Still with you. Just…busy.
There’s a clinical trial that I can’t talk much about but it’s in San Francisco and the logistics of traveling in a wheelchair (and at last minute) got me like AAAAAAAA
The house hunt is on hold but I didn’t know it was on hold until we tried putting in an offer on a place and it’s got me going EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
I’m filing for SSDI at last and that will get its own post but for now I’m all BUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHH
I’m reaching the end of my short term disability and my financial situation is drastically changing so I’m going AIIIIIIARGH
The Walk to Defeat ALS is next month but because of all the above I’ve done literally nothing to prepare or promote it and it’s like UUUUUUUUUUUGH
Sadbrain has decided our method of dealing with all the above is: Don’t! and that’s just SFDSSDFGHJHGFDSA
So uh, I’m kinda drowning, here. How are you?
If you call me when I’m sleeping, I’m gonna miss your call. That’s how it is. It’s a physical comedy of errors when the phone rings while I’m sleeping, and it goes like this:
- Realize the phone is even ringing. This has always been a problem, specially if I’m having a weird dream. All my dreams are weird.
- Untangle limbs from the blankets by flailing like a flipped turtle. I sleep with blankets free-floating on the bed, to be scrunched up as body pillows and bolsters as needed. When I fall asleep, I usually have the comforter and sheet across my belly, one blanket scrunched up under each elbow like arm rests, and one bundled up across one shoulder to cradle my head in place. God knows how that looks when I wake up. Some days, all of the blankets are still on the bed. Some days.
- Find the phone. Where is that noise coming from. Unearth it from the stratum of blankets.
- Pick up the phone. This needs both hands.
- Determine who is calling. If it’s someone I need to contact, proceed to step 6. Otherwise, go the hell back to sleep.
- Find the bed remote, to raise the head and sit up.
- No seriously, where is the remote. I left it on my stomach when I fell asleep. Did it fall alongside me? Is this it? No, that’s the AVAP hose. Is this it? No, that’s the catheter tube.
- Seriously where is the fucking remote.
- Give up and try to sit up from laying nearly flat. This involves flailing my arms like a contorted back stroke, realizing I can’t sit up because I’m tangled in a Gordian knot of throw blankets, unearth myself, perform the bed-ridden backstroke again to get myself up on my elbows, and heave myself upright.
- Pull off the AVAP mask.
- Lean over to turn the AVAP machine off.
- It’s too far. Scootch my butt closer so I can reach the button.
- Paw ineffectively at the machine because my fingers are garbage meat noodles, finally manage to turn it off.
- The phone has stopped ringing.
- Find the fucking bed remote lying one inch out of my previous reach.
So yeah, if I’m not anticipating your call, I’m missing it. Leave me a voice mail. I’ll call you once I catch my damned breath.
In this installment of Things It Never Occurred to Me I’d Have To Worry About: Bras.
In a vague way, of course it occurred to me that it would eventually be a problem. But it was kind of lumped in with clothing in general. I knew I’d have trouble dressing, and understood eventually I would require help. It’s the intermediary stage that is proving to be a pain in the ass. Zippers took a little bit of doing, but eventually I figured out that simply adding key rings to the zipper pulls allowed me to work zippers myself. A little device that looks like a Swiss Army knife helps me with buttons. I worked out a trick for pulling up skirts or dresses down by capturing the fabric between my wheelchair and the palm of my hand to hold the fabric stationary and shifting my body. Makeup gets done two-handed these days.
But bras are tricky. They are fiddly things in the best of times. You have to simultaneously tug and latch tiny hooks into tiny eyelets. At my current state, I can tug or I can latch. You get one. And eventually I won’t be able to do that either. So I’m in this weird in between stage, not quite broken enough to require full-time assistance, but not really able-bodied enough to take care of myself completely either. A lot of days I can’t manage the bra, so I just do without. I really don’t like leaving my house with no bra on, it makes me feel trashy and holy SHIT boob sweat is totally a thing. There are some shirts that I cannot wear if I do not have a bra on. So what is a terminally ill woman whose hands are garbage meat noodles to do?
The obvious answer of course, is to get some help. Have someone else do it. And of course I can, eventually I’ll have to, but I’d rather delay that as long as I can. And it seems stupid that someone hasn’t invented something to cope with this problem. I’m not unique. The situation has come up for other people before. There has to be a solution.
Spoiler alert: there really doesn’t seem to be.
I spent more time and money than I’d like to admit trying to figure out a workaround. There are manufactured solutions for women with limited grip due to arthritis or the like, but they pose two problems. One, they usually go only up to a C cup, and I have not been a C cup since I was maybe 16. Even at my thinnest, I have always been a busty girl, and even normal bras were hard to find in my size. It’s easier these days, but in my 20s I had to shop at “big girl” stores before I was a “big girl”. So your medical device of a bra that only goes up to 38C is just not gonna cut it. Two, they’re ugly as shit. I already had problems with only being allowed to have bras in fat girl beige or white – the alternative is spending $40-$60 each at Lane Bryant or somewhere. (Thank God for Torrid. That’s all I have to say.) But cute or not, they still have the hook and eye closure that is rapidly becoming actually impossible.
There are front closing bras, but that offers the same exact hook and eye closure problem. There are no help. Sports bras are great, but they are necessarily restrictively tight and require strength to get on. So-called adhesive bras don’t work. See: busty girl. They just become kind of glorified pasties, no actual support. And as a bonus, they’re made of self-adhesive silicon which never stays on, or they’re basically stickers made with latex, which I am allergic to. Actual pasties or other kinds of nipple cover solve one problem, but a woman really requires structure when she gets of an age and of a size. A good bra is like an all day hug.
I don’t have an actual solution. My workaround currently is nipple cover stickers and really baggy shirts. Or one bra that I have which I can clasp because it’s too big for me so it doesn’t support well. I have to choose between functional and cute – you make that decision often with chronic or terminal conditions. On special occasions when I would like to dress up, I have to get help. (Again I am very lucky that J was my husband at one point so he’s already seen me naked and it’s not as awkward as it might otherwise be. Again, J is amazing.)
There has to be a better way to this. It’s dumb. Someone invent a magnetic clasp bra that’s strong enough to hold a double D. And hurry it up please, I don’t really have a lot of time to wait.
Unless you’re new to this blog, you know I’m an optimist. If you are new to this blog, welcome! Pull up a chair, have a look around. I hope you find something useful here. And oh, by the way, I’m an optimist. I can’t even tell you why that’s so, but I’ve always been. Even when things are absolutely shit, I still believe to the core of me in some way, somehow, things are going to be okay. Even if it’s a new definition of okay. I don’t think it really serves in purpose being pessimistic, because when you’re a pessimist and things go wrong, not only are things bad for you, but you’ve been miserable for a long time up to that point – because you’ve just been waiting for it turned to shit. “I told you so” is a cold comfort. Seeing it coming doesn’t necessarily make anything better. It makes you right, I guess, and if that makes you happy good on you. But the anticipation of misery just makes the lead-up miserable also. Besides, it really will be okay. I know it.
There are those of you out there who call yourself a realist. You’re not, really. You’re just a pessimist without imagination. If you are going to expect things to be bad, at least have some imagination on how you get there.
So, yeah, optimist. Even though the end of my path is set and dark, there’s still a lot of light here. More than I ever would’ve thought possible. I’ve waxed poetic elsewhere and I will again, and again, and again. Because it’s accurate. There is so much good in my life, more than ever thought I deserved, or possible, even. It’s here. I see it. It’sbright and glorious and why I continue to wake up every day.
Some days it’s really fucking hard to see that light. Occasionally the darkness and the unfairness and the all-around bullshit and fuckery that is ALS creeps in the edges and obscures everything until it’s really hard to see anything good. Everything looks like a shit sammich and the world feels awful and hard. And when that happens, I take a spa day. Or rather, a S-P/A Day. A day to sit and think and allow myself to be sad. To dwell in self-pity and anger.
Because I mean, it’s really fucked up. I’m not such an optimist I can’t see how fucked my situation is. It sucks that this disease exists at all. It sucks that I have it. It sucks that I got it so young. I wasn’t even 40 years old yet. You’re not supposed to get this disease until your mid 60s. It sucks that it’s taking my hands, and my joys in life are all to do with using those hands to create. Create delicious things, create drawings, create these words that you’re reading right now. I’ll never make another wedding cake, or draw a pretty girl in a corset, or teach myself to knit, or pick back up calligraphy. No evenings whiled away on video games. No more dancing. I loved to dance. Eventually I won’t even have a voice with which to dictate these words. And alllllllll of that …sucks ass.
It sucks that I was diagnosed less than a year after I bought my house. My life was falling into place. I had a job I really loved, I was going back to school to further that career that I loved. I had signed up for driving lessons to easily get myself from my new house to the job that I loved. I had successfully dropped weight I didn’t want and was fitting in my cute clothes again. My plaid miniskirt was a wardrobe option again. I was wearing medium T-shirts and looking good in them. I was cooking healthy food for myself. I had my very own living room to dance in. I was dancing. I was mayyyyyyyyyyyyybe open for a new romantic possibility; my divorce was amicable and well in the rearview and there had been a few crushes. I was decorating my new home to be exactly the living space I had always wanted. I had a huge, gorgeous backyard just begging for a garden, and I had such plans for that garden.
It’s not. Fucking. Fair.
So yeah. Usually I can take it on the chin and keep smiling and find the good. Because there really is a lot of good. And it almost always outweighs the bad. But some days it doesn’t. It can’t. And on those days I sleep a lot, I take Ativan, I cry, and just generally wallow. I allow myself self-pity. I allow myself to get angry. And when the anger comes, I let it fill me and I feel it to the core and I rage. And I hate. And I keep crying. And then I sleep some more.
And then when it is over, when I’ve given it a whole day, I can put it aside again. I allow it one day of my life, and then the rage and sadness get shunted aside in favor of the day-to-day living that must happen. It gets overshadowed by the joy that still here. My anger serves its purpose and then it’s done. Until the next time. I try not to let mourning for who I could have been – and who I was becoming – overrule the happiness I could still grasp if only I allow myself to look for it. It’s not all doom and gloom, but sometimes it has to be. Just for a little while. So it can fill me, and pass through me, and keep me in touch with my own grief.
Every now and again it’s important to give those emotions their own time, so that I can put them away and get on with the day-to-day living that’s necessary, and to fully appreciate all of the fucking amazing things that are still very much a part of my life.
Wearing a really cool teeshirt that people can’t read because you’re sitting down.
(It’s Friday night. J is over, we’re playing Horizon Zero Dawn. It’s late. We’ve been playing for hours and my back is a little cramped from sitting weird on the bed. Things quickly went sideways.)
we need to move
Ok, Body, we’ll shift a bit.
no, like, we need to move right now. right now. move. need.
the chair i don’t give a fuck need to move now it’s kinda hard to breathe
Ok, I’ve asked J to let us out. We’ll sit in the wheelchair for a little bit. He’s gotten up to go to the bathroom. Let’s take our time.
HEY WHY CAN’T WE BREATHE RIGHT NOW
We can, Brain, but it’s always a little hard to catch our breath when trying to scoot across the bed. It’s an awesome bed, holy crap so comfortable, but damn is it hard to move around in. We’re just short of breath from trying to haul ourselves to the edge. It’s ok.
it’s absolutely not ok
OK YAH SERIOUSLY? WE CAN’T GET AIR IN. LIKE AT ALL.
I can reach the breath stack exerciser. Let’s use that to get a proper breath and then we’ll move some more.
it’s not working can’t breathe
WHY IS IT NOT WORKING WHAT’S GOING ON WHY CAN’T WE BREATHE HOLY SHIT
Calm. We’re just tired, let’s get to the edge of the bed and sit up straight. Expand the lungs.
can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe
Ok, how about the AVAPS machine? It’ll help. It’s designed to breathe when we can’t.
IT WON’T POWER ON WHY WON’T IT POWER ON??? HOLY FUCK!! ARE WE GOING TO DIE RIGHT NOW?! WHY WON’T IT POWER ON? WE ARE DYING!!
can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe
J IS GOING TO COME BACK AND FIND US DEAD ON THE FLOOR IF WE DON’T START BREATHING!! RIGHT NOW!!
Maybe we can call him for help.
not enough breath to yell can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe
WE ARE GOING TO DIE RIGHT NOW
Oh god. We really can’t breathe. What do I do?
You Calm Down. You’re Not Dying.
Um…you’re new. Hello? You are?
Hello. I Am Your Higher Brain.
can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe
YOU KNOW WHAT IF WE DIE RIGHT NOW IT WOULD TOTALLY BE OKAY IF THIS IS WHAT IT’S GOING TO BE LIKE ALL THE TIME BECAUSE WE CAN’T BREATHE
I have a Higher Brain?
Sure. You Know How When You’re In A Crisis, You Get Really Pragmatic And Don’t Panic But Just Do What Needs Doing? That’s Me. I’m The Opposite of Lizard Brain, Your Primal Instincts.
sssssUP, hOW’SSSS iT gOING?
can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe
HEY WE SHOULD TOTALLY CALL 911 RIGHT NOW. TRY TO STAND UP, GET SOME AIR IN HERE?? WE ARE GOING TO DIE. LITERALLY DIE.
I’m standing but it isn’t helping!
can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe
Listen. Calm The Fuck Down. If You Can’t Breathe, You’ll Pass Out. That’s Not Dying. You’ll Have More Than Enough Time For An Ambulance To Arrive. This Is OK.
BUT EVEN IF THEY COME IN TIME THIS IS JUST GOING TO HAPPEN AGAIN AND AGAIN. MAYBE WE SHOULD DIE AND BE DONE WITH IT. THIS IS THE WORST THING THAT’S EVER HAPPENED.
J is here, let’s have him call an ambulance. I’m standing here gasping like a fish and I can’t tell him what’s wrong. Oh no, he’s ..kinda panicking.
Then Don’t You Think We Should Stop?
can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe
STOP WHAT? DYING?
Panicking. If We Calm Down, We Will Be Able To Breathe.
Wait, is that what’s going on? …Is that why we can’t breathe?
ALS Isn’t A Switch. It’s Gradual. You Don’t Suddenly Lose Use Of Your Hands, Why Would You Suddenly Stop Being Able To Breathe?
Oh. Ohhhhhhhhhhh. Shit. OK. Yeah. J even just asked us if that’s what this is. That’s exactly what’s happening. This is a panic attack. This is the worst panic attack I’ve ever had in my entire life, but it is just a panic attack.
can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t oh…ok..i think i remember how to. ok. gonna try to pull in breaths nice and slow. ok. i think we are ok.
NOT DYING! WOOOOOO!! HEY, OUR BAG JUST CAME UNDONE AND WE ARE SECONDHAND PEEING ALLLLLLLL OVER THE CARPET!
My Job Is Done. Later, Guys.
Cool, only now what do I do about calming J down and dealing with the pee going everywhere?
Not My Department.
HEY IT PROBABLY CAME UNSCREWED A BIT WHILE WE WERE SCOOCHING ACROSS THE BED, YEAH? THAT WAS LUCKY.
yeah what, how is this helpful?
WE’RE NOT PANICKING ANYMORE. NOW WE’RE WORRIED ABOUT THIS. THAT WAS A USEFUL DISTRACTION. J’S WORRY AND THIS MINOR CRISIS HELPED PULL US OUT OF THE WORST PANIC ATTACK OF OUR LIVES. OH ANDI GUESS HIGHER BRAIN HELPED A BIT. BUT NOW WE CAN BREATHE. HOLY SHIT THAT WAS SCARY.
You make several fair points.
COURSE. THAT’S WHY I’M THE SMART ONE.
…Whatever You Say.
Well hello. I survived the surgery, it went really well and I am recovering nicely.
…Except for the part where the nurse used chlorhexidine on my hand when starting my IV. Despite the bright red wristband stating I am allergic to chlorhexidine and latex. So that was a weeks worth of itchy fun.
…Except for the part where the IV came out of my hand during surgery so they had to start a new one on my other hand.
…Except for the super nasty UTI that happened and went undiagnosed for a couple of days because I figured it was just irritation from the catheter during surgery. That sucked, really really bad. PROTIP: urine should not be dark and cloudy with red bits floating in it. Get that checked out.
…Except for the doctors really, really not fucking around when they say OxyContin causes constipation. Do not ignore this advice when they tell you to get lots of fiber.
…Except for my hands being unable to fasten and unfasten the elastic bands that keep the bag strapped to my leg. So the bag just kind of kicks it with me in bed.
…Except for the night before last when somehow the bag became unscrewed? And I secondhand peed the bed?
…Except for my body apparently deciding overnight that since I don’t HAVE to use the toilet to pee anymore, getting up off of the toilet is not a thing we get to do. Not easily. Helluva thing to discover at 1 AM due to getting stuck sitting on the toilet for 45 minutes until I finally managed.
All sarcasm and bitterness aside, this thing is fucking amazing. I wore proper underwear for the first time in almost a year. I did not have to put on a pee pad for the first time since October 2017. It’s taking some getting used to, of course – being able to feel balloon inside my bladder has taken some serious adjusting. I also wasn’t really expecting it to be literally a slit cut in my belly with a tube shoved in. There is no connector, no futzy plastic anything, literally a slit with a rubber tube sticking out of it. Thank your lucky stars I’m not about to show that to you. I now have the most hardcore body piercing EVER.
There’s a couple of things I have to do to fully adjust, including hitting up my seamstress friends to help me build some kind of a cover for this thing – so that it doesn’t accidentally become unscrewed again, I don’t get super sweaty having this plastic thing that doesn’t breathe sitting against my skin, and I don’t have to look at a literal bag of urine sitting next to me all the time. I want to get some fat quarters of spooky fabrics and make cute little bags to stick the bag in and disguise it somewhat. Anything to make it look even a little less than exactly what it is.
For now though, I am obscenely grateful for having only to get up once or twice to empty this thing a day, which only involves me getting in the wheelchair and rolling up to the toilet to dump it. I don’t have to transfer all if I really didn’t want to, I have a receptacle to empty the bag into while still sitting in bed. But so far it hasn’t been a problem. I’m not sitting in my own pee right now. I can’t tell you how amazing it feels to be DRY. How awesome it is to be able to wear my cute underwear again. It was worth it. Absolutely no question about it. I’m so glad I did this.
And I’m sure you’re super glad too, because this is hopefully the end of my urine stories. I’m not even gonna make the title a pee pun. You’re welcome.
When will I stop writing about urine, I hear you ask.
NOT FUCKING TODAY, FRIENDS.
Strap on your diapers, because I am not done yet. BUT MAYBE SOON!! For today I’ma tell you how my urology appointment went.
The short answer is: disasterously, and then really well. The longer answer is: I fucked up and thought my appointment was at 10:30, not 10, and so I missed it like an idiot. I made another appointment for their next free spot, June 4th. Meh. Luckily, someone ELSE fucked up THEIR appointment and missed it, so they called me as I was wheeling myself back to my van and they were able to see me after all.
Two wrongs do, in FACT, make a right.
Sooooo I wheeled myself back to their clinic, we filled in my new patient paperwork even though I am not a new patient, and after all the stress of the morning, J and I got a bit testy with it. “Please list all of your medications” it said. “Go fuck yourselves, you already have this information like eleven times and I am NOT WRITING OUT ALL THIRTEEN MEDICATIONS AND VITAMINS I TAKE,” I thought, and J angrily wrote in “see your records”. I felt guilty for like…a microsecond, because they were being nice and seeing me after I fucked up but HOLY SHIT SERIOUSLY YOU GUYS ALREADY HAVE THIS INFO AND MY HANDS DO NOT WORK SO I WILL NOT BE WRITING YOU A LIST. AGAIN.
We were called back to the room. I was cheerfully asked if I could provide a urine sample. I thought, but did NOT say, that they were welcome to wring out my diaper for some if they want it that badly. Out loud I said that would be very hard, can we skip it. She cheerfully said it was no problem, ushered us to our room, and then came back with an ultrasound machine to see how much urine I had in my bladder. Luckily I was able to lean back my wheelchair so she could turn down the waistband of my skirt to get goop all over me, swipe a wand across my belly, and announce I have 208.
208 what, was never explained.
She disappeared and the urologist came in. I am getting of an age, finally, when sometimes my doctors are younger than I am, but my first thought was “what is she, TWELVE??” so I had to quiet my internal grandma. In order to address my outer grandma problems. She recapped my problems in a nutshell, from my records, to see if she understood properly. She pulled a list of my meds from her chart folder to confirm them with me.
I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO.
She asked how often I get up to go to the bathroom. 3 or 4 times a day, I told her, but it’s closer to say anymore that I go to the bathroom, then get up. Or get up as I am going. Depends on the day. Depends on my body. Depends, literally, are on my body. I would like that no longer to be necessary. She told me that 4 times a day isn’t enough, I really should be going every 3 or 4 hours.
My heart sank. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE DO NOT SUGGEST KEGELS AND REGULAR BATHROOM BREAKS. PLEASE. PLEASE KNOW WHAT ALS IS. I CAME TO YOU BECAUSE THE OTHER ONE DIDN’T.
“That said,” she told me, her manner becoming instantly less dismissive, “that isn’t very useful to you. You can’t spend half your day and all of your energy just peeing. Not to mention the dramatic increase in fall risk, from transferring in and out of your chair all day.”
The heavens split asunder and choirs of angels with pom poms appeared in the sky and the stars spelled out SHE FUCKING GETS IT. I remembered to breathe.
“Let’s talk options,” she said, and she told me everything I’d already researched myself. We agreed the superpubic catheter was a great option for me, she told me the risks and rewards. It’s a procedure done under sedation, she said, but she’s done emergency ones at bedside with just a local; it’s really simple. I did not tell her I had watched a video of one being done bedside. She said her people would call me to schedule the procedure, and to expect to have it done within the month.
Just like that, five minutes. All agreed and going. They called me the next day. My procedure is on the 4th, the day my rescheduled appointment was supposed to be. Within 2 weeks, I will be on my way to diaper independence. I have so many pairs of cute underwear I can not wait to be able to wear again. I can wear my awesome leggings again without having to worry about peeing them if I can’t peel them off fast enough. I will be done sitting in my own urine because I could not get out of bed fast enough and wondering if I have the energy to get up and do something about it or not.
I will be done telling complete strangers on the internet all about my incontinence.
And now you’re as excited about this as I am.
ALS is whittling my body, and marking it as it goes. Most of the changes to my body are slow, gradual shifts that are only noticed once the damage has gone pretty far. Holy shit, I’ll realize one day, the palm of my hand is concave at the base of my thumb. Huh. My calf just tapers from my knee to ankle, instead of the graceful curve it used to have. A slow, glacial injury without drama, but still with much import.
Some of the marks ALS has left on me were more sudden; sharp, violent signs of change. I’m no stranger to scars – I used to self-harm as a teen, into my twenties, and what is a tattoo after all but a pattern of scars filled with ink? Each of these little marks my disease has left me tells a little piece of my story – a concession, a loss, a search for an answer.
The first scar is the first nail in my coffin. One and a half inches, on the outside of my left thigh. A thin, straight line of white against pale skin, flesh tone once described as “ghost-ass white”. I’m regaining sensation there, but for a long time it was a patch of numb skin. I got this scar from the biopsy that sealed my diagnosis. A little chunk of flesh taken to examine for nerve degeneration, degeneration that was confirmed and my fate thus sealed.
The second scar was First Blood. An L shaped mark behind my right side, under my rib cage. I took a fall getting out of a car, catching my flesh on the corner of the door as I went down. My first disease related injury, and sadly not the last – but so far the only one to leave a mark on the map of my body.
The third scar is two-part. A dash and a dot. The scars of my port surgery. A dot over the right artery in my neck, where a line was fished through, snaked into my system of valves and tubes and blood, and connected to a bubble of plastic that rests under the second scar. A one inch line cut and pulled apart for the port to be shoved in and connected to the plumbing. This was a violent scar but a relief to get; it’s made infusions of medicine indescribably easier. My only visible to the public scar, a surgical badge of Legitimately Sick.
The fourth scar is one of persistence. A year of puncturing the port for infusion has left a pink dot under the incision line. Scar tissue building up with each stab, eventually making the stabs less painful. A welcome scar.
I have an appointment on the 20th of May to discuss acquiring my fifth scar, the scar that will hopefully make my life oh-my-GOD so much easier. I’ll speak with a urologist actually familiar with ALS and therefore not liable to suggest that I do some motherfucking Kegels to keep from peeing myself all the time. I’ll ask for a superpubic catheter to be inserted, and hopefully get approval and a surgery date. And hopefully then I can go back to wearing clothes that I don’t have to strategize how to get out of in 30 seconds or less otherwise they get peed on. I wanna wear my shark onesie again.
I’m willing to get a scar over it.
Okay kids, it’s that time again. Let’s have the update on the status of things.
My first appointment of the day was with the social worker from the ALS Association. I was introduced to a new employee, and I had been asked if this new employee could sit in with me for the whole day to get an idea of what clinic is about. I’ve had a couple people sitting with my sessions; I think I’m a good candidate for kind of easing someone into the job. I’m not so far down the road that I’m a bitter, depressing train wreck, I’ve got a pretty good attitude about things, and – as evidenced by this blog – I am not opposed to sharing. He was a really nice guy and understood a lot of the gaming and geek references that J, Gecko, and I shot back and forth with each other throughout the appointments as usual. There was nothing new to report on my part for this segment, the house search is still ongoing, the appeals for help are coming along, I’m doing okay here.
Second appointment was with Kelly the dietitian. Because she is also my friend, she had brought me birthday presents of two graphic novels from a series I adore called Lackadaisy. Happy birthday to meeeee! The official part of my appointment went smooth as usual, I received my typical good-natured lecture about drinking water instead of soda, otherwise everything checked out. I remarked to Tony, the observer, that presents aren’t usually part of appointments, but I would never be upset if they were. ALS shuld come with fabulous prizes. Or at least an administrative assistant. Kelly is incredibly thoughtful and it’s a pleasure to be her friend – not just for the comic books.
Third appointment was nursing. I had a few things to talk about here, things that would be addressed by the corresponding specialists as the appointments happened that day, but it’s always good to give the nurse a heads up so she knows what to follow up on.
Fourth was respiratory. My absolute least favorite appointment of all time. We started with the standard cough check, which is still great. Second thing we always do is check my inhale capacity, a test where I put a mask over my nose and mouth and inhale as sharply and strongly as I can. I’ve always done really well on this test. The respiratory specialist agreed with me and told me my sucking was great, upon which J, Gecko, and I did our level best to not lose our shit laughing. We are 12. The last test is the worst one, where I lean into a mask again with my nose plugged and after a couple normal breaths I forcibly exhale as much as I can and keep exhaling and keep exhaling until I feel like I’m breathing myself inside out, and then sharp inhale. I do this three times. During this appointment, the test machine said “great effort!” on all three tries, which it doesn’t always do, so I felt really encouraged. Until she told me my breathing had actually still gone down a bit. Not as dramatically as before, though. Still not dangerous levels yet, but still very much declining. I tried not to get discouraged and mostly succeeded.
Appointment number five was neurology with Dr. Olney, the new partner for Dr. Goslin. I mentioned to him the biting my tongue in my sleep thing, and how I’ve been using a night guard to get around it, and he asked me a very obvious question. “When did you start your new medication, again?” I replied it was… Right around when I started biting my tongue. Derp. It had not occurred to me at all that it might’ve been the side effect of the new medication, but when he asked that question it seemed very obvious that it was the problem. It’s still not a dealbreaker, just like the weird sleep pattern is not dealbreaker. That is the price I pay for not spiraling into a black mood at 4 AM every day, and it is worth the price of admission. I also talked to him about bladder control, or in my case the absolute lack of, as a follow-up to my previous conversation with Dr. Goslin. She had told me what my options were, and I went home and researched the mall because that’s what I do, and I had pretty much made up my mind how I would like to address this. I’m getting really sick of wearing adult diapers, they’re expensive, and they don’t always work properly and I wind up wetting the dang bed anyway, and I’m getting preeeeeeetty tired of sitting in my own pee. I have two options for a catheter, one is the traditional Foley catheter which is just a tube snaking into your urethra and a bag attached to the other end. It’s functional, but prone to infection, and for women it’s not something that is fun to have to sit on at all times. The other option, the one I’m now pursuing, is called a superpubic catheter. It’s where they punch a hole into your abdominal wall, connecting a tube through there, which drains into a bag, same as the other. It’s reversible, it’s not a horrible procedure to have to endure, and it would eliminate the need for a very uncomfortable tube in a very sensitive place. We talked about my previous experience with the urologist, how I stopped going to her because it was obvious she had no idea what ALS was. (Here’s a clue: we are not going to fix my problem by doing Kegel exercises.) He gave me the names of two urologists that have worked with their patients before and were trusted. I’ll keep you posted on how this goes.
Sixth appointment was pulmonology. The last clinic had me meeting with the pulmonologist also,and so this is a new part of the Clinic routine. My standard physician was on vacation in New Zealand (jealous!) so I had seen a practice partner. Who I actually really liked, though my regular doctor isn’t a bad guy at all; his partner has a better sense of humor is all. He had grabbed my breathing machine records from the net, because my AVAPS automatically uploads my sleep reports to the cloud and that’s not even creepy at all what are you talking about. He was overall pretty happy with my results, but still chided me about needing to use my machine for more than four hours a night to get the best results, and more than 60% of the time. I was properly chastised and promised to be better about using the machine. Which I stayed true to by the way. So far. J came over and helped me this last weekend with cleaning and organizing, and now my AVAPS doesn’t live on the arm of my wheelchair or the corner of my bed anymore, it has a proper home now, on a shelf just out of reach when I’m lying in bed. Since I have to wake up properly and sit up to turn the machine off, I’m not pulling the mask off after only four hours anymore. I also was encouraged to keep up with breath stacking. Because of course I was.
Seventh and final appointment was with PT/OT. I didn’t get to see Deb unfortunately, but I like all the specialists. We breezed through the appointments since I didn’t really have anything to report. We tried the grip meter on my left hand just for funsies, and it registered nothing at all. “…You got it to move,” she told me encouragingly. But not enough to register as a grip. Meh. I promised to hit them up when I start needing help with other things, like toileting and whatnot. I’m still doing pretty okay on my own with those things, for now. But I will be very happy when I don’t have to get up to pee anymore. I can still do the necessary things, but only having to do them once a day instead of four or five will be a very welcome change.
So that’s what we did. And that’s how it went. Steady as she goes, with nothing new to report except a 6% decrease in breathing capacity. They didn’t even have me bother talking to speech therapy this time; I never have anything to report. Oh, there is one weird thing that happened. We did the FERS scale and my self-evaluation actually had me at 32, higher than the 26 I was last time. When I got the letter afterwards, they hadofficially put me at a 30. Which is still higher than it was last time? I have another appointment with Dr. Goslin in a few weeks and I will ask her about that then.
And now you are up-to-date.
Five years ago today, my life was split in two. My life B.C. (Before Crisis) and A.D. (After Diagnosis)
Five years ago I was told I was going to die. Pretty horribly. My prognosis wasn’t great. ALS typically kills you in 3 to 5 years. I had a feeling I had a few years – my progression was pretty slow. Six months after exhibiting any symptoms, I was still on my feet with no assistance, no degradation in my hands, breathing was excellent, swallowing and speech still perfect.
Only ten percent of people with ALS live longer than 10 years. I optimistically vowed to be among them. (….as if I have any control.)
It’s five years later, and I’m still doing pretty well, all things considered. I may make ten years yet, though I don’t think so, honestly. I’m definitely showing signs of wear. I can no longer stand, let alone walk, without assistance. When I try REAL hard, I can still sliiiiightly move the big toe of my left foot sometimes. My hands are near useless garbage meat noodles,
my posture like a T.Rex . I can curl my fingers in but not flex them out, the only digits I still have some control over is my thumbs. I type with the knuckles of my index fingers. Bladder control is completely a thing of the past. My breathing is getting shitty, but it’s nothing I need assistance with, yet.
This last month, I’ve started to exhibit bulbar symptoms. Mannnnnnnnnnnnnn it’s hard to admit that. I’ve been biting my tongue in my sleep, but luckily I already had a night guard so it’s not a problem. No choking or drooling or slurring yet, but my tongue sometimes gets a little tired if I’m eating something really chewy or hard.
It’s not the end of me, but I’m starting to think I can see it from here.
Not sure I’ve got another five years, but I’m going to try like hell. I’m pretty confident I won’t make it to fifty years old. (..This disease sucks, man, don’t get it.)
I have outlived the average. Some folks don’t even get one year. I’ve gotten FIVE. So far. It’s been such a rare privilege to make friends with my own death, to know what’s coming and have a chance to plan for it. My employer had amazing benefits and was completely understanding. My friends, my circle, they have my back in ways I never would have dared to expect. I was already death positive and prepared to think about my own demise in very real ways. I am doing SO WELL, all things considered. I was positioned to handle this with some grace and lots of support.
This sucks, but it could have been so. much. worse.
Tonight, instead of mourning my life that won’t be, I can celebrate the life I’ve had so far. Old school – I’m throwing a freaking pizza party to mark beating the typical prognosis. It’s going to be great to be with my planets, to eat and have some laughs and be grateful for five years of life so far. A very full life containing an amazing cast, fantastic sets, a very interesting plot. I will have hopefully been a source of light for someone, a sliver of kindness, maybe a laugh or two. I have cool tattoos and cute cats and enough stickers to have my own boutique. I am eating delicious things with the best people.
When people ask how I’m doing, I tell them “so far, so good”.
And I really, truly mean it. My life, she don’t suck, you know?
Here’s to another five years. Let’s see where this road leads.
If I am approaching you from behind in my wheelchair, and I gently say “excuse me?”, or tap you on the shoulder if you can’t hear me, what I need you to do is:
1) Take one or two steps forward so that I can get behind you,
2) Watch your toes
That’s literally it. What I do not mean for you to do is:
1) Wheel around dramatically, see me in my wheelchair, apologize loudly and profusely, and make a big show of getting out of my way
2) Injure yourself in an effort to remove yourself from my path
3) Manhandle your friends/family and shove them out of my way
I promise you – wheelchairs are not contagious. I just need a couple extra inches of floor space, and your situational awareness so that you don’t accidentally back into me, that’s all.
Please go about your business.
*This post brought to you by the girl at Salt & Straw who literally fell into her friend’s laps trying to get out of my way last Sunday.
So as usual, it’s 3 AM and instead of sleep I am staring at the ceiling. It’s been kind of a rough day. I took a shower, which anymore is a Herculean task and wears me out pretty well. J came over and shaved my head for me, and the shower afterwards was both marvelous relief from all the little itchy bits and frustration at my newfound inability to scrub my skin properly. I am out of breath, tired, and not completely clean when I get out. I feel a little defeated, if I’m being honest. I’m still doing infusions, and so there is two weeks out of the month when I cannot take a shower. I scrub the best as I can with washcloth and baby wipes, and after the last infusion of the cycle is done I take a very long warm soak in the shower. It feels like a second skin sloughs off and it feels wonderful. Anymore though, my attempts to scrub are coming up short.
After J goes home, I’m sitting in bed and screwing around on the Internet as always and someone posts a meme on Facebook gets under my skin. It wasn’t directed at me personally, but it was something I am six shades of defensive about and it bothers me a lot. I left a sarcastic comment reply, closed my laptop, and declare that’s enough Internet for one day. As usual it takes me a very long time to fall asleep. As usual it’s because of unwanted conversation.
I feel a little queasy.
hey uh sorry about that i think it’s the new meds
Oh, hey, Body. How’s it going.
not so great today. i couldn’t get hands to work proper, so now i’m not actually as clean as i want to be, but i really don’t think there’s anything i can do about that? i mean i’m trying really hard?
Yeah, that sucks. It’s almost time to admit defeat,huh?
HEY LOSERS WHAT’S HAPPENING
What’s up, Brain. Kind of expected you earlier to be honest. Body and I were just talking and it’s probably time to start thinking about getting some help for real.
YEAH THAT SUCKS AND I DON’T WANT TO THINK ABOUT THAT.
Well, we’re going to have to. Eventually. And you know this.
WELL LIZ IS COMING OVER TUESDAY TO START TALKING ABOUT SHARE THE CARE NONSENSE. LET’S DEAL WITH THAT THEN.
We kind of need to think about that beforehand, though. And Liz can’t really help us come to terms with needing bathing assistance. She didn’t sign on for that. That’s something we have to do.
HEY REMEMBER THE SONGS WE USED TO SING IN SUNDAY SCHOOL?
… are you serious right now
For real though, Brain. I need you to focus for a second.
FAAAAAAAAAAAAATHEEEEEERRRRRRRR ABRAHAM! HAD MANY SONS!
Are you fucking kidding me right now. Brain.
MANY SONS HAD FAAAAAAAAAAAATHER ABRAHAM!
Dude. Get your shit together. This is serious. Body is not really able to help us as well as she used to. I’m not asking you to pick up the slack or anything, we all know that you can’t. You know Body is going to fail us completely, and you and I need a plan for when that happens.
i don’t want to let you down
I AM ONE OF THEM
I know that. It’s not your fault.
whose fault is it then
I really wish I knew. I’d kick their teeth in.
well we couldn’t really. not anymore
AND SO ARE YOU
Yeah I know that too . But we have an entire posse full of people willing to do it for us.
we are really lucky aren’t we. all things considered
HEY HEY HEY
YES, Brain, what.
REMEMBER IN SUNDAY SCHOOL? THE SONG WITH THE STOP AND GO SIGNS? AND HOW IT WOULD COMPLETELY MAKE OUR WEEK IF WE WERE THE ONES PICKED ON TO HOLD UP THE SIGNS DURING THE SONGS? WITH THE LYRICS ON THE BACK? “STOP!! AND LET ME TELL YOU”? REMEMBER HOW PROUD WE WERE WHEN SISTER MENG CALLED ON US TO LEAD THE SONGS?
….Yeah. What about it?
I MISS THAT. LIFE WAS SO MUCH SIMPLER.
i could do anything
Yeah. I miss that too.
DEEP! AND WIDE! DEEP! AND WIDE!
Yep. So much simpler. Go to sleep, asshole.
Excuse me while I slip into my patented Rants Pants ™.
I’m going to make a very simple, polite request of you, and then I’m going to share a maddening picture, and then I’m going to rant for a bit. Ready? Here we go!
A simple request: please do not use the phrase “wheelchair-bound” or “confined to a wheelchair”.
Here is the picture:
DISCLAIMER: I actually love the sculpture here. It’s a very sweet tribute, and a very impressive bit of engineering. The picture’s awesome except that caption.
Okay. Here’s the rant:
I get what the original picture was going for, and it’s a very sweet sentiment, and the person who posted that picture meant well. How-the-fuck-ever, it is not accurate, honest, or just. It is exactly backwards. The wheelchair is not the confinement, it is the freedom. The wheelchair is not the problem, it is the goddamn solution. Until there is a cure for ALS, the closest thing we have is motherfucking technology. This modern miracle of metal and plastic and circuitry is the only reason I have anything close to a semblance of a normal life anymore.
I ain’t confined to SHIT.
The only thing I am bound to is this defective body. I am beholden to this shit-tastic disease. I am not confined to my wheelchair. I am not bound to it. It is not some magical item that I need to spend willpower on to activate. (That was an nerd reference for nerds.) The only binding my wheelchair provides is in the very literal sense when I am seatbelted into it for safety.
My wheelchair, the $47,000 marvel of technology that is the SS Opportunity, is my freedom.
Without my wheelchair, I would’ve had to quit my job more than six months before I actually did. Because I had the wheelchair, I was able to stick it out at work and have the energy to show up every day and do my work and still have some bit of energy left at the end of the day. Without it, I often went without lunch because I simply did not have the energy to go downstairs – literally immediately downstairs – to get some lunch. Without it, I had to constantly bother my fellow employees to do basic tasks that were actually part of my job such as fetching packages and mail because I did not have free hands to carry those things because I had a death grip on my walker. Without my wheelchair, I had to agonizingly plan every aspect of my work day to best budget the limited energy I had with my walker to get around. Without my wheelchair, I would have missed every work meeting I was not able to dial into. I would have missed every break room celebration of birthdays. Without it, I spent every day dehydrated because I couldn’t bring myself to ask a coworker to bring me something to drink as often as I needed it. Without it, I literally peed my pants at work because I was not able to get to the bathroom fast enough.
Even after my disability deprived me of my job, my wheelchair continues to afford me amazing freedom. Without my wheelchair, there would be no quick trips on my own to check the mail. Without my wheelchair, I would have to ask other people to lay out my clothes for me literally every fucking day because without it I cannot get into my closet. Without it, there would be no getting out of this apartment when I go stir crazy to catch a few Pokémon or whatever. Without my wheelchair, I would be confined to bed. All the time. There would be no grocery trips, no game nights, no dinners out with friends. My wheelchair allows me to do these things. My wheelchair is literally the only thing that allows me to leave the house. At all. Ever.
I fucking love my wheelchair.
So please, please stop saying ‘bound to a wheelchair’ or ‘confined’ or any other limiting word that is the exact opposite of what a wheelchair truly is. Until medical insurance covers palanquins, it is the key to my independence and literally the most liberating thing that I own.
Okay, thank you for coming to my TED Talk. I’m going to take my Rants Pants ™ off now.
I love you. Please go about your business. And enjoy your freedom, as I enjoy mine.
We pulled up to the parking lot, slid into the disabled spot, and J activated the ramp. (Common. Rote. Standard.) He unfastened all of the tiedowns connecting my chair to the vehicle, and stepped back so that I could navigate my exit. (As usual. Like always.)
This time however, we had a witness. I mean, we often have a witness – the van makes a lot of noise when it deploys the ramp and the sounds tends to attract gazes. This witness was just vocal. (Uncommon. Nonstandard. Weird.) Our witness that night was parked beside us and made herself known by exclaiming how wonderful the van was and how lucky I was to have it. It was so cool, she said, the way I could just drive my chair right up inside and park up front. I agreed with her, of course; commenting on the marvelous freedom it affords me, and we spoke for a little while about how it was important to me that I was able to ride alongside the driver seat and not have a rear entrance van – making me effectively cargo. We spoke also about the minor problems I have had with said van (this was before the brakes melted), about the lengths I went to in order to purchase it in the first place, but mainly we had a pleasant chat about the marvel of modern engineering that this man was and how much freedom it afforded me. She then turned to J, beaming, “and you’re so lucky to have a good husband to help you.”
…We get that a lot.
I didn’t correct her. We never do.
To be fair, he used to be my husband. Now he’s my best friend. Because of that, there is a very easy intimacy between us, a lack of distance that typically exists even with the closest friendships. He hugs me a lot, we have excellent non-verbal communication between us, and it’s easy for an outsider to mistake our relationship for that of a married couple. We live in a touch-starved society, and here is this guy who can so casually rub my shoulders or hold my hand when I am in an emotional crisis, who is cutting my food for me and escorting me everywhere, so OBVIOUSLY he must be my husband, right?
But yes, I agreed – I am so incredibly lucky to have him.
I am jealous of people who get diagnosed with ALS who have a spouse, if I’m being fair and honest with myself. Although intellectually I understand that no relationship is guaranteed, and sometimes marriages don’t last through a terminal disease, most of them do. Till death did they part. Having someone that intimate with you, that connected with you, and consistently present for you – I am so incredibly jealous of that. You have a built-in partner through all of this bullshit. Not a guaranteed slave at your beck and call or anything, but the security of having someone who will of course be there to fetch you a glass of water when you need it, to help you to the toilet when you’re at that point of helplessness.
((I absolutely know to the core of me that if I had been married when I was diagnosed, I would totally have given my partner the option to walk away forever and pursue a different life without dealing with me dying – even though I know there’s no way they ever would. Probably. I gave all of my friends the same option. Some of them took it, but most of them didn’t. Dealing with a terminal disease sucks for everyone.))
Even though your primary medical caregiver should never be your spouse, there is a lot of automatic care that is assumed with being married to someone with a complicated disease. I don’t have that built-in automatic assurance. I don’t have someone sleeping in the bed beside me who can help me turn over at 3 AM. I don’t have someone sharing the same space as me to whom I can turn for petty little things and I do not mind asking, because they are already around and the thing I need is so minor. Instead, I live with my blind mother who can’t tend to a lot of those stupid little things I’d like done, such as to open the window blinds for me or light a candle or move these five books to a different bookshelf. It’s kind of a major undertaking for her, and impossible for me. I can call her into the room to take a dish away, but I’m lacking someone who would be sitting beside me anyway and would automatically be taking my dish with his or hers. A built-in partner to help me navigate all the fuckery.
What I do have however, is this amazing human being who has stepped up to provide a lot of the day-to-day shit that needs doing, without needing to be asked. When my planned caregiver left me, J stepped in with no complaint and an easy grace. And I am very very lucky in that, since we used to be married, I am very comfortable with him and have a built-in intimacy that I simply don’t have with any of the rest of my friends. I’m not embarrassed at the end of the day when he drops me off at my apartment to ask him to unhook my bra for me before he leaves because it’s very simple for him to do, very very difficult for me to do, and the dude has seen me naked a lot so who even cares. Eventually I won’t have a choice but to develop the same intimacy with us a lot of people, be they friends or paid caregivers. But for now, he is the one I turned to when I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t get out of bed to pee fast enough and suddenly needed someone to change my sheets. After I spent the rest of the night sleeping on a towel because it was 4am for fuck’s sake. I was embarrassed to ask, of course; it’s not an easy thing to tell another human being that you, a grown-ass woman, wet the bed last night so thank God for mattress protectors but could you please change my bed for me? But since he is my ex-husband, that intimacy already exists to a certain level (I mean, the man held a bloody barf bag for me after I had post-tonsillectomy nausea soooooooo everything else is easy-peasy after that, surely), and it was very organic for us to slide into this new development together. It is much easier to admit weakness to someone who has lived with you for 10 years and seeing you already go through some serious shit. We survived divorce; dealing with this terminal disease together is practically a piece of cake compared to that.
I am so lucky to have him.
I love him more than… Probably every other human being on this planet if I’m being honest. He is the best one.
As of this last Valentine’s Day, it was 10 years ago we were married. I’ve known him nearly 20. He is my best friend, my primary caregiver, my confidant, my buddy, my chauffeur, my personal assistant, my first and true love. I am a very, very lucky woman to have him in my life, to have been able to maintain this level of friendship even after our romantic relationship fell apart. I personally don’t understand being able to have an intimate relationship with someone for 10 years of your life, and then just walk away from it when that relationship goes wrong and never speak to that person again. It’s unfathomable to me. Literally no one on this planet knows me as well as he does. Not everyone can do that though, let go of the sense of failure and hurt and maintain a positive relationship afterwards. For me though, there was literally no other option. Even though the romance part of it didn’t work out, I love him to the ends of the earth and with every fiber of my being. That love is just different now.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that J is pretty neat. I like him a lot.
I just felt like I should state that for the record.
…First and foremost I apologize in advance, because this is going to get very exclamation point heavy and rambling. I can already tell. I know the gist of what I want to say, but not quite how I’m going to get there. I’ve spent a lot of the past four days completely speechless. In the best way. In a way I never thought possible.
So I guess I will start with reiterating that I am – and have always been, and almost to the level of naivety – an optimist. Even on my way to the appointment in which I was diagnosed with a terminal disease, I felt to my core that things are going to be okay. On my way home from that appointment, I still felt that way; although my definition of okay had changed. For all of my life, and especially for all of this shitty journey with this sucky disease, I knew – KNEW! – my tribe would rally when I needed them. My anxiety lies to me every day, and it lied so much harder and longer when I was younger about the tribe I had; or specifically, that I didn’t have the tribe I thought I did. I knew I was loved, of course, but my anxiety loves to tell me that I don’t have the level of love and support that I would like to think. Once I was diagnosed, that particular anxiety has fucked off forever because my faith in my tribe was swapped for concrete proof. People I didn’t even know very well showed up out of the woodwork to help. People it never even would have occurred to me would show up, did. In full force and with open hearts. When I had to leave my house and cram my life into a much smaller apartment, the core optimist in me knew I would have some help when I asked for it. Concrete proof arrived in the form of 14 friends showing up that day.
I am loved and I knew this. I am loved and you proved this.
I’ve kind of always been a mom friend. Caretaker. I considered it my job to make sure that my friends were okay, basing so much of my pride on my own self-reliance. I am the helper, not the helped. I knew I had people I could rely on for help, but I focused so much of my life and energy on proving to myself and to the world at large that I didn’t need them to. That has been the singular hardest part of this whole stupid disease so far. Admitting that I do in fact need them to. Will in fact increasingly rely upon them to. Will be completely unable to do anything by myself, at all, at some point. My life will become nothing but relying on other people. That’s been the worst part. Not losing my ability to walk, not being unable to control something so basic as my bladder, not losing my job, but knowing that I am going to be completely, utterly helpless. My strongest personality trait, my core sense of identity and pride, taken from me. It’s suuuuuuuuuper shitty.
In the early days of my diagnosis, I had Danielle. Thanks to her, in the early days I didn’t have to ask for anything because she asked on my behalf. We both knew that everything about this disease was going to be expensive, and she set up a CrowdRise fundraiser on my behalf. She organized my garage sale amazingly. Seriously, we had complete strangers complementing how well organized that sale was. It was really pretty amazing and made me a fair bit of money. Money used for moving expenses, and then lawyers fees, and then we stashed the rest away for the next inevitable crisis. Eventually CrowdRise kind of went defunct and became nonprofit only, and that account got closed. Over the last year or so, a few people have asked what happened to it because they had wanted to donate and were unable to. I could never quite bring myself to reopen that account because it was… You know, asking for help. It was something I always meant to do, and knew I probably would someday, I just needed to ask for help with it.
HAHAHAHA ASK FOR HELP. HOO-BOY.
Six days ago on Facebook, I made a post about these amazing mourning bracelets I found online. In the post I said that I was budgeting to hand these out at my funeral. And I am! Because they are amazing and important and you should totally check out that link. But in the comments for that post, along with many of my friends agreeing that the idea was amazing and awesome and worthy, a friend I’ve known forever mentioned again that I really ought to have some kind of fundraiser going. I’m budgeting for my own funeral, and they would like to help. Several friends chimed in to agree. My amazing friend Megan, who had taken over the account from Danielle when that relationship broke apart, hit me up to ask what I would like to do about it. She was happy to set a new one up for me, but she’s in Seattle and I’m in Portland and she would feel much better if the account were handled by someone locally. Which makes a lot of sense; I agreed with her that if some disaster were to befall me (like, as I explained to J later, my van breaking down and suddenly needing hundreds of dollars in repairs, for instance) I would need money right away and couldn’t necessarily wait for a bank transfer.
(In retrospect, I jinxed the fuck out of myself with that one, huh?)
We looked at local laws, and disability regulations, and Medi-Cal requirements and came to the conclusion there was really no reason for anyone to handle any aspect of the account but me. So, Sunday I went about resurrecting an old bank account that had sat idle since my mortgage payments. That took a lot of doing, as they’d put a hold on the account for lack of use, and apparently I had not changed my address with that bank and they have been happily charging me five dollars a month since April 2016 because my mailing address was wrong. Even though my account is paperless? And literally has always been? And they made no effort to call or email me to tell me they were charging me for having the wrong address for all the shit they’re not mailing me anyway? I’m in the middle of arguing with them about that one. Banks suck. Regardless, the account was now open and free to use, all I had to do was set up the actual Gofundme and post a link somewhere.
Yep. All I had to do.
So easy, right?
Just… Create the account. Post a link.
Ask for help.
And you know, that’s probably where it would still be sitting if my van hadn’t blown the fuck up. On my way home Monday night in the back of a medical transport unit, unaware if my van was going to require $200 or $2000 worth of repairs, or if it was repairable at all, I knew I had to set up the fund. That night. So I did. I created the fund, updated the link here on my blog, and then posted a link to it on my Facebook page with the words “Okay. It’s set up. Do whatever you like with this information. <3 I love you.”
Within one hour, I had three donations and 18 shares.
Within 24 hours, I was halfway to the arbitrary goal of $5000 I had set. I bumped it up to $7000. 24 hours later, I was halfway to that, too. Within an hour, I had my first donation containing triple digits. In three days, I was getting donations from complete strangers because my friends had shared the link. Yesterday, a very good friend I’ve made through a perfume decanting group of all things shared the link in that group, generating at least five donations just from that. Several friends with birthdays this month shared the link with their friends and family asking for donations on my behalf instead of birthday presents. (seriously you guys should have held out for a pony or something) Relatives of my friends who have heard my friends speak highly of me have donated. As it is right now, the generosity of my friends has netted me over $4000 and 450 shares.
In only five days.
This. This is where the exclamation points are about to happen. This is where the proof versus faith happened. I knew I would probably get some help once I was bold enough to ask for it. But this.
THIS HAS BEEN SO OVERWHELMINGLY AMAZING!
HOW THE FUCK DID I GET SO LUCKY?!
WHAT! EVEN! IS! MY! LIFE!
OH MY GOD, EVERYONE.
I’m not the sort of person who happy cries much. In fact, every single time I have done, has been directly because of some show of grace and generosity and love related to this disease. The kindness and love of my friends has brought me such emotional satisfaction and security, the likes of which I never would have known had it not been for this stupid disease. My faith said that if my life should turn to shit, my friends would have my back. Circumstances have proven that faith accurate and just – time and time again. But this.
This is been so much more than I ever could have anticipated in my most optimistic of dreams.
I could fill the rest of this blog for all time with just the phrase “THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!” over and over and over, and it would hardly be sufficient to express my gratitude. My love. My faith, absolutely justified. My awe at having so many amazing people in my life. My feeble attempts to somehow live up to all of the amazing and kind things people have said about me in their shared posts.
This is my blog, but tonight I lack proper words to put in it.
My life is so fucking magical.
Thank you all so much for your love, your generosity, your jokes, your grace, your friendship, your very existence in my orbit.
That’s it. I don’t have any clever way to wrap this up. I will now resist the temptation to copy paste “THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!” a million times.
I love you all so much.
Today started early. I had a 9:45 AM appointment in Portland, and if you don’t think that’s early clearly you are not familiar with my 3 AM standard bedtime these days. I tried going to sleep at a sane hour, but my overly active brain had other ideas. In fact, my 4 AM conversation with body and brain almost resulted in its own blog post; I just knew that if I got up to write it I wouldn’t get any sleep at all. And I need sleep. I like sleep. Even before all this nonsense, it was my favorite hobby. ALS just gave my lazy ass an air of legitimacy.
I have recently made a crucial step and actually have started asking my friends for help. I know, I know! I was just as impressed as you are with myself. It was not at all an easy thing, as you can well imagine – especially if you know me. But I have doctors appointments to get to, and J is amazing but cannot be my sole source of transportation – particularly when I own the van and it doesn’t actually need to be him driving it. So I had put out an all call on my friends list for someone to come drive, and my friend Matt stepped up for today. Matt is also the storyteller for my Wednesday games, and as mentioned before is an all around good guy and excellent person to have in your corner. As we were driving to my appointment this morning, talking about video games and commercials and marketing and the abyssmal real estate market, the van’s brake warning light came on. It had done before, and usually came on and went off seemingly randomly, and we had previously resolved the problem by simply topping up the brake fluid. It it started doing this again recently, and despite repeated mental notes to ourselves, we had just failed to get more fluid in it yet. I wasn’t terribly worried. It didn’t seem like that big a deal.
…You can probably see where this post entry is going, yes?
By the time we were done with my appointments, and filled the gas tank, and got home, I’d forgotten all about it. That afternoon was my biweekly therapy appointment, which J was available to drive me for. As we were driving the 20 some odd miles to my therapist, the warning light came on and stayed on. And then, halfway there as we stopped on the freeway for a traffic snarl, there was a God awful smell of burning rubber and when we looked behind us, a bit of smoke. We weren’t entirely sure it was my van? But the presence of the smell and the light made us resolved to put more fluid in the van as soon as humanly possible. For some stupid reason we had taken the brake fluid out of my van and brought it into my apartment, so simply pulling over and adding more fluid wasn’t an option at the moment. Traffic started moving again, then came to a crawl again, and as J put the brakes on, more smoke. Something was obviously not right in a big way.
Fun fact! I have a debilitating phobia of breaking down on the freeway. When I was really little, our car broke down at night on the freeway and I remember vividly my father moving around outside the car trying to figure out what was wrong, while traffic screamed by us in the dark and I just knew in my little kid brain that any second now some car was going to hit him and splatter him up all across our vcar. I shook in terror waiting for my father to die. He did not, of course, but ever since then, any time there is a slight possibility of something going wrong with the vehicle I am in, it creates an instant panic attack. That’s the problem with phobias. There’sno reasoning with them.
Jay was talking, making plans of dropping me off for my appointment and then going to some auto parts place to get more brake fluid and I would make an appointment the next day to take the van in for proper repairs. I didn’t really hear him over the blood pounding in my ears, and my brain was already busy trying to figure out what to do when I vomited any second now. And then we got off the freeway, and I felt safer for a split second until Jay told me that the brakes weren’t responding properly. I just needed to get the van safely somewhere, and then…
… And then, what exactly?
My van is not exactly easily interchangeable with another vehicle. It is a proper medical device. Ever since I got the fucking thing I have been paranoid about getting into an accident because it is not going to be simple and easy to replace it. And if something should happen while I am away from home, I am completely screwed. Stranded. If I were in a manual wheelchair I can get into normal car, but the SS Opportunity weighs 400 pounds without me in it and is a God damn behemoth in her own right. I can’t just get another vehicle. I can’t just call a taxi for a ride home, anymore.
That uneasy feeling turned into outright fear when we parked in the lot of my therapist and the smoke just kept coming. I couldn’t see anything on fire outright, but something was smoking in the rear passenger wheel well and I literally did not know what to do about it. I texted my little brother – because let’s face it – that’s what I always do when I have a car problem because what the fuck even are cars they are magical beasts whose language I do not speak. Not only does my little brother speak cars, he is a professional tow truck driver so even in the worst situation he can bail me out. And has, in fact – when Jay got sideswiped by a probable drunk driver on Christmas in 2017 and the driver took off, it was Justin who went out to get him and help him figure out the next steps. When my brake error light initially came on, it was Justin who told me what to do about it. So when he didn’t immediately respond, and some minutes passed and smoke was still rising from somewhere in my van’s guts, and I wasn’t sure what we would do if we started seeing flames, I called him. He had been taking a nap and listened very patiently while his sister panicked at him over the phone about cars and smoke and I don’t know what to do. He told me to hang tight and he was on his way because he is my hero.
He was some minutes away, and so I went ahead and went inside and had my session with my therapist which was now all about my current crisis. J stayed outside to wait for Justin, and would come interrupt the session when my little brother got there. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. I wasn’t sure what I even could do. Even if he could tow it somewhere, what the fuck was I going to do in my wheelchair and 20 miles from home? Again. You can’t exactly call a taxi.
After my 45 minute session, we went outside to find my little brother arrived in his giant tow truck, lights flashing, working on my van. Because again, hero. J came over and explained what had gone down so far, which is that Justin had pried the tire off the side of my van and had a look inside and formulated some theories. Apparently the brake line was leaking somewhere, as the inside of the tire was coated with fluid, and the passenger side rear brake had had to do all the work by itself and so had heated up red-hot and started smoking and had finally in the 34° weather cooled down to an oxidized white. He was going to tow the van to Les Schwab, and drop off the keys for them to take a look at in the morning, as they were closed by now. He offered to load me up in the van and transport me in it as he transported the van, but that was of course in his own words “illegal as fuck”. And you know, dangerous.
So we had a plan for the van, but I was still effectively stranded in Lake Oswego. My local public transportation service Tri-Met has a wheelchair transport service, but it’s the sort of thing where you have to get a special ID to qualify for it, and you schedule your pickups in advance and allow for a two hour window. The Lyft app on my phone has a wheelchair accessibility feature I had discovered some time ago, but I had literally no idea how that even worked. It was apparently time to find out. I requested a wheelchair lift, and the app cheerfully told me my ride would arrive in 45 minutes. After a moment it updated to 15 minutes. My ride was going to be courtesy of a local ambulance company, please look out for a white medical transport vehicle, license plate blah blahb blah. And just over 15 minutes later, fuck me if a wheelchair transport van didn’t pull up. It had totally worked.
We finalize things with my little brother to drop off my van, and for me to expect a call from the mechanic in the morning with an estimate before any work would be done. The wheelchair transport vehicle was a fucking sweet ride, the driver was completely awesome, and I found out that wheelchair accessible Lyft requests get priority even over his company’s scheduled patients because they are fully aware anyone desperate enough to need a wheelchair ride without a plan beforehand is obviously going through hella circumstances. And so I got a ride quickly, and my ride ended up costing me 10. Fucking. Dollars.
Not only that, but my driver was an hourly medical transport driver and so I didn’t even have to tip him. I asked if I could, and he refused.
SOOOOOOOOO in review, my peesashit van broke down today, after standard business hours, in a very dramatic way. And yet, I have an amazing brother who was able to rescue the van and provide me with the next steps, and then I was able to get safely home for a very little amount of money. And I learned that Lyft access is absolutely a viable transport option now. I am home safe and warm with useful information and a solid plan. I have another appointment tomorrow which I’m going to have to cancel, and when I contacted my friend who had offered to drive me for that appointment and told her I needed to cancel and why, she told me her brother is an actual mechanic and as is actually not very far for me. So even after I get the brakes repaired, I have a plan to contact him and get my van checked over thoroughly to make sure I am not going to have any more nasty surprises coming up. Tonight things completely went to shit, and then the universe conspired perfectly to make things as best and as smoothly as possible. Everything could have been so much worse. I could have been completely stranded in Lake Oswego waiting hours and hours in near freezing temperature for a wheelchair transport taxi service to find time to come get me. I have a AAA account so I would have gotten the car towed regardless, but I literally would not have known where to take it. And we could have been waiting for hours for them to have the time to show up also. Instead my brother was there in minutes. With a plan. And a free tow.
Repeating in my head tonight is my favorite quote from painter Bob Ross, who explained light and shadow theory in painting with a profound slice of life advice.
You need the dark, in order to show the light.
My life is as bright as the fucking sun, and it is only these moments of absolute panic and misery that prove it to me. I am fortunate beyond compare. Even when things are chaos around me, the universe conspires to take care of me in a perfect way because of the people I am fortunate enough to be surrounded by. In my most dire circumstances, I am never alone and never without hope.
I see the light, because of the dark.
Hello my lovelies!
Monday the 14th was Clinic Day. I had originally wanted to do a video update for this, but I just haven’t felt up to it? And if I wait until I feel up to it this update is going to take for freaking ever and then you all will start to worry because you think it’s all bad news. Spoiler: it is not. I am just lazy.
When we first checked in, I was given a sheet to fill out. I am pretty sure I did this last time as well, but I do not remember. It was a self assessment sheet for the ALS functional rating scale (ALSFRS-R). This is a standard way to track the progression of the disease. Usually though, the care team fills this out for me. During the nursing portion of the appointment, it was explained that they are heading towards having patients fill this out for themselves, as a sort of experiment to see how the self assessments differs from the professional assessment. I actually assumed that the self assessments would be worse, since I tend to understate my difficulties when talking to someone, but am more honest with myself filling out a form. Apparently not everyone is like that, since the nurse would tell me that for the most part the scores are consistent. Huh. There are 12 categories, and each category is rated from 0 to 4, with four being completely normal and zero being nonfunctional. For instance the walking category is rated as 4 being normal, three being early ambulation difficulties, to his walks with assistance, one is nonambulatory functional movement, and zero is no purposeful leg movement at all. I am currently at a two. So then you take all of the numbers and add them up, which gives you a number from 0 to 48 and 48 is a normal human being with no difficulties at all. It’s a nice numeric way of tracking progression, and encompasses a lot. It isn’t perfect of course, but it’s a nice shorthanded overview of everything at a glance. You can check it out for yourself here, if you wish.
Last Clinic Day, I was at a 34.
My first appointment of the day, after getting to our assigned room and being handed a schedule, was nursing. In addition to explaining a couple of substitutions in scheduling (I’ll get to those) she went over what I just talked about with the self assessments. Nursing checks are always an overview of the big picture in my life, if I need any special appointments made, if there are any concerns I have outside of the specialists I’ll be talking to that day. We talk about any changes since last visit, and in general she is my master coordinator of all things. Nurse Nancy is amazing and I am lucky to have her on my team. She also explained she would be playing the part of my dietitian for the day, as Kelly was sick. Poor thing. I always look forward to talking to Kelly, even though I never have anything to report. My eating is fine, we usually wind up just chatting for most of the appointment anyway. Today, however, it was noted that I had lost a whole 11 pounds since last clinic. Normally, this would be a good thing for someone, but not so good when you have ALS. I weigh 211 pounds currently, up from 160 when I was diagnosed, all of that on purpose. I am under strict orders to not diet to lose weight, as extra weight statistically helps with prognosis, and when I am no longer able to eat I will need that extra wiggle room. So to speak. So we talked a little bit about my dietary habits and I mostly attribute the weight loss to no longer being at work and on any kind of schedule, so I kind of eat whenever I feel like it, which is usually only once a day. Anymore I also need help with food prep, so if I want to eat something besides the frankly embarrassing amount of snacks I have stashed in my room, I have to bother my mom. Not that she minds, at all, but I am terrible at inconveniencing others for my own sake. Nurse Nancy made me promise to stop that. I am making an effort to stock more snacks and not just drinks in my fridge that I can get to whenever I want.
My second appointment was with Dr. Goslin. It had actually been a few appointments since I’d seen her specifically, since the previous appointment was my introduction to the new doctor, Dr. Olney, so it’d been half a year. We spoke mostly about the medications for this appointment, my increasing depression specifically and overwhelming anxiety. Unfortunately no longer reporting to work means I no longer have a distraction to keep me from spiraling into bad moods when I think too much. It’s been a rough couple of months because of that. I still don’t have a permanent place to live and I am continuing to freak out about that. We doubled my dose of Ativan in the meantime, and she gave me a couple of options to think about for ongoing anxiety and depression. Otherwise, as usual, she is very pleased with the rate of my progression.
My third appointment was with the power duo team for occupational and physical therapy. Physical therapy pointed out that my calves are getting tight and I need to be better with my stretches, and since I can’t really stand on my feet and touch my toes anymore to stretch them out, I was given bands to put around my toes and use my forearms to pull up on them while I’m laying in bed. The whole point of that is to keep my muscles limber so that I can continue to use the walker to visit the bathroom while I am at home for as long as possible. Occupational therapy was entirely centered around keeping my hands functional as long as possible, and preventing my fingers from curling up and cramping while I sleep at night. We also measured my hand strength as usual, and of course they are still garbage meat noodles of uselessness, no big surprises there. Deb the Amazing OT had previously suggested a new kind of brace for me to buy, and I had, but they need adjusting and some modifications to make them actually usable on my own as they are primarily built for bicyclists and didn’t have crippled people like me in mind so they’re not exactly easy to get on and off. We made plans to have another appointment outside of clinic to go over all of those things. I’ve since had that appointment, and like a total genius I forgot the braces in question at home, so she wasn’t able to adjust them for me and now I have a second appointment this coming Monday to take care of that. I was told if I forget them next time I’ll be sent right back home. Hehe.
The fourth appointment was speech. This appointment also includes swallowing, and all of those muscles in general. Luckily, this is the one area that I have yet to experience any problems, so these appointments always go very fast. She just verifies that I am not choking on my own spit anymore than a normal human being does, watches me swallow liquid, and eat a dry graham cracker, and make some funny faces including blowing my cheeks out and trying to touch my nose with my tongue etc. to prove that all of those muscles are still in tune in good shape. So far so good.
The ALS Association was fifth, for social work. I remain eternally grateful for their help. Unfortunately the problem I most need help with is housing, which is not their specialty by any stretch. They do however have resources and connections to other services that are useful, and most importantly they have always been willing to do research on my behalf to do what they can to help. During this appointment, we talked a lot about senior services to get my mom some assistance in whatever way we can. It’s all very useful information, and I truly appreciate the help. They have connections I would never even dream of and that alone is extremely helpful.
My sixth appointment was respiratory. This is the one I hate the most. It’s exhausting, and for the last few Clinic Days, it’s also been somewhat disheartening. We spoke a little bit about new policy changes, specifically about the clinic no longer being able to keep equipment for their patients and so I have to take my respirometer home with me every time now. No big deal, it’s not that big and it fits in my purse just fine. The breathing test came and went as usual and I was surprised to find that my breathing has actually remained perfectly stable since last time. I don’t even need to tell you how happy I was to hear that. I think sleeping with the new AVAPS machine has been helping, and I still need to recommit to breath stacking of course, even though I hate it. A lot. I still owe you guys a demonstration video of exactly why that’s so miserable. But still. No change. Great news. I will take it.
Usually, that would be the end of it. I typically have six appointments. However, since I have graduated to the new sleepy time breath machine, we have added a pulmonologist to the mix. I met with him last. My standard doctor was apparently on vacation in Ireland or something, so I met with a substitute from his practice. It’s a shame he was a substitute, because I really like him actually. He had some suggestions about the mask I’m using at night, some accessory suggestions for the machine, and sheepish apologies that a lot of these commonsense accessories aren’t covered by insurance at all. I came out of that appointment with another doctor appointments to make for a new mask fitting. That will happen on Tuesday.
After that, I headed downstairs to the lab for some overdue bloodwork – I was supposed to have done so last time apparently, but we missed it. Most of my levels came back normal, but I am once again experiencing a vitamin D deficiency. Probably because now that I’m not going to work I don’t really get out into the sun at all. Ever. I take a 1000 IU supplement, but after seeing my levels Dr. Goslin told me to bump it to 4000. Apparently my deficiency is not screwing around.
After all of this, and my summary letter came in the mail, I discovered that my ALS FRS rating has gone down to 26. Down eight points out of 48 total in three months worries me a bit, I admit, but I don’t know if that’s me shifting from doctor to self evaluation or what. I certainly don’t feel like I’ve declined that far in so short a time. But my breathing is the same, and that’s what I care the most about right now. So I’m happy.
And that, my loves, is how Clinic Day went.
I received a happy box in the mail yesterday! Something very cool was inside of it and I wanted to tell you about it.
Occasionally, I get random happy packages from certain friends. My friend Jim particularly, he sends me random boxes of completely bizarre things that he finds and thinks of me. Anything from Pez dispensers that have no head, to creepy little trinkets he finds in thrift stores, to snippets he cut out of a magazine. Lots of chicken related things. I adore getting random packages in the mail. I think everyone does, really. Something like 10 years ago, I did a happy box exchange in which I invited my friends to participate, and I sent out a box full of things that made me happy to each of them. I burned CDs of music that I like, made little packets of cake sprinkles and stickers, made happy little finger puppets from IKEA into refrigerator magnets. I included a note on everything to explain what it was and why it made me happy. Why it was important to me to include in that particular box. The idea was for it to be in exchange, and once they had received my package, they would send me a box of what made them happy back. Not everyone sent me a box back, but many did (with a couple notable people going way, way overboard above and beyond), and I adored every single one of them. Satou-chan was one of those who reciprocated (in spades).
I’ve known her for many, many years. She’s one of the very first people I ever met online and forged a real-life friendship with. We bonded over a common love of Japanese culture, writing, and a particular manga called Fushigi Yuugi. I flew all the way from Oregon to Atlanta, Georgia to attend my very first anime con with her and Holly, our other anime obsessed writer friend. It remains one of my happiest memories. I’m grateful every day that we kept in touch. She wound up moving to Arizona, and I was lucky enough to be sent there for work sometimes, and on one happy occasion we were able to sync our schedules and meet up in person again. That, also, is one of my happiest memories.
Satou-chan just sent me happy box.
She had texted me to let me know it was coming, and to confirm my address, and to apologize for the length of time it’d been since we last spoken. I truly wasn’t worried about that last thing, because communication works both ways and I’m just as guilty about not keeping in touch. I honestly don’t get offended when people go long periods of time without contacting me, because I am absolutely awful at it myself. My most cherished friendships are the ones in which I usually don’t speak to them for months, sometimes even years at a time, and when we do pick up it’s right back where we left off like no time at passed at all. My friendship with her is one of them.
Inside the box were many truly happy things. Including one of the most amazing cards I have ever seen in my entire life – it was a paper craft tray of sushi. Inside, she’d written all sorts of almost embarrassingly praising words, letting me know how much she cherished me and my friendship. The sushi card was because one of her favorite memories was of our Ariona hangouts and going to sushi together. I won’t lie; I totally cried. She also sent me stickers, because duh, and some happy fairy sparkly things, a glorious pair of socks, and probably the sweetest children’s book I have seen in forever. She said it was her favorite, and it reminded her of our friendship. (Yeah, I cried reading that, too.) Everything in the box was wrapped in tissue paper, separate little packages for me to unwrap and reveal surprises within. Every little packet had a note on it, explaining why she was giving me that particular thing, or what was on her mind when she bought it, or simply “This box contains tiny dinosaurs. I am sending them with love. <3 “
I loved every single gift, every single note, every single thought.
But the one that stood out the most, and the one that is probably my favorite thing in this whole entire box, was the note attached to a little bundle of things like lip balm, a keychain, and a little (freaking ADORABLE) notepad: “So… I realized early on that a lot of the stuff I bought for your happy box might be hard for you to use. (One reason I didn’t send.) Then I realized I had no business deciding that for you, and decided to send them anyway.”
And THAT, my friends, is how you be a fucking ALLY.