Not much

Illustrating the same old things over and over again is getting, well........ Old. That's why I occasionally inject a fight or a childhood memory or an observation of no relevance to this blog. Sometimes I make up stories. I'll always let you know what is real and what is not, though you're unlikely to be confused over which is which.

I'll tell you this about me: I've got too much to contribute to my universe. I'm equally inept when it comes to dying as I am at living. I seem to float in a Catholic style purgatory, streaming from side to side, looking for a nonexistent door. I can't seem to figure out anything that works. I'm in a race where nobody is moving, leaving no clues as to which direction to run.

Forty one percent of us lose cognitive ability. It might have found an entrance to my brain. I can only hope any dysfunction I'm experiencing in extant from birth. Sorry for the worthless post. I just don't have it today.

An eventful summer

I've jumped around before and I'll jump around again.

Today I tell you about an encounter I had with a belt buckle when I was fourteen.

No, it was not attached to my dad's belt. It made its way into the back of my skull, having arced through the air fastened to a strop of cow hide after the whole of the weapon was stripped from the Levi loops of my seventeen year old shit for brains delinquent assailant.

Let me start at the beginning.

Briefly : We lived in Pierson Hills, a new FHA housing project in Peoria off west Nebraska. We didn't live there for but a year. During that time I attended Sterling grade school, eighth grade, played JFL football, delivered the Journal Star with my best friend, Mike, ran my forehead full speed into an aluminum playground light pole while trying to catch a football (probably the primary reason I had trouble catching anything thrown at me since) and a zillion other things that will come back to me like they always do.
Okay, so its summertime, early evening. I don't recall what day of the week, but if I were to guess I'd have to say Saturday. (I'm going to drop names because its exactly true as I recall, and the only bad guy and his family don't likely read this stuff and I don't care if they do ; in fact, I'd be more than a little flattered, willing to battle any lawsuit they might manufacture at my expense).

Envision this. I'm going to shotgun events because they occurred in high speed buckshot impaction mini-sequencing.

Moment :

the TV is on. I'm lounging on the floor. My mom is on the couch. Salim, my awesome step dad, is there and my uncle, Adel, is in the room. Someone is at the door. I get up, open the door, see somebody through the screen, hear him say something about how I told his brother I could kick his ass (total bull), followed by a fist firing through the screen door, lighting on my face and knocking me onto my butt into the living room.
Cliff's description :
i got up
pursued
caught him in the courtyard
we scuffled
his name was Stetler
he was one violation from St. Charles
his dad attempted to get in on the action
Salim put an end to that
Stetler was not winning shit
Stetler backed up
Stetler pulled his belt
he swung on me
i got hit a good one
blood everywhere
my white tee shirt turned red
he had lit my fuse
he struck out
i caught it
i pulled him in
my knees went to work
he doubled over
he let go
he ran
his mother jumped on my back
i shrugged her off
i gave chase
he escaped into his apartment
i ruined his screen door
the police took me to Methodist Hospital
the Ambulance took Stetler to St. Francis Hospital
i got four stitches
he got his ruptured appendix removed
i got interrogated
he got incarcerated

what did I learn from this? Stand back from the screen door. I'm sure a lot more happened ; i was slightly engaged.

Family

The expanse of days between my posts can be explained. I'm not in the mood to reminisce. I'm going to take time to consider my condition and my future, determining how I may improve both my outlook and my prospects. I am planning to reinsert myself into my family and end the disconnect.

I need to thank Sarah for bringing to light what I must consider.

An ALSer we know has not communicated for some time and has decided to quit living by summer's end. I need to think on that.

I must get back to what's important.

Glendale Heights - a start

Glendale Heights :

for a few months during the beginning of my fourth grade year of school we lived in a predominantly Italian American populated townhouse style housing project. It was here that I:

got hit by a car driven by a middle aged bleach blond bartender. It was a darkish blue Ford Mustang, dirty, maybe a '67. My bike, a tall three speed, was pretzelized by her front end, committing me airborne from dead stationary as she left the pavement to slap my sorry ass pot to top over her hood, up her windshield, across her roof, down the trunk and into the ditch. I should've charged her for a car wash. The human chamois, I'm. I carried my dead bike home.

got hit in the testicles by a speeding football at the hands of a big Italian kid.

got dragged, kicking and screaming, by dad, to the barber shop to get what little Dippety Do styled hair I had mowed down to a crew cut, requiring me to wear a stocking cap at all times possible.

That's all I got for today.

Back on line

Invisible forces. The cruel underlying germs of degeneration that seem to have permeated my body and mind continue to do damage to both. What people see doesn't begin to explain all of the effects of ALS. I continuously battle unseen challenges as I sit, silent. Let me explore some of these lesser known attributes of the disease. I say lesser known because I'm fairly certain that most victims as impaired as I don't have the stubborn drive to communicate at all costs the pedigree of full blown Lou Gehrig's Disease.

I'm unable to :
control my breathing between my mouth and nose, causing a problem when blowing, coughing, inhaling, exhaling, chewing, swallowing and talking.
Swallow completely, which causes constant concern when eating.
Swallow naturally, which makes the act "on demand" only.
Control clonising in my legs, brought on by a bump, mental agitation of any kind or as a sign of a more serious problem.
Enjoy eating like I used to.


The list of minor annoyances and frustrations seems to be endless. I feel as if I'm slipping, ever so slowly, down a decline strewn with twitches and thatches of added complications and discoveries, certain to blur any view of my end game, certain to confuse my motivations, always smoking the path to my destiny. I'm a mute runner who cannot run, now blind as well.

I find it too difficult to expose all of my little defects in one writing. I must sprinkle a few at a time so as not to overwhelm myself. Over time, with enough information, perhaps a paradigm can be assembled from which others may better understand the inner struggles of an ALS junkie such as myself.

Every swallow must be premeditated. Every breath must be calculated. The leading killer of us is related to respiratory issues. As my diaphragm weakens, I am able to take in less air. Eventually, I will not be able to breathe on my own. I have chosen not to be put on a ventilator. Let's hope my stubbornness extends to physiological function.

In order to avoid negative reviews, I'd like to say that today I'm happier than yesterday, hopefully not as happy as tomorrow and certainly happier than last year.

Expect me to get back to my childhood memories.

PCeye

I have received my PCeye. At first glance, it appears to be everything I'd hoped for. My PC is many times faster than the Tobii C series, enabling me to access everything more quickly. Once I learn to navigate a Twenty four inch screen with my eyes, life will get even better. I will begin writing after my Tobii communicator software is installed. Look out.