The Day After

Thanksgiving has come and gone. Only remnants remain of the 24 friends and relatives who chowed out here at my home yesterday, washing down turkey with beer, Sangria and conversation. We'd hosted the holiday for many years and I wasn't going to let a little disease keep us from continuing the tradition. In the past, I cooked the bird and generally ran the kitchen, but this year Rachel took over, in part because I can't manhandle a Cornish game hen let alone a 27lb gobbler. She has officially earned my chef's jacket.

On the other side of things, I must reveal that a subtle change has come about that is both undeniable and reasonably expected. I have been outed. I have, until recently, been theoretically inflicted with ALS to those who don't see me on a daily basis. Now, my condition is factual and evident. There can be no denying that something is wrong with me. My symptoms are now on display whenever I move. A power wheel chair in my living room speaks a thousand words. Interesting is the fact that all of this isn't really my problem. I don't have to see myself teetering and quaking and struggling- everybody else does. Those around me need to digest my digression without emotionally gagging, without grimacing, while guessing what is an overreaction or an under reaction, whether to move forward to try and help me or back up and pray I don't face plant. In a nutshell, I feel bad for everyone who comes in contact with me. 

The concern I've had all along is magnifying. I rarely feel sorry for myself, though I do see the pathetic Tracy in the mirror from time to time, but always feel sorrow for friends and family. I tear up at the thought of others' discomfort whether they're around me or not. I feel bad for those who feel bad. My imagination, no doubt, feeds my emotions, carrying me through scenarios only I could create, bringing me down enough to dip my toes in depression. My defense mechanisms include all the smarm, sarcasm and triviality I can muster. I often load it on through these pages in order to sidestep the real emotion and its debilitating effects. I wish I really believed all the crap I throw out to minimize my condition, but at the end of the day I'm still sad for those who are sad for me. I can help myself but I can't help them. I can control my emotions even if I hate them. I can't fool others into believing that this is all a charade any more. I've lost my clothes and exposed the reality and I can't shelter my friends and family from my frailties. I can't protect them from me any longer. I can't relieve their sadness with a clever quip or a joke while Amy feeds me dinner. I can't minimize their despair. While the stress and worry loaded upon my back is a burden I can bear, the thought of those I care about being affected by my disease carries a toll much heavier. 

If I'm going to get through this thing, I'd better learn to deal with these issues lying outside of myself. This is my job of the day. Please help me by not being sad. Help my by looking at your own lives and worrying less about mine. I'll be just fine.