I could've died but I don't believe it

A worrying sign: I'm finding myself growing accustomed to needles- large and small-, discomfiture ranging from ridiculously painful throes emanating from my left arm and shoulder when contorted wrongly, leg muscle cramps of the sort I've never before experienced, massive frustration and latent fear as I navigate my home, having graduated from door frame travel to walker assisted movement. Add to these small inconveniences blood clots, a heart attack and borderline diabetes, 2 shots a day in my gut this week and a new life filled with a growing array of medications I have disdained forever and find me, well, not exactly depressed, but pissed off for sure.

 All the things I used to do have been impossibly loaded on Amy and Rachel. Worse is the fact that I will never be happy with their efforts, however noble, because I was never really satisfied with my own. I am at once incorrigible and unsatisfied, unfair and grouchy. I wake up in the morning, need help out of bed and walker myself to the bathroom, where for now, I can still manage alone,  finding out I cannot properly brush or comb my hair. Amy tries to help, but it is not me, not my hands, and try as she may, it is never quite right. I am sure most days I did a lousy job- but it was MY lousy job. I cannot clean and deodorize my right arm pit because my left arm won't reach. Amy does a great job here as it benefits her come nighttime. In the case of arm pits, unlike my hair, I have no problems with whose hand does the dirty work.

About my heart attack- I never for an instant thought my life was in danger. It took 8 hours of a radically high heartbeat for me to be convinced that there was something wrong enough to require intervention to correct. I guess some things cannot be meditated out of existence. Next time I'll know a little more of what's going on. It took a total of 36 hours- 24 of them in ICU- to bring my heartbeat under 100. After that, I was OK. I thank myself for climbing roofs, raising walls and otherwise strengthening my ticker enough to take the strain without blowing up. I could have done without the elevated blood sugar and the passel of blood clots that remain in my lungs, though.

All in all, I feel frustratedly fine today. I'm a little dismayed that the heart attack couldn't slay the ALS, but I never expected such a thing to happen. I continue through life looking for a cure, dealing with my limitations and paying close attention to everything, now to include diabetes, blood clots and diet, medication and doctors visits.

I am closing in on the entrance to a troublesome path. I am now relegated to a sitting position, whether it be a wheel chair, a couch or a bench. I cannot dress myself very well. I don't brush my own hair and a baseball cap is just not me. I can still get a fork to my mouth but many times half the food spills over on to my shirt. I've put on weight so clothes don't fit properly- though I find out clothes only look good if you walk around in them, so style takes a seat as I do- I need to be carted around, many times being pushed past all conversation like a kid in a stroller. I know what it looks like- some messed up guy with messed up hair, droopy clothes, shoes that will never wear out, a belly and a b-cup- probably deaf and simple. All the more reason for me to get to know whoever I can, setting them straight on the part about my being deaf. Another reality- aptly pointed out by my great friend Joan, who has been chair bound for years- we are at a level where all you see is butts. I can expand upon this: I see guys butts, much more dangerous than the girls. I might have to put in for a low rider wheel chair to put me nearer the level of the fairer sex.