On the road

We are nighting in or near Springfield, Mo., having witnessed movers load the 12,000 some odd pounds that is our life into a semi tractor trailer bound for our new digs in Dallas. Left behind is the excrement of 30 years of accumulations. More later.

Continuation, hiatus

Today my Mac shall share time, about a week, with packing peanuts, my router prepares to be routed to Dallas and my Internet connection, via Comcast, will terminate later in the day. I can post from my ipad or iphone, but don't expect piles of paragraphs until I reach Dallas, by then stricken with withdrawal pains, desperate for my narcotic injection of "run off at the mouth". For now and for a last meal before my posting fast, I offer up a snack of my history, replete with boring kid stuff.

I left off somewhere in or near the summer between fourth and fifth grade, having digested Psycho Cybernetics, likely a meal far too sophisticated for my palate, met a cool musician and listened to a blind guitarist, survived an earthquake and, for the first time, enjoyed fondue. All ten year old kids should be so lucky.

Nowadays, ten year old boys live different lives than when I was a kid. Parents are, maybe rightly so, more protective, more involved in the daily activities of their children where- as opposed to 44 years ago,- structure rules the day. While I am in favor of safety first, I feel there is a price to pay regarding the development of independence and creativity when a child has eyes upon his back every waking moment. I use the word "child", but in the '60's, I was  a kid plain and simple. I was never a child- a term I find to be curiously condescending. From daybreak until the streetlights lit, I was out exploring the world, taking risks, sometimes getting in trouble, sometimes getting banged up and always looking for something new. This behavior for a young kid was not allowed because parents were being irresponsible. ALL kids got out to play, to invent and to explore. Today's kids are stifled in their unstructured development. I believe the phenomena is part of the reason educational issues exist in America.

So my mom got S&H green stamps every time she bought groceries, giving them to me, whereby I licked page after page and affixed them to page after page of my little redemption books, soon acquiring enough to claim a prize at the stamp store that would change my life forever. In short, a stopwatch. For some kid reason, it was fascinating to measure increments of time. If I had been a child, my mom would have helped me claim a more practical prize like a scarf or a shoe polish kit; heck, if I were a child my mom would have showed me how to wet those stamps with a moist sponge and lectured me about the health hazards of licking adhesive. As were the times, my mom was raising me as  a kid and I thank her every day for that. Thanks, mom.

My first best friend in California was a kid, Rodney, a black kid who didn't go to my school but showed up in the neighborhood one day, striking up a kid conversation with me, a relative newcomer, and initializing a friendship that lasted until we moved away. The two of us bummed around all summer. When I got the stopwatch we clocked everything- cars, people walking, us sprinting, even timing how long we could pee. To this day I have a small bladder- Rodney could always pee longer than me. Eventually, we found a competition where neither of us had a clear advantage, and it consumed our summer. We started timing handstands. At first, our times rarely exceeded one second. Up, down. We found our times slightly better if we over balanced and fell on our backs, so we focused on that. If we were lucky enough to stall between under and over balancing, we found we could hang for two seconds or more. The stalls developed into balancing  acts and our times got better. Throughout the summer we stayed neck n neck and it was a blast. Once we started moving forward, our times skyrocketed. Five seconds, ten, fifteen, more! By the end of the summer, we were crossing courtyards on our hands. The summer ended, but we still practiced, though the stopwatch found itself a home in mom's junk drawer as we now marked  distance rather than time. In the spring of 1969, at school- 5th grade, I  clocked my best 50 yard dash time of the year- 6.9 seconds, and soon thereafter set my never bettered record by walking the same 50 yards on my hands.

The summer I spent with Rodney was chock full of cool stuff, so expect me to linger there for a few posts, where I will detail such happenings as: sneaking into a gated pool area, getting pushed into the deep end, nearly drowning and learning to swim on the spot, Apple Beer soda, sneaking into an orange grove, eating shitty oranges and discovering a strange, edible, sour weed likely saturated with DDT, hitting a parked car on a friends bike and recollecting a groin injury inflicted by a football back in Chicago, learning that rollerskating in a carport under construction is a bad idea...................

Time to step back

A couple months ago, nay a few months ago, I ran a thread of narratives regarding my childhood, roughly chronological, as accurately as my memory would allow. Its time to step off of my fast train and hop onto the chuck wagon of my recollections past. My health probably relies on some form of self affirmation bolstered by my life's journey. It is becoming more and more apparent that I must exile any self loathing, any doubts as to the solidity of my character, really, anything negative that could taint my self perception. In a nutshell the size of New York: No matter how many people see me as a good guy, I must see it in myself in order to feel worthy of success today, tomorrow......... the best way to do that is to go back in time and better understand that despite a number of odds (the darkest of which will be left undocumented on these pages, best imagined, best not revisited) I turned out OK, a good guy, a guy worth loving, a guy who should love himself. So........... let the catharsis begin!


If I recall- and I do- I left off exiting Tweedy School in the spring of 1968, days after Martin Luther King was assassinated. I attended Tweedy for a mere two weeks before we found an apartment on Topaz St. in Fullerton or Anaheim (mom, help me out here). In the course of a year or so, we moved from a two bedroom apartment in a courtyard to a three bedroom apartment fronting the street to a two bedroom apartment edging another courtyard, all on Topaz, all within a block of each other. While living in apartment A, in the courtyard, we experienced our first California earthquake, clueless and amused until we stepped outside and witnessed the panic, found to be an overreaction as the temblor amounted to nothing more severe than a lemon shakeup. While living in apartment A I consumed my first fondue dinner, popular in the '60's, peanut oil, bite sized steak chunks and steamed artichoke leaves, a meal prepared by persons unknown. I have never been able to duplicate that experience.


Still in the courtyard, still in 1968, I think still in school, the fourth grade though it might have been summer, I was introduced to the living music world for the first time. Across the courtyard, directly opposite us, I met John Christian, a black singer, musician, the first black individual I ever knew, ( in Chicago, we lived in a predominately Italian housing project, so no, I never met a black person there, and Tweedy had to  be reminded that MLK was killed in Memphis, need I say more?) and his wife, whose name escapes me (help me here, mom), white. At the time I didn't see the significance of an interracial marriage, didn't recognize their courage.


John Christian, or, more accurately, Johnny, was a club singer, his current claim to fame was his recording of a song called "Tighten Up", cool in the day, cool today- Google It. I heard the recording on a high tech (for the time) Teac reel to reel. (It would be years before I owned my first cool electronic device- an AM radio, a sphere, with a short chain for toting, white like a cue ball, maybe a Panasonic, a real prize). Johnny was cool. He wore his hair greased, slicked like Sammy Davis Jr.; he even owned red pants. That summer a guy living to the right of Johnny and (Linda?) introduced me to his record collection, fronted by Jose Felliciano. I must have listened to "Light My Fire" a hundred times, never tired of it. That same summer someone, maybe mom, gave me my first significant read, Psycho-Cybernetics (the power of positive thinking), a book I either failed to comprehend or failed to agree with at ten years old, taking into account the totality of my life. Maybe I should re-read it.


School: Integrated, modern thinking, a few blacks, a large Hispanic population, I had finally found a school I could  love. More on that later.


I know what you're thinking: Where is all the drama? Where is all the calamity? You will have to wait. If, in the mean time you are bored, download "Tighten Up", download any Jose. Listen to it all a hundred times. By then I will have moved forward.... to the fireworks from the roof, the Green Stamps, the Monkees, mom and plate glass, my rollerskating incident, Mr. Drake, my second girlfriend, track, Rodney, ........................... and the beat goes on........... oh, yeah, my starfish, octopus in the tide pool, my bull snake, my tarantula, crustaceans, President's Physical Fitness testing, flag football, me and Mark Boguski and our horse skeleton, water poisoning, solid fuel rocketry, my first rattlesnake experience...............I'll get to it all, and much, much more.

Not up early

My outlook on life in general, dimmed by my situation, varies depending upon a number of factors, lately chief among them being medication. My body seems to have an aversion to drugs. Any drugs. If a product is designed to help me sleep, I stay awake. Anti anxiety pills make me anxious. The last couple of days I have been, loosely interpreted, under the influence, causing me to rap negative, maybe appropriately, spelling out minutiae experiences I might not otherwise have shared. I have no regrets, and shall have none as long as the narcotic pentathol allows me enough restraint not to get gross. Today  I am drug free.

OK, so this post is entitled "Not up early" and that was true yesterday, but today it is 4:15 AM, I am still drug free, bright eyed and bushy tailed, somehow rested after 4 hours of interrupted sleep. Could be I haven't burned fifty calories in three months and four hours is plenty. I dunno.

News flash: We just got word that the 53' moving van will capture our street around 9am Monday. This is the earliest date within the mover's range of pickups. This means we will lose Internet, cable and all other benefits of having a home come Saturday. We plan to stay in a hotel Sunday night and I will be sequestered the following day as the movers mobilize my world. We will stay in the hotel Monday night and hit the road for Dallas Tuesday morning.

I will continue to post the next few days but come Saturday, hopefully following one last blather, I will be putting my blog on hiatus. I will occasionally quip from my ipad or iphone, but any significant stuff will have to wait until  I'm set up in Texas. Don't expect this break to slow me down; on the contrary, I plan to amp up my posts once this moving thing is behind us.

I will be posting and notifying everybody in P-town whenever we expect to return, whether for Nick and Paige gigs, Drivetrain gigs- Peoria, Chicago and everywhere else, holidays and family gatherings, miscellaneous happenings or for no particular reason at all. I expect to see many of you more often than when we lived there.

Soon I will give out any new contact information. Thanks to so many friends who have become my brothers and sisters, giving me the biggest family on the face of the earth. I love you all!

Up early- again

If it is the perception of the subconscious that it has  the functioning of the body under control and a drug is introduced to the system, a war breaks out whereby the intended effect is reversed. Even a fraction of a dosage provides the same result because introduction of any amount is identified and labeled as an adversary. This battle does not necessarily prove that the subconscious mind is healthy. Since the only interpretations of the subconscious are literal there is no way to compromise or provide a suggestion without it being misunderstood. In my case the subconscious is strong and stubborn. After nearly a year of considering, assessing and obsessing it has become obvious that my brain, thinking it is right, actually clueless, has, according to some, accelerated my disintegration. I have, based upon my personality- the same personality, coupled with my lifestyle, a lifestyle I'm told by some is responsible for my disease- resisted a plethora of cures. I'm not happy enough. I refer to my resistance as a fight, as battle, while I must fill my heart with love and caring. Maybe someone out there killed ALS with kindness. If so, they were able to delude the disease into feeling loved as the knife pierced the heart of Gehrig. Still sounds like war to me.


It is becoming more and more apparent that my aggressive nature is a catalyst for progression. I have traveled down a number of avenues looking for methods to help me cope, hoping they could make me better. Hypnosis has been very helpful in relieving stress. Drugs such as sleep aids and anti depressants, anti anxiety medicine and others have proven useless and dangerous. Lately, as ALS has begun setting up camp in the rest of my body, preparing to hunker down and feed, I have found myself struggling to sleep, struggling to function. I have witnessed changes and diminishing abilities each day. While in a power chair I can appear somewhat normal and healthy, provided I stay in the chair. I cannot raise to a standing position without a helping hand. I can only climb stair with a strap cinched around my waist for Amy to pull up with each step while she cradles my left arm; my right hand actually pulls up on the hand rail- a hand very quickly weakening and twisting- with each step. I can rarely  swing my own legs into bed and  am unable to turn from my back to my side. I am unable to gain purchase in bed because strength is now diminished throughout my body. Amy must brush my teeth. Amy must feed me sometimes. I cannot shower alone because it is dangerous and I do a lousy job. I can't easily bring a coffee cup to my mouth, and if I do manage, the cup cants, I shake too much and sometimes burn my mouth. Often I spill. Suffice it to say that all voluntary ability is fading fast.


I am grateful for all of the support friends and family have offered. It is unimaginable for me to even consider where I'd be if I ere alone. I only wish that this juggernaut within me would slow down. My ability to cope is directly connected to the speed of the disease, and recently my ALS is moving too fast.


I promised to give it to you warts and all.... you said OK. Well, welcome to my wart storm.

Up early

I fear the ALS is not content to devour my arms and legs. I'm disappointed that I offer up the tastiest parts of my body only to find out the disease is unsated  and wants  more of me  even before finishing the meal I've dished up. It seems my limbs are mere h'orderves and my body proper remains the main course. I have trouble sleeping on my back unless my upper torso is inclined. My  diaphragm  may be weakening as ALS moves to my core. Swallowing fails to completely clear my throat. While I can still swallow thin liquid such as water or juice, the action is not natural or fluid. If I'm not careful I choke as product slips into my windpipe. I'm not sure what abdominal muscles hold me upright but I'm experiencing enough sag that it's obvious they're doing a poor job. Soon I may be joining the school of Stephen Hawking Slouching. I'm sure to be the dumbest one in class. My speech is in decline. I'm beginning to slur my words and stutter. While my voice is becoming less and less decipherable my brain continues to run along at its peak 60 %. If I look dumb, feel free to confirm your assessment when words tumble out of my mouth truncated, mangled and garbled, wholly massacred.  I can now say my speech patterns match my intelligence. I've been told to maintain a stiff upper lip but then  even the lip readers would fail to understand me.

Slowing a bit- never stopping

For a while I was posting every day- sometimes more than once- primarily because I had the time. Lately, thankfully, I have been getting out of the house more as we take care of required business prior to  moving. I'm happy that my presence is required for certain transactions. Since I can't help sweep dust collections or pack boxes, tote or haul, getting into a bank or store allows me to escape the house- a bit of a prison- to find myself useful.

      Our house doesn't want us to leave. Remember my admission to being obdurate? Well, I believe my house is exhibiting similar traits. Since we've been here 30 years its difficult to determine who gave what to whom. I may have infected the house with my stubborn nature.


Just this week- ironically, on Valentine's Day, evidence of a jilted lover- our garage door operator broke a spring and our water heater went down. The next day, our oft used living room fireplace quit. Both Amy and I are convinced there is a ghost in the system, if not the house. I must admit that leaving this old behemoth will be difficult. The fact that I ascend and descend the stairs every day despite my inability to take two steps on flat ground unassisted is testimony to my connection. If my calculations are accurate, I must navigate the stairs, round trip, ten times before we move. That I can do. Now, if I can just concentrate well enough not to fall.............


Just because my posts have thinned and shortened- half of which can be said of me; I've shortened, definitely not thinned, though- does not mean my material- the whirligigs in my head- has been depleted. Wednesday morning I had a notion to re-write a short fictional story first put to paper in a creative writing class in high school, a story, required as a final, a story I had two weeks to complete- rough draft in a week, finished product a week later- a story I wrote in 45 minutes of class time, turned in, a story I didn't have to finish. I got an A that same class period. I never re-write. Back to Wednesday. So early in the morning, I started the re-write (didn't I just say "I never re-write"?) of a notion put to paper 36 years ago. Three hours later I completed the job, a 2,600 word contraption, swelled over the years, (like me).?


I will post the story on my Randomless Observations blog site- daddyboettcher.blogspot.com with a warning- there is some coarse language here, also some bigoted, inappropriate homophobia, bad stuff, but understand that you must consider the character and recognize that ALL BAD PEOPLE REALIZE AND RECEIVE THEIR COMEUPPANCE.

A non revelation- maybe

First of all, I have been slow to post and thin of content lately due to an influx of visitors trying to catch up with us before we move and a smattering of those helping us with the process. Add to that the fact I cannot use my left hand, even for the shift key, coupled with a herky jerky right hand, and my posting endurance suffers. I find myself physically sagging these days, mostly toward my left side. Soon I will become a puddle of flesh in my chair,  a worn out Stretch Armstrong, arms oozed to the floor, flaccid, my emaciated skull, -features drug by gravity- lolling upon my keyboard, my stubbly chin permanently at rest upon the ""B" key, electronically clacking row after row of my single letter epitaph.

Yesterday I was made the center of attraction in a faith healing. Before I go on, I must remind that throughout the life of this blog I have purposely avoided religious conversation other than an occasional brush fire, easily extinguished, avoiding any blaze of  controversy. My views on religion, well known within my close family, are both unorthodox and simplistic. I tend to observe religious views from space. I look at the globe and ask myself what truth works for every soul on Earth, then I study specifics and eliminate rules that would deny the  rights of any individual. There is no all inclusive faith, yet I believe faith is, and should be, all encompassing. All inclusive. Universal. Whether God exists in a form identifiable to us, whether He influences our lives or watches human existence play out as an experiment, -whether He exists at all- is inconsequential. The concept of God is enough upon which to base faith. Everything else, dogma, ritual, sin and judgment, guilt and repentance are merely man made boundaries to hold the sheep within the walls of specific religions.

I don't appreciate being judged yet I'm the first person to pass judgment on others. This is a bad trait. I tend to size people up based upon my assessments as if they stood out as the industry standard for behavior and opinion. My tendencies make me as obdurate as they come. It  is very difficult for me to open my mind to concepts that in the past were useless to me. I need to get on board with those concepts and see how I can help myself to the fruits of their bounties. My way of thinking isn't working. I need to smash the barriers to my survival. I need to take a crowbar to the rusty clasps on my skull and open my mind, not only to let new concepts in but to force out the presuppositions that have hampered me for years. Simply, I need a brain wash. Boraxo. A mule team with scrub brushes. A power washer. Tide and Glade. Then I must replace the clasps with a stainless steel zipper; accessibility with no rust. Maybe a Yin/Yang tattoo before my hair grows back.

So Amy took me to a church in Morton. I have no idea what compelled me to agree to the visit. I can guess that I was looking for a crow bar for my skull but that would be a stretch. More likely I thought I was going to hear somebody preach. My Jazzy rides too high in the van to read signs so the church shall remain unknown to me. I don't think Amy caught the name either. Every Saturday morning, I'm  guessing, the church opens a food pantry. We entered a side door opening on a large room full of tables, 40 or so people milling about, scattered conversations. Most folks wore name tags. Several people had been forewarned of our visit and two minutes through the door I met the leader of the pack, Tom, a nice guy with a cross around his neck.   I soon realized that everyone I met had a variation of the same. 

This will be rapid fire non-prose:

Tom took both my hand in his. A crowd gathered. A guy, Doug, sidled up beside Tom. He might have been the deputy healer. Tom spoke to me exactly as you'd expect. Suffice it to say this was some denomination of a Christian faith healing. I plan to experience, if I can, a Hindu, Islamic, Buddhist healing since I see myself as an equal opportunity searcher of truth. During Tom's efforts to cleanse me, to have Jesus heal me, others spoke prayer around me and occasionally Doug would boom his voice in an affirmation or in repetition in case God or Jesus were far away or hard of hearing. Often Tom would command me to repeat his words in the assumption that I was on board with the specifics of his statements, (much of which I was not), and I did as I was told because what I did not believe, exposed, would have altered the event drastically, destroying the greater good that I could glean from their process.

There is no need to write about the specifics of the healing since I have no use for them. What I got out of the whole ordeal was that faith, collectively, has power, has energy. Whether the source of that is Jesus, Mohamed or Buddha or whether it is placebo matters not to me. I need to better understand this energy in order to integrate it into my life.

Amy has read this post and would like to note that I first ghoulishly describe dying at my keyboard then refer to smashing and crow bars when I should use love and tenderness to crack my skull. I promised her I'd consider the options.

Looking forward, wearing blinders

I'm constantly reminded that in three weeks I will begin life in Dallas, that all the complications, the anxiety and the stress inherent with the process of moving will be behind me, that life will simplify and become beautiful. I have no doubt. I honestly feel that this course of events can accurately describe how life will be better for Amy. Most of the planning and execution of our move is her responsibility. Despite all my narrative concerning my leaving so many behind I am well aware that she leaves more friends, virtually all of her family and a diversity of connections far beyond my scope. I know it is more difficult for her to leave Peoria than she will ever admit; she does it for me. She is strong where I am weak. 


I am a difficult case. I only deal well with the diversity I feel I can handle. ALS poses a problem for me that stretches the boundaries of my confidence. Each day I assess my condition and each day I hope to discover even the most minute positive. While it is unhealthy for me to consider my future, looking back, even a month, I find myself living in the past, despairing the present and wary about next week, next month, next year. No matter how I cut it, the future is all I have. While my life has been full and wonderful until recently, I'm not yet to the point when I'd be content to retire my thoughts to those days. I still want to look forward to the future. I'm really glad ALS doesn't take your eyes.


Oh, yeah, Why will Dallas be good for Amy? For starters, she won't have to cradle my sorry ass up and down these blasted stairs any more, we will be close to our grand sons, close to Sarah, Tim, Rachel, Nick will perform down there, the winters will less likely challenge my traction and we will be beginning a new chapter in our lives.

Best to continue

I find myself focusing on the particulars involved with ALS, how it affects me, my troubles and despairs, my confused battles, resignations, nearly always neglecting the reality that my disease offers me no exclusivity. All around me can be found damages created by my indiscretions, my selfishness. My entire family, my friends live through the atrocities of Gehrig's as I fling my disadvantages like a sword. I am an agent of collateral damage. If I had cancer my surroundings would be equally tainted. Within the territory of family, friends, even acquaintances, ground is parched in concentric circles. The closer you stand, the higher the heat.


I can help. Those who know me well enough are aware that my jib cuts differently. I'm not a typical human being. I can lower my pulse just as the needle pierces my flesh. My blood pressure remains normal in the aftermath of physical trauma. My heart pounded at 130 to 140 beats a minute for 8 hours and didn't blow up. I fall to sleep every night without drugs but with a 7 month old hypnotic suggestion. I don't get infections, even when rusty circular saw blades enter my leg to a depth of 1-1/4 inch. I don't bruise- ever. Despite all my falls I'm pretty sure I have never broken a bone. If I get  sick, I'm hit hard for a day and feel fine the next.


No, I am not Superman. Case in point can be illustrated by paying me a visit now. If I were Superman then ALS is likely my Kryptonite. Compared to last year I'd be better identified as Superfatman. My muscle tone has become tone deaf. Despite my physical changes my mental strength remains stubbornly intact. I have my moments but by and large I can hold it together.


I need to make it clear that it is my wish- Not my dying wish. I done wore that one out- that those of you who worry about me spend more time helping me make light of this whole mess. If my only contribution to the world is this blog, and if despair leaks from my posts, then I'm doing a pretty lousy job of making Earth a better place. I'd hate to think so many suffer through my content simply to get a taste of my whacked out writing style. 


Finally, I needn't inform you that I have managed to load ALL the responsibility of life, for me, on Amy, on Rachel, on Sarah, on Nick, on Tim....... hell, I'm an equal opportunity delegator- on you all. Strum a heart string for them. Play a harp for yourselves. Alone, I would have been long ago lost. With them, you.... I have a GPS in every pocket.

My condition today

The shot didn't work. Well............ maybe it did, sort of. While I'm sure the steroid calmed my tendinitis it helped me naught when my arm spun back in bed last night. The same pain, the same intensity and the same duration. My right shoulder occasionally mimics the left, not a good sign. My left hand can squish a hot dog with its clench, though the hot dog left undamaged slips from my grasp and hits the floor. My right hand refuses to rotate palm up. The ALS works on your ulna and radius, contorting them in a manner that is so significant that the skin appears twisted when the arm is forced into the proper rotation. I had hoped the disease would have spared my right arm. Such a disappointment.

If I were to describe what is going on within me, outside the obvious fasciculations, I would say that my muscles, all of them now, have disintegrated as a team. Each muscle has a mind of its own and each muscle is insane. The result is yours to imagine.

Prolific by compulsion (or necessity)

If I don't write it is never because I cannot think of anything to write about. If I am allowed an hour or two, at any time- day or night- prepared or not, I can hit the keys knowing something will come of my effort. Many days, I sit to write without a clue as to what I'm going to say, sometimes choosing a title and then producing a piece that has no connection. Usually I change the title; never do I change the content.

Most of my writing style is an amalgam of ripoffs of the writing techniques of real authors. I am about as smooth as rocky road ice cream when I post. I break rules when it suits me and when they escape me. I figure if Cormac McCarthy can blow proper punctuation out of the water, so can I, though he's as eloquent as I am awkward. As far as subject matter is concerned, this blog, for the most part, is intended to give readers some insider view of ALS, a disease of my possession that has, over these months, often put me in the position to explain. If I say "cancer", many ask what kind, whereas if I say ALS, or Lou Gehrig's Disease some ask "what's that?" and finally I might mention Stephen Hawking, to which some query "who's that?", requiring me to bring them up to speed on the disease, thereby making them sad or depressed. There really is no good way to offer up bad news.

A you can see above, I give example one of my many literary blunders- the last paragraph should have been divided in two.  Truth is, I consider my mistakes to be endearing and charming and acceptable for a guy of my meager education. If it bothers you, copy it and make all the necessary corrections and then read it again. I guarantee the message will remain the same. Your version will be a fast ball right down the pipe (easy pickins) while my version is a curve ball skipping off home plate and clocking the ref in the eye (and we both know there ain't nobody goin' hit that!). It's all in the delivery, and I see it that straight shootin' only impresses the assassin with a true site.

So I continue. Most of my posts can be found here, but since I feel a fair amount of responsibility to stay on subject- as depressing as it may be- I am unearthing an older blogsite, one I started a few years ago, giving me the writing release I need when varied subjects come to mind. I might even Lazarus some old project for your reading pleasure.

The site is Randomless Observations  daddyboettcher.blogspot.com

Playing catch up

Three days without posting is like replacing caffeine with Castor oil. Events thrust upon me- surprise birthday party, my parents' surprise materialization, the Super Bowl- precluded my efforts to post. Saturday morning I had begun to write, only to stop on a dime at the sound of my mom's voice. My mom, who has spent the last several months in a halo- a term that has no angelic significance when you have a broken neck unless God broke all the Angel's necks and had them fitted- then a neck brace, jumping from hospital to rehab and bed to floor to hospital, was in my living room. I hobbled down the stairs- now in need surveillance- and into my Jazzy, where I met her and Salim, where the waterworks blew a valve and I  bawled out of control, gaining my composure and losing it until finally sucking in a deep breath, bringing myself under control.


I was supposed to meet a buddy for a late lunch at the Silver Dollar that afternoon, arriving, expecting him to be sitting at the bar- which he was- not expecting to be greeted with a Paparazzi worthy throng of people hollering in unison "Happy Birthday!". My friend's face, barely visible through the masses, was failing at holding back a s*** eating grin- I called him a liar- he took it in stride.


I want to thank all who took time out of their Saturday to be a part of Amy's surprise. Actually my surprise. Don't for a second think that I am unaware of the difficulty many of you have with the reality that soon we will be moving to Dallas. Most friends in my life, collected, literally, since 1971, are here. Other than family, I know a total of about 4 people in Texas. It is- cliche- with heavy heart that I leave. Those who read my posts are from the several demographics of my life. Some are connected to me through my life as a builder- trades, customers, suppliers, employees, salesmen, various contractors, inspectors, city officials- all of whom are my friends. As for my 24 years in the martial arts, all as a student, 16 years a teacher, I will forever hold dear- my instructor, my co-students, my students and their moms, dads, sisters and brothers, those who have helped teach my classes, those- specifically Dennis and Todd- who help me every day, all of whom are my friends. I can go back to 8th grade and remember the guys from JFL Football, those from school, others. High schoolers I still see on occasion. Kids I coached in JFL 25 years ago. The girls and boys at Fr Sweeney I coached for six years, who are now men and women, many married, some with kids. I will be leaving all he musicians I got to know through Nick's development, all helping  us to better understand the world of performance and showmanship, coupled with sacrifice and dedication necessary to pursue a passion. Nick is living proof of their help. Lastly, I will miss all who cannot be categorized, those who have been interwoven with our family in all aspects. They know who they are. I know who they are. Some are recent acquisitions, most are ancient treasures, all are instrumental to our survival. All are loved.


Enough! You'd think I was dead- in which case this post would be much more than disturbing- or moving to Moldova. Truth is, we are moving a scant 800 some odd miles southwest, not far enough away to prevent many timely visits to P-town, usually when Nick is playing nearby. This blog will continue to spew, albeit with a few "moving" days off, right up to the Mayan cataclysm. Don't fret, other than moving to Dallas, I ain't goin' nowhere!

When surviving isn't enough

Four thirty AM and I am up for the fourth time this night, this time residing at my G5 while I reset. Most nights aren't this bad. On occasion, something gnawing at my brain keeps me awake; this night I find a combination of physical and mental incursions to be the culprit.

My fingernails grow faster than bamboo. I can wear them down or chew them to the quick on my right hand but my left, largely unused, largely useless and largely ignored, the fingers now most permanently bent, finds its fingernail growth unchecked. When I sleep, I release conscious control of its behavior and the nails, long, dig into my palm and I wake up. I can't chew them- my paralysis has twisted my wrist enough to prevent a proper chewing angle. A few hours ago I woke Amy and she kindly trimmed them. Add to my night excitement the thought of getting out of the house today and participating in bank business, moving business and general business, after a day so bereft of responsibility as to allow me to remain upstairs the entire time and you have a recipe for an erratic sleep pattern. For me. I'm just sayin'.

Survival is a minimalist term. Merely surviving a car wreck may not be the desired result of the collision. My situation plays the collision out for months or years. Until I experience the entire event I cannot access the extent of my injury. I do have time, however, to feint and parry in order to avoid the worst effects but my impacts are many and varied, invisible. All I can really do is block and strike into the void, hoping to meet resistance, hoping to prevail.

Feeling better

I have never been much of a proponent of drug use for better living. I've been around too many people, relatives included, who, having built their drug cache up to or beyond twenty pills a day, found out, through a new doctor, rare in the profession, that their quality of life would improve by eliminating most of the symptom  directed confusion provided by a drug traffic jam and let the body utilize the natural tools of healing for which it was designed. Short version, I know, too late- don't take so many pills.

I take drugs. If I had any choice, I would take nothing. I must say my intention is that all of my drug use is temporary. I had a heart attack due to multiple blood clots in my lungs, so I take a blood thinner in order to prevent more clots from forming. Some have informed me that I will be on thinner for the rest of my life- it is easy to accept this- while others consider it only necessary until the clots I have are completely disposed of by my body, a process that takes several months. After that I'm on my own- as it should be. Besides, I can go only so long using an electric razor. I also take a drug for my diabetes. My blood sugar is high, but not exorbitantly so, requiring me to pill up each day. Soon I will find a proper diet, monitor my sugar and drop the pills.

More important than the drugs I take are the drugs I don't take. I am well aware that as symptoms may develop, certain drugs can play a part in making me more physically comfortable. I have no aversion to anything that can improve my quality of life. I provide a case in fact in the next paragraph. Here, now, in this paragraph I explore those drugs that I have found it better for me to avoid. First are the sleep aids: I have tried three variations, none were effective and all harangued me with the opposite of their design. I have continued to experiment solely because pain in my left shoulder would wake me periodically each night, primarily because it was, and is, difficult to change positions. I have no problem going to sleep- thanks to two hypnosis sessions with Amy back in July- and I thought a sleep aid would help keep me asleep all night. None did. Another product, the name escaping  me, was an anti-depressant. The mere fact that some people can actually become suicidal while taking anti-depressants sets off an alarm in my head. I might imagine that my apprehensions tainted the drug's effectiveness on me, lowering it to the level of, in my book, a placebo. If I think somethings going to help me, it may. If I wrap my mind around the apprehension that it may be bad for me or have a reverse effect or to become an issue involving dependency, it is likely the drug won't work. And it don't work. My aches and pains can be reduced where my mind cannot. It is apparent that the psychological aspects of my ALS must be dealt with drug free. I do acknowledge that for most, drugs can help serve as a buffer for mental stress. I say, if it works, lucky you. Go for it.

Now back to what DOES work:

I've had shoulder pain for years. 30 years ago my left shoulder hurt enough to visit a doctor, who diagnosed me with biceptual tendinitis. He shot me up with 10cc of Cortisone, skewering me in North Dallas  Forty fashion from the front of my shoulder. The NDF reference is used here due to the injection method in the movie whereby a needle is inserted and wallowed around to inflict the most pain prior to transportation of the steroid. In my case, thirty years ago, a nurse held by arms down during the procedure. Extremely unpleasant but also extremely successful. That shot lasted some 25 years. As I've mentioned before, my left shoulder has been giving me fits lately. I am sure the weakness in my arm has exasperated my injury and added significantly to my pain. While I knew I had inflammation in my shoulder and 30 years ago it was diagnosed and relieved, part of me didn't know if a shot was warranted, would work or would be administered at all. A visit to an orthopedic doc on Monday answered all my questions and alleviated all my concerns. Not only was my biceptual tendinitis diagnosis of 30 years ago confirmed; I got an injection-8cc-, about a teaspoon full, she shot it in from the back of my shoulder and the pain was minor. Added to this was her statement that it would lessen the pain within 6 to 8 hours and last 6 to 8 years. The first part of her statement has proven to be true. The duration remains to be seen. If I feel pain returning, I can be shot up 4 times a year. All in all, an improvement in condition and an improvement in attitude for me.

I am not against drugs. I am against narcotic experimentation. I am against nine doctors prescribing nine drugs for nine problems without conferring with each other. I'm against discussing my condition with professionals only to find that when it comes to ALS, I am educating them, finding myself  the smartest guy in the room.

All said, I feel better today than I did yesterday.