Of food and quality of life

Of food and quality of life. Of soup and seasoning. I love to cook. Presently, I cannot even direct the process. I also love to eat. Presently, it is so difficult to chew and dangerous to swallow that I no longer enjoy the process as much. Easter approaches and all I can do is roll around, straight-jacketed by my affliction, generally hamstrung, hogtied, certainly gagged, tolerated, placated, encouraged; who am I but a collection of bones bent upon solving a multifaceted dilemma without the aid of understanding a single thing. I remain clueless after two years, frustrated and scared, dependent in all aspects. All my blustering, evident in my writing, has proven nothing more than that I can turn a better horror story than I can tolerate, than I can survive. I long for a Korean dinner where I can pick up my own chopsticks, grab up some kim chi, chew with confidence, swallow easily and enjoy immensely. I long for Amy to be able to concentrate on her own meal. I long for independence. I try mightily to comprehend the application of energy, any energy, to my particular disease. How do I know this energy is not juicing my ALS? Is the influx of such energy a short-lived phenomenon? Melting. That's me. I am the wicked witch of the west. The primary difference being that she took a bucket of water to the face while I am seated in a stockpot, set to simmer for months, years as my body slumps and my head lolls and all the toughness is extracted day by day. Lately, when I fail to distract myself, I fall into a combination of panic and discomfort, frosted with anxiety, alleviated only through narcotic and cannabis. Don't ever drink beer through a straw. Don't ever cut sushi in half, thus creating a  mess we will call sushi stew. No high fives without help. No hug reciprocation. I'm sure, even now, that Master Zhou helped me while I visited him in California. Whether that help held a key to unlock the door to ALS understanding is a question left unanswered. I feel I'm approaching an intersection of sorts, maybe near, maybe far, where I (will) may choose my home stretch. I'm not going to project my decision now. I will say that one route leads to health love and happiness, my preferred destination, while the other track supports the train to a prolonged, protracted descension to death, a journey I will most certainly truncate by exiting the juggernaut. I conclude by saying that while I have any core strength left, I will continue to fight, even if I don't have a clue as to how, but if I'm living in a Hoyer lift and shitting the bed, I'll be insistent upon a way off the train. I hope I can get help with my exit.