Your Gun. The Robber Bridegroom (Scarecrow was one half of the two-man on-stage orchestra for the Boarshead Theater production in Lansing Michigan in 1989. I think I saw it four times.)

So, May 20th. Happy Liza Doolittle day.

Why Do We Have So Many Dog Beds?

Whippets have no concept of personal space.

Ernie was not a particularly standoffish greyhound; he just preferred to have a bed to himself. All of our other greyhounds, of either gender, always felt the same way. One dog, one bed. In training and on the track, greyhounds are accustomed to having their own kennel space. When they first come off the track, some retired racers can be pretty testy about being approached where they sleep. Although Ernie was never crabby when Bareit invaded his personal space, he always resignedly got up and went off to sleep someplace else.

It was a thing Bareit could never understand. It's just not part of the whippet mindset. The boys got along fine in every other respect, but their preferences in this regard were irreconcilable.

With two whippets, it's different.

Giada (her registered name is Apex Everyday Italian -- her breeder is a Food Network fan) is now Jasmine, or Jaz. She seems to be settling in fine, thanks for asking. Like Bareit, she's a washout from the show ring. Bareit didn't have the temperament to be a show dog; Jaz didn't have the body. When they're playing in the yard, she doesn't understand why Bareit's always chasing her. Bareit doesn't understand why she's always running away. They'll figure it out. The two of them are well on their way to becoming a dog unit. Jaz is very fond of Tuffy, who is flattered by her attention. Although she's still on her best behavior, she has the potential to be a world-class counter surfer and Bareit's capable partner in creative mischief.

From years of habit we still set out one bed for each dog, but I'm thinking we can reclaim some of our floor space. One greyhound-sized dog bed can probably accommodate 6-8 whippets. Maybe more.

One full-size human bed can accommodate two adult humans and two whippets, although the sharing of covers is a matter of perpetual negotiation. And whippets never have enough pillows.

The Red Queen and the Wheelchair Guy

"Well, in our country," said Alice, still panting a little, "you'd generally get to somewhere else - if you run very fast for a long time, as we've been doing."

"A slow sort of country!" said the Queen. "Now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place."

Lewis Carroll
Through the Looking-Glass

Last week we finally got to meet with the wheelchair guy. He says a joystick control is really the best way to control a power chair and he's probably right about that, but having tried a variety of shapes, sizes, and locations for the joystick on my chair, we had to conclude that I just can't do it that way any more. When a 350-pound chair goes unpredictable places at unpredictable speeds, bad things happen. The plan was to install a head control, to see if it might enhance the safety of persons and property and inattentive whippets in my immediate vicinity. If it works, we can start worrying about what it will cost, and how to pay for it. No point going through the agony and expense involved in procuring durable medical equipment, only to find that the Red Queen is still winning the race.

So the wheelchair guy (I'll call him Mike. Because that's his name.) shows up with an extremely large, user-hostile-looking contraption, which he proposes to install on my chair and position around my head.

After about an hour of plugging and unplugging and twiddling and muttering, he gave up. The control unit, switches, head array, and chair, all made by different manufacturers, are apparently not plug-and-play. At least, they are not plug-and-play-nice. Just as well. The hardware cobbled together for the trial, which Mike assured me was a lot scarier looking than the equipment I would finally wind up with, was plenty scary looking. I already feel like a robo-monster in this chair. I would rather not make it even worse. I would do it, if that's what I have to do to be able to drive this thing. But I would really rather not.

Mike's fallback plan is to get the chair manufacturer to provide a loaner with head controls that I can try for a couple of days. He'll call us when he's got something set up. So once again, we're waiting to hear from the wheelchair guy.

Bareit's New Buddy

Timing is everything.

Although Bareit was doing surprisingly well as an only dog, we really wanted him to have some company during the day. Greyhound Pets recently brought in 22 dogs from Oklahoma. They'll be available for adoption in a couple of weeks, after they've been vetted, neutered, etc. We expected that one of them would become Bareit's new buddy. Really, what's the chance that we'd come across a whippet looking for new digs sooner than that?

Like Bareit, Giada is a refugee from the show ring. She's a sweet little thing, petite and fine-boned. Next to her, Bareit looks like a tank and sounds like he's stomping his feet when he trots down the hall. They got along fine.

What are the chances?

Scarecrow now has two little red and white shadows.

Dancing at Dawn

I might have called this "Confessions of an Ex-Morris Dancer." Although it's been many years since I danced at dawn on May Day, and the Greenwood Morris side no longer exists, I have fond memories of gathering at 5:30am in the Beal Botanical Garden on the MSU campus to dance the sun up. Well, reasonably fond memories. Dawn on May Day in Michigan can still be pretty darned cold. Wet, even, sometimes. Hey, it's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it.

I've still got my Greenwood Morris kit: the green vest with the embroidered badge, the arm bands, the hat with flowers and ribbons and pins, a big stack of white hankies, and of course the bells. When we were clearing out all of our surplus stuff I just couldn't bring myself to let it go. Really, how much space does it take? Besides, you never know. I might need it again someday.

So, I wasn't dancing at dawn on May Day this year, but lucky for you the Lassington Oak, Forest of Dean and Wild Oats Morris dancers were at the summit of May Hill, Gloucestershire to get the job done.



Well, somebody's got to do it.