About vegetables

I'm going to give you about as much information as you will get from a caramelized onion, translucent yet not transparent. There is no advantage in my telling you every minute detail involving that which I'm going through each day. Besides, I don't think too many people are interested in the individual scat of my daily rituals. I do, however, feel it is necessary to give credit where credit is due, and that is to Amy, who, without her daily help and love, I would find myself at the mercy of a caregiver, an option that is really not an option. 

I'm sure many out there have wondered exactly what I can do and what I can't do, and I'm going to give you some details, leaving the rest to your imagination. Let me give you an example.  I can't reach high enough to comb my hair. You can take it from there.

Each morning, Amy wakes when I do and begins a ritual including taking the splint off my left hand, physically spinning me out to a sitting position on the bed, laying out clothing for me to wear that day, slipping my underwear over my ankles, followed by my shorts, reversing a button-up shirt and pulling my hands through the arm-holes, and flipping it over my head.  She buttons the shirt and on the count of one-two-three, she helps me stand up. These days, my balance has to be a conscious effort while my tendency would be to fall backwards. She holds me by my shirt to help my balance and with my other hand pulls up my underwear and shorts. Oh yeah, before all this she takes my other underwear off.  The wheelchair has been pulled up to within six inches of my feet and with a rocking motion I transfer weight from left foot to right in order to move into position to sit. Because my right arm is so stiff and soar I cannot operate the controls of the chair, so Amy extends the foot pedals and helps me guide my hand to the proper position of the joystick. I've been getting therapy on my right and left arms and any residual pain is worse in the morning. I manipulate into the bathroom, six feet away, where Amy uses an electric toothbrush to brush my teeth, holds the water up for me to swish and spit. I can't hold the cup up myself anymore. She then dampens a washcloth and cleans my face. Finally, she pulls out a water bottle and soaks my head so she can brush my hair. My only complaint in the morning is that I come out with my hair looking a little bit like Adolph Hitler. 

She showers me. Let that be enough said. 

I have a finger condom on my joystick wrapped in a rubber-band because my thumb is weak and slips off without the extra texture and grip. I can still drive, and I keep telling myself that before this is all over I'll be driving a car rather than a wheelchair, and that car will be my Jaguar. 

Hope to see a lot of people at Tower Park. Remember, it's free! 

Hi folks, it's Rachel.  Dad's insisting that I put my two cents in... so here goes.  It's a little nerve-wracking writing on dad's blog, knowing how many readers he has, and knowing the literary excellence they've come to expect from him.  I don't pretend to have as strong a grasp on the English language as he does, hell, I can hardly spell the words I do know (God bless spell-check). No one can put together a compound sentence like Tracy Boettcher.  I'm just glad that I can help him out from time to time.  Let me just say that regardless of what this bastard of a disease has taken from him physically, it thankfully has left his mental faculties. I fear that people who haven't seen him since the pre-wheelchair days will assume he's lost his personality as well as his dexterity.  Let me tell you people, it just isn't so! He's still dad.  He's still one of the strongest, most intelligent, funniest, caring people I've ever known.  The other one of those is my mom.  Dang, I'm lucky.  Thanks to everyone for your support, emotional or otherwise.  Ok, that's all I got.  Have a fabulous day!