Whoever or whatever gave me ALS certainly has a morbid sense of humor! I live in a three story house (four, if you include the basement, where our laundry is located). Our 100 plus year old four square design house is also elevated enough to require six or seven steps of climb in order to enter from the front, back or side. Until recently, our bedroom was located on the third floor. We now sleep on the second floor adjacent to a bathroom. My office is also on the second floor. My typical morning routine was to head downstairs to the kitchen, start coffee, retrieve the newspaper, retrieve my coffee and plop into my chair in the living room to read, followed by a trip back upstairs with what remained of my coffee, enter my office, plop down and catch up on all the news not found in the Journal Star, check my e-mails, Facebook, LinkedIn, maybe Twitter on occasion, make some phone calls- things of that nature.
I've since been required to throw that morning ritual by the wayside. Let me project how a morning of that sort would play out today:
If I were still sleeping on the third floor, making the journey to the second would require me to use the roof line- parallel to the stairs- as a handrail- since there is no handrail-in order to help me balance myself as I descend. After time, the oil in my fingers would create an identifiable streak in the plaster, and given enough time, a groove would develop, guiding me even more efficiently. Problem is, I don't have time to etch out such an aid and I'd likely tumble into the landing long before it appeared. On any given morning, having survived the treacherous terrain of the third floor stairwell, I would have reached from wall to wall, gaining purchase here and there to regain my balance as I stumbled into the bathroom, ecstatic and relieved at having made it to my beautiful toilet, unscathed and without embarrassing incident. After a brief respite, I would tackle the main stairs to my first floor, careful to curb my anxiousness to get this journey over with, making the entry foyer with, again, no incident. I would grope my way, grabbing wall and door frame and, upon entering the kitchen, grasping the stove top to my left, the refrigerator doors to my right and finally bumping up to the counter top where my coffee maker lay dormant. I would start the coffee, turn around and head out the front door, again fingerprinting everything in sight while seeking balance, exit the house, ease down a few outside steps, carefully bend down and retrieve the newspaper. I would re-trace my steps back into the house, drop the paper onto the table next to my chair in the living room, head into the kitchen again and retrieve my coffee. Then would come the hard part- getting a full cup of hot coffee into my living room. On a good day, I could make it over time. I would use both hands to hold cup, hot as hell, and move very slowly, ever aware that I cannot guide myself by grabbing a wall, a doorway or a stove. On a good day, I wouldn't spill. On a bad day, someone would have to clean up after me and I would have needed to change clothes. Anyway, I finally (on a good day), would sit down and one handedly (not really a word, but apropos) read through the newspaper. It would make no sense to describe climbing the stairs to my office with a coffee in hand because that never happened. Suffice it to say I would remain in the chair for quite a while.
Now, let me tell you, my wife and daughter are geniuses. This very morning I have been home alone. I still value my privacy, holding on to it as long as I can, and I do enjoy solitude from time to time. Starting my day as before provided less of each. This morning, I entered my office to a startling discovery: my Keurig coffee maker is now located on my desk, to the left of my computer, at the ready. I can prepare a cup whenever I want without traversing my version of the Himalayas. This day, my newspaper lies across my key board and life is good. While not an office hermit, I will say I can head down (and up) my stairs unencumbered, without anxiety, when I want, as slowly as I need and on my terms. What more could a guy ask for? I love my family.
I've since been required to throw that morning ritual by the wayside. Let me project how a morning of that sort would play out today:
If I were still sleeping on the third floor, making the journey to the second would require me to use the roof line- parallel to the stairs- as a handrail- since there is no handrail-in order to help me balance myself as I descend. After time, the oil in my fingers would create an identifiable streak in the plaster, and given enough time, a groove would develop, guiding me even more efficiently. Problem is, I don't have time to etch out such an aid and I'd likely tumble into the landing long before it appeared. On any given morning, having survived the treacherous terrain of the third floor stairwell, I would have reached from wall to wall, gaining purchase here and there to regain my balance as I stumbled into the bathroom, ecstatic and relieved at having made it to my beautiful toilet, unscathed and without embarrassing incident. After a brief respite, I would tackle the main stairs to my first floor, careful to curb my anxiousness to get this journey over with, making the entry foyer with, again, no incident. I would grope my way, grabbing wall and door frame and, upon entering the kitchen, grasping the stove top to my left, the refrigerator doors to my right and finally bumping up to the counter top where my coffee maker lay dormant. I would start the coffee, turn around and head out the front door, again fingerprinting everything in sight while seeking balance, exit the house, ease down a few outside steps, carefully bend down and retrieve the newspaper. I would re-trace my steps back into the house, drop the paper onto the table next to my chair in the living room, head into the kitchen again and retrieve my coffee. Then would come the hard part- getting a full cup of hot coffee into my living room. On a good day, I could make it over time. I would use both hands to hold cup, hot as hell, and move very slowly, ever aware that I cannot guide myself by grabbing a wall, a doorway or a stove. On a good day, I wouldn't spill. On a bad day, someone would have to clean up after me and I would have needed to change clothes. Anyway, I finally (on a good day), would sit down and one handedly (not really a word, but apropos) read through the newspaper. It would make no sense to describe climbing the stairs to my office with a coffee in hand because that never happened. Suffice it to say I would remain in the chair for quite a while.
Now, let me tell you, my wife and daughter are geniuses. This very morning I have been home alone. I still value my privacy, holding on to it as long as I can, and I do enjoy solitude from time to time. Starting my day as before provided less of each. This morning, I entered my office to a startling discovery: my Keurig coffee maker is now located on my desk, to the left of my computer, at the ready. I can prepare a cup whenever I want without traversing my version of the Himalayas. This day, my newspaper lies across my key board and life is good. While not an office hermit, I will say I can head down (and up) my stairs unencumbered, without anxiety, when I want, as slowly as I need and on my terms. What more could a guy ask for? I love my family.
I must admit- mom is the genius on this one. I always knew she was brilliant!
ReplyDelete