Here

Since my session I'm feeling different.

(I) don't know what to make of it. When I do I'll let you in.

Shit be flyin'

My original intention was to lay out all that is wrong about me, all that is failing. The easiest action to administer is complaint. When I'm miserable, which is most of the time, I'm able to extract venom from my every wound. I figuratively bite down, suck and spit. The annoyance, already a festered, gluey concoction, lands on my blog and infects the lot of you with typographical clarity. You ingest my words and try to imagine my pain.

What good is that shit? For me, for you, for anybody?

Don't let me fool you. Given any setback, I'm likely to again bite, suck and spit. For today it seems like a lame ass idea.

Why? Because tomorrow night I will engage with a Mesmerism/magnetism expert in Belgium via Skype.

I have total faith in the process.

One of my prerequisites is to open my mind and expel all negative thoughts through my crown chakra. Beyond that, I'm going silent.

If you are open minded, please throw your energy my way, and I'll catch it. Only unrestricted energy, please.

This is for real. I'm only receiving positive thoughts. What would I need of anything else? I'm consumed with the bad. Time for "In with the good".

Steer clear of the top of my head. Shit be flyin'.

Reference piece

Caveat conundrum? Only I can relate to this. It's some version of Murphy's Law caught up in perpetual doldrums  If that is not clear enough I'm not engaged enough to expound.

Okay. I'm apt to be less than positive. Good things happen to me. It's not all gloom and doom. Spring is here. The NBA playoffs are soon. The boys are still great and my family loves me.

Please go to http://healals.blogspot.com for Amy's contribution to the efforts to keep me on the planet.

Quickly

I'm finding it difficult to express myself.

Let me find a woman who is better at expressing.

To many, this makes no sense, but to nursing mothers............
Amy says to keep it positive, so I continue my efforts, but...........

I'm sure that this is, so far, a worthless post.
I'm trying to fulfill a requirement.

Positive thoughts.

Suffocation begets panic which in turn fuels the fire of dying. Nothing is more serious or more frightening than gasping for air, looking about wide eyed at your last visual........ Except for your wife's witnessing your horror, exponentially increased through her heightened sense of empathy and considered imminent loss.

Let me never put her through that again.

4

Today is the fourth anniversary of my diagnosis. Yippy

Belly ache

Usually I try to post something brutally honest or ridiculously irreverent or boring or unsubtle. Anything you want to add? Feel free.

Today I'm within my rights to inject what ever I want.

I'm convinced that my journey would have ended long ago if I'd known near the beginning exactly where I would be now. The fear of unknown is far less convincing than any actual manifestation of such. The imagination is but a trifle, feebly knocking at the door of reality.

The blistering attack that now approaches four years in its barrage has forever changed me in ways I'm still unable to fathom. I've an unequal led time to ponder, yet find myself trolling Facebook and stirring the pot full of easy pickings, drawing out conversations that would never exist in the real world with the principals drawn together in the social medium. Though I loathe my actions I relish the consequences.

What about me? How do I feel? What hurts?
I find it unattractive to share what is so unattractive to me. Put that on your hoop and roll it.

If I expound upon my condition it will put me in a mind to think about it and that makes me sick. Sicker. Shit. Now I'm screwed.


Reset. I've said this before. It will always bear repeating.

The single most devastating factor in the ALS experience is in the design of the diagnosis. It transforms the human condition from concerned to destroyed in a matter of seconds. Most will never recover from that. I'm living proof that, despite my tenacious demeanor, the words and actions have torn a part of my confidence to shreds. I'm certain I will never fully recover from the initial statement and ensuing protocols.

Stress is bad. You have 2 to 5 years to live. Quit your job and smoke on that, you poor, unlucky guy. What insurance do you have? Eat shit, any shit, get fat and you'll live longer. You live longer, we look better. Prepare for your coming doom by meeting the wheelchair guy, the nutritionist who has a general plan for all ALSers: don't detox because you will lose weight, don't worry about what you eat because you will stress and that is bad for you. Oh, by the way, don't forget to speak to the social worker (exactly what does that mean?) about your living will and DNR options and your wheelchair choice as being the proper design for your eventual core failure and extreme immobility since Medicare only allows you one. Get your affairs in order so you can enjoy what little time you have left. Let me introduce you to the feeding tube guy (you will live longer with one) and the vent guy (with a vent, you will boost our numbers by living longer). Hey, here's the number of a guy who sells wheelchair vans (on your own dime, of course). You want grief counseling? None. You want mental health counseling? Got nothing. You want your wife to be paid to care for you? No, but we can recommend an agency.


On and on.

This crap all happened in the first three weeks. It's taken a load of bandaids to suppress the damage and the wounds leak even now. Especially the one between my ears.

If only. Whatever.