Not even an hour after I posted that last entry, and sat here, feeling very small and afraid and helpless, my little brother Eric sent me this:
And I went from crying with grief to crying in laughter.
And that’s how I know I have the best planets in my orbit.
In addition to changes to my lifestyle, I’ve made changes to my vocabulary. I thought maybe you would like to know these words, too, because they’re verbal shortcuts, easy ways to explain something, so long as the person you’re dealing with knows these words, too. So! Some of these are specific to me, and I realize that people reading this might not understand. Then there are some that are REALLY useful in dealing with terminal diseases, and the people who have them. It includes reading other pages. That’s right, I just gave you homework. Deal with it. *sunglasses descend*
MY WORDZ, LET ME SHOW YOU IT:
Godzilla Disorder/Disease
This is how my friends and I refer to ALS. It got that name before I knew what it was, it was just a better phrase than “whatever the hell is wrong with me”. My main babe Danielle came up with it, as I was trying to figure out what to tell people when they asked why I was limping. “Just tell them you got attacked by Godzilla. In the legs.”
Get-Ups
These are different than spoons (definition of that to come). There is a specific number of times I can get up, out of a chair, out of a car, off the floor. Once I’m upright, it’s fine, but the effort of getting up takes more out of me than a lot of other activities. It’s like…it takes more gas to stop and start a car at a stop light than to leave it idling. Same principle. Once I’m standing, it’s fine, but there are only so many times a day I can get my ass vertical.
General Vocabulary, reporting for duty, SIR!
Silk Circle
http://articles.latimes.com/2013/apr/07/opinion/la-oe-0407-silk-ring-theory-20130407
If you only read one thing from this list, it needs to be this. This is how to behave when someone is having a hard time. This is how trauma works. Comfort in, dump out. THIS IS IMPORTANT. There is no better way to put this, and no better way to behave.
Spoons
This is basically the idea that a terminally ill, or chronically ill, person has a very specific allotment of daily energy units. Mana, if you like (you nerd). You spend these points throughout your day, and when they’re gone, that’s it. Game over. You think “Going to work” is one unit. But no. Every little thing that you don’t even think about (getting out of bed, brushing your teeth, put your clothes on) takes one point. It’s good language to check in. “How are your spoons?” “I’m kinda running on a spoon deficit today, sorry, I can’t go.” “Are you gonna have enough spoons to do all that?”
Also? she totally stole a spoon from that cafe.
Holding Space
What it means to “hold space” for people, plus eight tips on how to do it well
This is a relatively new one for me. I haven’t talked about it here before. This is the idea that sometimes, the absolute best thing you can do for someone, and usually the HARDEST thing to do, is hold space for someone. Just stand by, and be available if they need you. Don’t interfere or get involved if they don’t want you to. Just be on standby for when they do. It’s really hard to stand by and be non judgmental and simply offer support; but I want you to know that it’s the absolute best thing you can EVER do for anyone having a hard time. Just, say you’re there to help, and then back off. Hold space for me. And I’ll hold space for you. I can’t promise I’ll be perfect at it, I’m still learning. But I’ll do my level best.
There are certain to be words to come. There are always new things. New swear words, if nothing else.
There’s a book called “Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children”, which I love, and in the epilogue, it brilliantly describes how anything that changes you forever splits your life into two halves: Before and After.
Before, like anyone else, I had a lot of plans. I just bought a house. I had all the paint, and all the decorating ideas, and SUCH a garden planned in my head. My backyard is luxurious and I had many garden barbecue parties planned already. I had a spare room just for fostering kittens. My kitchen was a thing of beauty, I was planning amazing culinary ventures. This was going to be my forever home.
Before, my health was pretty good. I still had chronic headaches, but they didn’t really interfere with life much. I had lost a bunch of weight and was fitting into 32 inch jeans again – I felt healthy and cute, and was getting confident about my body. I wore size small shirts, and bought new clothes. I had energy, I was doing things and going out.
Before, work was reaching a comfortable zone. I had confidence in my ability to rise to whatever I was asked to do, and I saw a long career ahead. I was going to school to become an engineer and get promoted.
Before, I was comfortable in being single, I was self-reliant and independent. I could do anything by myself.
Before, I never really thought of myself as particularly important or special. I had people in my life I adored, but never felt worthy of their adoration in return.
Before, I never thought about death much. I knew academically that I agreed with assisted dying, I knew that getting paperwork done way in advance was important. I knew I should have an advance directive. I knew it happened to everyone, I knew on a high level what happens and that there’s a ton of complication and high emotion when it occurs.
A year ago today, I was in the middle of the Medical Folderol and had recently discovered I couldn’t stand on my toes anymore. A year ago today, I sat in Dr. Goslin’s office and stared at her hands while she told me that I have ALS.
After, I use leg braces, knee braces, and a cane to help me walk. When I walk down the hallways at work, I usually don’t bring the cane, but walk with one hand brushing against the wall the whole time. My social worker called it “wall surfing”. Walking a block exhausts me. I carried five empty boxes up the stairs last week, setting them on the steps, walk up a couple of steps, pick up the boxes and put them a few steps higher, repeat. I was sweating and out of breath by the time I was done. Walking the mile to the bus stop is out of the question. I carpool with an awesome coworker in his big red truck, and I know there’s going to be a time soon that I can no longer physically get in his truck. I can’t manage the one step up into my house, I have to brace my hands on the doorpost and pull myself in and up.
After, every crowded room is a minefield. Who is going to knock me over? I carefully watch my entire perimeter for unexpected people, or someone in front of me stopping suddenly. Every social interaction is a potential disaster, far and above my usual social awkwardness. There’s no more casually walking around, I have to be keenly aware of movement around me so that I don’t get tripped up or knocked down.
After, everything is a matter of energy budgeting. I wake up already exhausted, and everything is so much harder. My muscles have to work overtime to compensate for the ones that suck. There’s no more “just a quick trip down to the store room” at work. I have to plan that effort. Every little thing sends me in to a sweat. It’s super sexy. There’s no more getting a wild hair and deep cleaning the bathroom. Some weeks the bathroom doesn’t get cleaned at all.
After, my weight ballooned back up. Stress eating. Bleh. But the medical professionals encourage you to gain weight and keep it, with ALS. Heavier patients tend to have better prognoses. And you need that fat, for when you’re not able to eat anymore, like a whale living off its blubber. “Don’t go crazy, you don’t want to need a bariatric chair or anything, but..be nice to yourself and eat what you want.” Cause…fuck it, I’m dying.
After, I’m working hard to sell my house that I love and fought for because it’s becoming a physical impossibility to live there.
After, I am intimately aware of the legality and the complications of death. I’ve met lawyers and social workers and it’s more complicated the further you go. There’s nothing simple about the bureaucracy of death.
After, I know damn well how I feel about assisted dying. And I intend to exercise that right, if it comes to that, and it infuriates me that it’s not an option for Alzheimer’s patients, too. And an option everywhere. Brits should not have to take a permanent vacation to Switzerland to die in a strange hotel-like room. For a lot of money.
After, I am so, so, so blown away – daily! – by how much I seem to matter to people. By the sheer quantity of people who have stepped up to do something, even something small, to make my life a little brighter, simply because it was in their power to do so. And they love me. I thought I was insignificant, someone nice to be around, but certainly not someone who mattered much, and I’ve been told and shown how wrong I was. Constantly. In surprising ways.
After, I know how much I have impacted lives around me. I know how their lives impact mine. I know how important a seemingly insignificant gesture can become, years later. How memories define you, and can change your life without you realizing it. How important it is to reach out to people, all the time, because you never know who will show back up and be a key player when drama unfolds.
After, I know my strength. I know my calm and my pragmatism were not just theoreticals in my head, they are actual and they are real, and they will help me get through this. I know I have the grace and the quiet power that can see me through everything to come, because they have seen me through this far. I know my humor and my compassion will go far and help me survive for as long as I can.
After, I know that I’m seriously a morbid bitch. My dark sense of humor prevailed, and I’m finding things funny that would have appalled me had they been about anyone else. I am in love with a web series called Ask a Mortician, fascinated by the machinations of how we deal with death. I seriously believe we have done ourselves a terrible injury by trying so hard in the last hundred years to pretend that death doesn’t exist, it’s something that happens to other people. Because sometimes, it happens to you. And we, as a society, have forgotten how to deal with that.
After, I am intimate with the kindness of strangers. It never ceases to take my breath away, and it is so life-affirming when a total stranger gives me a kind word, encouragement. When total strangers sent me money to help. When a woman I’ve never seen before or will ever see again looks me sincerely in the eyes and says words of love and strength. And means them. It’s one thing to be told, “Good luck” or “have a nice day”. It’s another to feel someone reach out with their soul and tell you that they wish you all the best, and to keep up my optimism because it will see me through.
After, a year later, I reread my blog and see myself shift in little ways, and discover opinions I never realized I had. I see myself think about hard things, make difficult decisions, and become stronger than I ever thought I’d be. And I know that I’ll be okay.
Before, I didn’t know if I would ever have had strength and support to see me through After. After, I know love and support and strength and grace I would never have discovered Before.
After, I know that by the amazing and profound love of the people in my orbit, I’m going to be fucking FANTASTIC. And I can’t wait to see what the next year shows me.
Terry Pratchett died yesterday. He was 66 and suffering from early onset Alzheimer’s disease. He was a brilliant mind, and the world is so much poorer for his absence.
In 2011, three years after his diagnosis, he made a film called Choosing to Die. He met with an extremely British man, Peter Smedley, who had motor neurone disease – known here in the States as ALS. Peter was about the same stage as I am when he chose to die, weakness in his legs that made it difficult to walk and get up out of chairs. He had a very bright mind, and saw clearly the end of his path. He didn’t want his story to end that way, so he went to Switzerland and wrote his own exit. His wife was immaculate and also extremely British and very “keep calm and carry on”. They both kept a very strong face through it all.
I did not expect to actually see the man die.
I am glad they filmed it. It was a very good and honest look at the mechanics of the assisted death. And even though it was hard to watch, I am grateful that he shared his story. It was surreal to see someone at the same stage as I, with the same mindset, take the steps. Earlier than I would ever have. So much earlier. But he knew where he was going and did not want that undignified end, and so he took the poison and his wife stroked his hand and he fell asleep and died.
And he had to go to Switzerland to do it.
I am so, so grateful, again, to live in a state where it’s legal. How anyone can deny someone the right to die comfortably in their own homes on their own terms is quite beyond me.
It is, indeed, a beastly, undignified business.
Long before I was bestowed with the cosmic middle finger that is ALS, I was gifted with a genetic grab bag of fuckery called ectodermal dysplasia. (There’s GOT to be a cousin-marriage something or other back in my genealogy, because COME THE FUCK ON. My DNA is FUCKED. ) Anyway. I promise this is related to ALS, but I need to give you a bit of backstory.
Ectodermal Dysplasia, for those of you that can’t be bothered to google that shit, is a family of genetic disorders that causes defects in the hair, nails, sweat glands, and teeth. I have a VERY VERY mild case. Some people with these disorders are born with no sweat glands and have to wear cooling vests their whole lives, or have webbed fingers and toes, or no hair at all. I can sweat, I have some if not all of my teeth, I have hair at ALL, I’m ahead of the game. I am very fortunate that I was affected as little as I am.
But growing up with it as a kid?
Brutal.
My hair grew in transparent blonde and sparse, and only ever to about 2 inches long. Except on the sides of my head, that grew up to four in wispy little threads that flew away from my skull like feathery peachfuzz wings. When it got wet, it disappeared. My eyebrows were transparent blond, visible only when I got really angry and redfaced, so they stood out white on my face. My teeth grew in all kinds of crooked and brittle and some never grew in at all. My nails are these paper-thin shreds of nubbins. I was a very weird looking kid.
Fuck, man, you know how kids are little shitheads. I had the nickname Bald Eagle in my neighborhood. The older kids would see me coming and yell, “THE EAGLE HAS LANDED!” and run away. When I was in fourth grade, one of my girl classmates confided to me that one of the boys (that I happened to have a crush on) thought I *could* be cute – if I would just do SOMETHING to my hair, because it looked weird. I had a crooked, gappy smile that I hid behind my hand when I laughed. I had an expressionless face, because my eyebrows were THERE, they were just transparent. Even the adults joined in, unwittingly, mistaking me for a boy until puberty offered evidence to the contrary. I went to a flea market once, when I was about 8 or 9, and I was looking at this vendor’s pretty little necklaces and things, and the shopkeeper came over smiling, “Looking for something for your girlfriend, hmmm?” I was too embarrassed to correct him. When visiting my great grandmother, making the obligatory visit to her next door neighbor Mrs. Day (who always had Grandma Candy) I smiled and thanked her when she told me I was growing up to be such a big boy.
As you could imagine, I had a little bit of a gender issue growing up. It didn’t help that I have NEVER been good at “girl”; I really WANTED to be feminine and cute, but I felt like I was putting on an awkward costume that didn’t fit any time I tried. I was a social weirdo and never learned makeup or dressing girly, I felt awkward and weird, this androgynous thing that didn’t fit in anywhere. I was already Strange, my brain full of ideas that didn’t occur to most, a very intelligent and bored kid, standing out because I was a loner and never felt like I belonged to any of the little school cliques, not even the nerds. I was the weird kid in the back, and weird looking to boot. No seriously. Here’s me at 14, never having had a haircut in my life:
My self confidence and ego never really had a chance.
Eventually I taught myself to embrace that weirdness and make it seem intentional – I dyed my hair strangely and scowled at everyone so they’d think that I MEANT to look that way. Androgyny was cool if you were a punk, man. Or something. I learned to hide it by being angry. I wore that anger as a shield, protecting the hurt and lonely little girl inside. The Bald Eagle is still a fucking RAPTOR man, and it will GOUGE YOUR EYES OUT AND FEAST ON YOUR LIVER. (Oh, poor, 16 year old me; I wish we could chat. How desperately you needed a hug.) But the anger just made me look weirder. My defiant, thrust out jaw just made my face square. My heavy lined eyes just made my invisible eyebrows more obvious. And I never smiled so no one would see my crooked teeth. And weird hair looks weird even if you try to make it look like you meant it.
It took me a lot of years to work through that anger, slowly discovering and adding weapons to my arsenal in my Battle to Defeat Ectodermal Dysplaysia. Eventually I learned to draw on eyebrows to fix my expressionless face. To use false nails to hide and protect my little paperthin fingernails and have pretty, feminine hands at last (they were the one part of me I thought were pretty). I was introduced to hair extensions, after an unsuccessful flirting with wigs, and eventually I even came to revel in my ability to change my hair in a moment’s notice with them. Long hair today, short hair next week, long again the month after that. Through all of this, I let go of that angry teenager, who in turn stopped shielding the lonely and awkward little girl. I learned to allow myself to be a little bit feminine and dress like a girl sometimes, because I actually AM female, goddammit. And it looked cute on me.
And then I had good enough dental insurance to fix my crooked smile and have a beautiful smile for the first time in my life. That was a goddamned game changer. My brothers and I have all suffered the same over our crooked, missing, brittle teeth (I have the better teeth out of all three of us, but got totally ripped off in the hair department). All of us have dealt with being asked if we’ve ever used meth. By dentists. Having methmouth when you’ve never even so much as smoked pot or had an alcoholic drink makes you self-conscious as shit. And it’s cost all three of us countless opportunities. No one wants to hire a methhead. No one wants to date a weird looking girl with a wonky smile. So when I could afford to bridge the gap in my smile, to have straight teeth, I actually felt more normal and okay than I ever have in my life. I went from this:
to this:
And my world changed. And I felt like I finally won.
What does all of this have to do with ALS. I know. Relax, Sparky, I’m about to get there.
It was a slap in the face to be diagnosed with ALS RIGHT when I thought I had all my shit together. I had a really good job that I really like, I was financially stable. I had just bought a house like a Real Live Grownup. And at last? I was at a really good weight, my teeth were awesome, I knew how to do makeup sorta, my nails looked fantastic, and goddamnit I was PRETTY. FUCKING FINALLY. It took 38 motherfucking years, but I actually felt pretty, and smart, and stable. A Real Live Person Who Doesn’t Suck. I still had some shit to sort through, but I was doing pretty fucking good, all told.
…And then just when I think I have shit solid and good, ALS fucks it all up. I’m not going to be able to do my awesome job that I like, working with people I love, eventually. I have to sell the house I am in love with and didn’t even get to finish decorating because I can’t deal with stairs for much longer. I gained a fuckton of weight back because of my good friend Stress Eating. Hey, did you know there’s a German word for the weight you gain from emotional eating? Kummerspeck. It literally translates to “grief bacon”. Isn’t that the most AWESOME THING EVER. I mean, the weight gain sucked, but there’s a WORD FOR IT. And then being told by doctors DO NOT LOSE WEIGHT, you’re going to need it later, and people with extra pounds just tend to do better with ALS anyway. So here is your medical prescription to EAT WHATEVER YOU WANT. Don’t go all apeshit, I mean, we don’t want to have to fit you for a bariatric wheelchair, but you’re dying, fuck it, eat those nachos. Sucks about the not fitting into your clothes anymore though, yeah? Don’t worry, eventually you won’t be able to eat except through a tube and you’ll fit into all that again. So it all works out, yeah?
Where was I.
Right. Early on, it hit me, something stupid and vain – eventually I’m not going to be able to draw my fucking eyebrows on anymore. And I think I’ve just TOLD you why, that bothered the ever loving fuck out of me. I could rely on people to get me dressed, and probably put makeup on my face, but there were going to be days when none of us could be bothered to do that shit. And it really fucking bothered me to be reduced back to my 14 year old self. I had just CONQUERED that, I am not HER anymore. But I’m not going to be able to put on this Armor of Normal Seeming (+1 to appearance and +3 to charisma) forever. Towards the end of days, I’m going to be this emotionless husk, and I’m not even going to have any fucking eyebrows.
And it’s expensive, and vain, and fuck you I don’t care. I got permanent cosmetic tattooing done on Wednesday. I paid a stranger $395 to tattoo eyebrows on my face. And it looks fucking awesome.
And I can’t quite articulate the sense of..relief? Success? Booyah? Even though it was expensive and there are SO MANY better uses for the money, there’s a weight off of me with the knowledge that I can’t go back to 14 year old me anymore. I’m permanently done with her. My teeth are permanently okay, even if I DO still have a baby tooth on the bottom and not all of them ever grew in, they look like normal people teeth when I smile. And now my face is permanently okay, because I don’t have to draw on expression every day. What was already there has been highlighted, so when my hands no longer work, I can still quirk my eyebrow when you say something stupid. For awhile. And then I won’t be able to move my face at all, but my eyebrow game will still be fucking strong, yo. And I’ll never be that expressionless, angry little girl again. I’ve graduated, the tattoos on my face a diploma from Fuck That Shit University, signifying a degree in Being Just Fine, Thanks for Asking.
I am gonna go down, ALS is eventually going to kick my ass, but Ectodermal Dysplasia can fuck off forever. I beat it. I win.
The Eagle has fucking flown.
Danielle: I think you should be cremated with all of your stickers. Random thought of the day
me: that’s a LOT of cremation material
Danielle: ok, maybe just some…you can designate your fav binders. all the halloween ones
me: burn my cat stickers, my Lisa Franks, and the halloween ones hehehee
Danielle: hehehee there ya go
me: though that’s the majority of them, I think
Danielle: I was thinking that, yes
me: maybe just sticker my corpse and call it good
Danielle: Oooo it’ll be a wake game
me: hehe see?
Danielle: that was bad
me: Pin the sticker on the Vashti!
Danielle: hehee not entirely ashamed hahahaa
me: Give everybody penny stickers and if they can get them on my eyelids, they win!
…and then, because we’re not TOTALLY horrible people, we discussed her excellent idea of maybe donating my stickers to local teachers.
Every city is a person. San Francisco, for example, is a cooler-than-you power player by day, club kid by night with a serious drug problem and crushingly low self esteem. He’s beautiful, but the kind of beautiful you regret finding in your bed in the morning when his makeup’s come off and you see what he really looks like. Sacramento is his younger sister who wants to be as cool as her older brother and tags along to his parties, but she really just doesn’t get it, and won’t, ever. She’s self important and destined to be either a politician or homeless, depending on whether she’s willing to sell out or not. Portland simultaneously hates himself and thinks he’s better than everyone else, writing mostly bad but occasionally amazing poetry, while drinking whisky flights and watching the rain mist over the concrete outside his rent-controlled studio apartment downtown. He’s beautiful, quirky, and surprisingly athletic, which is amazing considering you’re pretty sure he lives mostly on coffee.
New Orleans is a man who laughs too fast and too hard, talks too much and too long, drinks to work up the nerve to socialize and then keeps drinking until he’s sick, the sort of drunk who can turn on you without warning. He’s a fantastic pal to hang around the town with because he knows everyone and doesn’t mind introducing you, an amazing cook able to whip up the most amazing meals faster than you can blink, and overall will show you a damned good time as long as you’re buying. He’s got a timeless sort of tired beauty, the grace of a man who’s been through some really rough times, and the charm of a desperate charlatan in need of some quick cash. He spends way more than he earns in an effort to make himself seem far less tired and sad than he feels, and he dates twin sisters Life and Death. When Life has partied herself out and goes home in the morning, Death visits by day and they stroll among graveyards and quietly share memories of happier times.
He needs the love of both women to be allowed to be who he is.
New Orleans is a larger than life, boisterous, beautiful place. In some places, the beauty is plastic and painted on, but there nonetheless. In other places, it’s quiet and stately and dignified; beautiful if you notice it or not. Everywhere you look, death and life are married and inseparable. Among the touristy, horrible glitz of Bourbon Street, there’s a smell of sick and decay and deteriorating sidewalk rubble to trip you up at every turn. Among the quiet graveyards around City Park, plants grow between the cracks of the crypts, the living wander freely, and the whispering of traffic is never far off.
New Orleans remembers what it’s like to have a healthy relationship with death.
We visited a very beautiful paper and pen boutique in the French Quarter, called originally enough – Papier Plume – and spent a fair bit of time looking at the most elegant instruments for committing ink to paper. Beautiful glass fountain pens, calligraphy pens, ink of every shade, and journals of artisan paper for keeping track of your life in. Everything you need to spill your living thoughts on to dead trees. As a sort of team memento thing, we all three bought glass fountain pens. We spent more time deliberating on ink than we’d spent choosing the pens, and I’m grateful and surprised that the shopkeeps never got the least bit impatient with us. I found shades I loved, but was dismayed that they weren’t permanent ink – they would fade in light or run when wet. The shopwoman asked why I was so set on permanent ink.
Colin looked back at me for a moment unsure of how I wanted to proceed. I smiled gently. “I ..have a terminal disease,” I explained, “and I mean to use these to write my farewell letters.”
She was quick to recover, immediately understanding and warm. She expressed her condolences, particularly when I mentioned ALS specifically, as – with so many people I’m finding – someone she knew had been lost to it. We made our selections, and she sincerely wished me luck. I appreciated it, and told her so. New Orleans was such a wonderful melt of life and death, that it wasn’t awkward to have that conversation. I only mentally dwelled on it at all in order to marvel at how normal that exchange seemed, before putting it away in my memories.
Several times I felt like I ought to have been somehow overwhelmed by it all, achingly sad to know that it’s the last time I’ll be in that city, thinking on life, death, the afterlife while sitting in St. Louis Cathedral, waiting to be moved enough to weep, and never really feeling like I needed to do so. I felt very comfortable and at peace there. I did not need to mousecreep my way through social interactions, because death was a part of life there. No explanations, no apologies needed, just a warm bath of understanding at the very core of the city. Time enough to relax and revel in a healthy attitude towards death before returning to a world still terrified of it.
I could never live in New Orleans, but it was delightful to be in his company for awhile. I’m grateful for the chance I was provided. Seven days being allowed to be what I needed to be, with two amazing people who love me to the ends of the earth and with whom I feel safe enough to relax my constant need to assure everyone I’m okay, and admit when I’m overwhelmed and need to sit down a bit. Seven days to live and eat and breathe and sleep for a week in a city that made me feel welcome and …normal.. enough to drop my guard in public for a little bit and just be unapologetically weak and flawed and alive.
A chance to be a dying woman in a city perfectly okay with death.
A coworker stopped me in the cafe today to talk to me a little bit, she’d just discovered I have ALS and had been told I was choosing the right to die when I want. We spoke a little about prognoses and comforting thoughts and coping mechanisms and …silver linings, if you will? Beautiful ways to think about death, thoughts that get you through it.
I told her that I’m almost (almost!) grateful for the disease, because it’s shown me how much love I have around me, how many people I have willing to support me, and to hear through their words how important they think I am. I’ve always thought of myself as a little bit ..standard, ordinary, unimpressive? But people have come out of nowhere to tell me I’m wrong.
“Well of course,” she said. “You can’t radiate THIS much joy and not draw people to you.”
I think that’s the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever said about me. And I was speechless.
I want this out here but I’m not going to say much about it because I’m trying really hard to not let it get to me so much so I’ll be quick.
I had a fall tonight. My first proper one. I was disembarking from an Amtrak train, stepping down from the train to the little foot step they have, and my leg just totally gave the fuck up and I fell. There was just nothing to catch myself on. I’m not really hurt, but there will be bruises and scrapes. Mostly I was humiliated. I was sitting on the ground trying to figure out how the hell to get back up because all I had for support was a stupid yellow footstool while total strangers were bending over me, asking am I okay, do I need help up?
“I’m fine, just really embarrassed,” I told a really concerned woman. She assured me there was nothing to be embarrassed about.
There was an Amtrak employee with the club car right there, apparently he’d been waiting for me because the conductor had told him there was a woman with a cane. The conductor had noticed me, because the train came on the opposite track that the station signage said, and everyone had to run to the opposite platform. And so I held up the whole train while I crossed under the platform and back up to the other side, and the only doors they had open were at the front, so it took me forever to hurry over. He knew damn well there was a woman with a cane on board. And that effort is probably why my legs didn’t quite have the strength to manage – I used up my fucking spoons just getting ON the damned thing, so when I got off, my leg just said “nope” and folded under me.
The driver helped me up, basically by having me wrap my arms around his neck and hauling me up. He asked a million times if I was okay. I repeated that I was, just embarrassed, and he also told me it was nothing to be embarrassed by. He just wishes he’d seen me before I tried to step down. “I’ve see perfectly healthy people WITHOUT canes fall while climbing down.” He gave me a ride through the station and out to the front, where my little brother Justin was waiting for me.
I knew my first fall would really suck, and it does, and I’m not freaking out but it’s really frustrating and sad because I know this is just the beginning. And I hate it.
The weekend was otherwise perfect, and I hate that it ended on this note. But it didn’t ruin anything by any means, and I’m going to end this before I dwell on it too much and it DOES wind up ruining it.
I’m taking Amtrak to see my friends Megan and Colin for the weekend. It’s a really nice, leisurely ride through some beautiful scenery, you don’t even notice the three hours gone by. I’ve taken this ride a few times, loved it each instance. SO SO SO much better than a bus. My Greyhound days are behind me, that was enough weirdness tto cover the rest of my lifetime. I don’t know WHAT it is with me and public transportation, why I attract the strangeness. Luckily Amtrak is immune to that. Yay!
I got a little preferential treatment..or different treatment this time. It’s been awhile since I’ve been on Amtrak, this is the first time since the diagnosis. I was asked if I needed help out to the car; I said I did not, I walk with a cane, but I’m still walking, you know? I was hoping he’d put me in a single seat, because that’s easier to get out of, but that’s alright. I’m not yet so far declined that I need that, just..it’s nice to have.
While I waited, I sat beside this lovely woman. She asked if she could sit beside me, and I told her of course. She explained she has Parkinsons, and that her disease makes her tire easily. I told her I know something about that and smiled; she did not recognize “ALS” but she knew “Lou Gehrig’s”. She said she was really sorry, I was so young, and that…was pretty much it, which is awesome. No dwelling, just acknowledge and move on. I don’t at ALL mind questions about it – please ask me ANYTHING! – but the conversation tends to get dark when they dwell on it. There’s a difference between curiosity and just..awkward. Instead, we talked about nail polishes and kids and traveling, and how stupid it was that everyone was lining up to get on the train when we had assigned seats.
“I’m waiting right here,” she told me firmly.
“I’m with you,” I grinned.
When we headed out, we got a club car ride to our cars. OH MY GOD so awesome. Seriously if you have to have a disease, it should have some perks, and apparently club car rides to your train car are part of that. Front door service, man.
I did, however, have a HELL of a time getting on the stupid train. The steps are steep, and I basically had to grab the hand rails and haul myself up. It was…not easy. For a second I wondered if I was going to be able to pull it off, but I did. The club car driver was careful to wait and make sure I got on okay before he drove off with the other woman.. I won’t be able to do this much longer. Mark one more thing I am losing.
But fuck it! I can do it for now. So for now it’s fine. I’ll take it. The lady and I wished each other a happy life.
The point of the trip is to put together a cookbook of my pastry recipes while I’m still able to use my hands. I think it’s a great idea, I’d really like to document my stuff, and I have a lot of fun writing the recipes out, so why not. Colin and Megan will take pictures and typeset the thing, we’l all bake delicious things and eat until we’re fat and sassy.
It’s been a really strange shift in mindset – “while I am still able”. It’s hard to think of things in those terms, and I have a really strong sense of pressure to do as much as I can, while I can. I am though, inherently lazy and I just don’t wanna. So it’s a constant fight between “do this because you won’t be able to later” and “hey let’s curl up in bed with the cats and watch How It’s Made all night”. There’s a balance there, I haven’t found it yet. It’s the same fight with “I want to fit into my clothes” and “EAT ALL THE THINGS! FUCK IT! I’M DYING!”
Just like the balance that the universe seems to be deciding on for me, between being helped and what ALS is taking from me. So far, ALS is winning, and it will continue to, but that’s alright. The universe is mostly balancing it out by showing me just how much people are willing to help me when I need it. And even when I don’t. I don’t have to ask – folks just show up and ask me to let them help. It’s overwhelming and awesome and I’m sorry it took a terminal disease to show me how many amazing people I have in my orbit. I’m still learning that whole “let people help” part, that’s hard.
So uh, this post really has no point. Like most of them. Just, hi. This is what’s going on. And I kind of wanted to get something else up here to move away from the talks about assisted suicide because MAN that was hard to write and I know it was really hard for you guys to read.
But again. You guys overwhelmingly showed me support in my decisions and thought processes. Even those of you who disagree with Death with Dignity, still voiced support in whatever I chose to do. I love you. I literally could not face this without support from you all, and I am incredibly grateful. I’m grateful to the conductor who asked if I needed help getting on the train, I’m grateful to the club car driver who saw the cane and offered me a ride, I’m grateful to the lady with Parkinson’s for keeping me company for a little while.
I appreciate the special offers, even if I’m able to take advantage of them for a limited time only.
Chat Log from today.
Eric: you write to much
going to need you to cut that down to like 2 paragraphs
thx
me: TL:DR – GONNA KILL MYSELF SOMEDAY AND YOU CAN’T DO NOTHIN ABOUT IT
Eric: yeah add a tl;dr on that shit
process improving
😀
but do tell me before it happens
me: I will. fo sho
Eric: i need to know so i can come steal that zombie tramp poster before anyone else
you know how it goes
me: hahaha I will make sure you get it.
Eric: and your baking stuff then we’ll call it square for all my years of service
me: hmmmm baking stuff might be a hard sell
I can add you to the pool of people to divvy that shit up
Eric: i dont want the divy
i want it all
im more qualified than anyone else
me: ….besides Eryn who went to culinary school with me
Eric: with my deep german baking heritage
me: hehehe
Eric: do i hear bake off?
me: XD
Eric: ok ok
if i make you the most amazing black forest cake
you put my name in the hat twice
deal?
k deal
and now i take my leave
to go sit in a class with people who dont even take notes
me: ok bye
Eric: DEAL
poof
me: (you forget I don’t like chocolate cake)
Eric: no i dont
but you’d eat it because it was the most amazing of all cakes
then you’d be like, shit my als is gone
too amazing
too
amazing
me: hahahahh I <3 you And I really do. Eric’s a good kid. The little brother I never had, even though I have a little brother. He is my spark of mischief, I am his Jimmy the Cricket.
Before we return to our regularly scheduled sweary shenanigans and inappropriate morbid humor, I want to say two further things about assisted suicide, and then we’ll move on.
1) This is not gonna happen for me for a long long time. So don’t go writing any eulogies or shit, cause I’m still here. I’ll give y’all lots of warning if/when that happens, but for now, you fuckers are stuck with me. Swearing ALL the swears.
2) It is BEYOND fucking RIDICULOUS that the criteria to qualify for DwD does NOT include dementia. FOR FUCKS SAKE. It is patently UNFAIR that these reasoning people can’t choose their end when they start to lose their reason. The body may not be in decline, but their LIFE certainly is. They are dying. Their bodies are just going to take a bit to catch up. Let them check out with class, for fucks sake.
I was on vacation in Leavenworth this weekend. It was partly to celebrate Danielle’s birthday (which is tomorrow, November 4th) and partly because we’ve been itching for a road trip awhile and a birthday was a good excuse. My weakness reined us in, for sure, but it’s a small town so we didn’t have to compromise much. There were three instances in which I told a total stranger about having ALS, the first being the woman who checked us in to the hotel apologetic as hell because our room was on the third floor when she saw I was using a cane. She asked what happened, had I broken my leg? She was very sympathetic when I told her of my diagnosis, and a little bit baffled because I was so young. She knew about ALS because of the Ice Bucket Challenge (I FUCKING LOVE THE ICE BUCKET CHALLENGE); she was very willing to be as accommodating as she could to help my stay be as easy as possible.
And the other two were on opposite sides of the spectrum.
++++++
One:
Danielle’s dropped me off at a shop to wait for her to park, because she has to park kind of far. (She wound up actually just parking at our hotel and walking the four blocks) I sat on a bench in front of the spice and tea shop we’re going to check out, and after a little while, an older woman with a walker approached. I asked if she’d like to sit, and scootched over to make room for her. I had been in the middle of adjusting my braces, because I’d left some velcro exposed (still haven’t made my straps, dammit) and it was catching on my socks. She asked what they were for, did I hurt myself? I told her that I had ALS, clarifying Lou Gehrig’s when her face was blanked.
“Oh. I’m so, so sorry,” she told me, with genuine sympathy.
“Thank you,” I told her sincerely. “I’m doing very well, though. It’s going to be okay.”
She was silent for awhile. “To tell you the truth,” she says quietly, “I wish to God it was me instead of you. You’re too young.”
I looked over at her and realized then that she was very near to crying. Her eyes were brimming with tears and she had a faraway look. “Oh, sweetie, I’m okay, I PROMISE,” I told her quickly. “My progression is so slow. Nothing hurts. I’m okay, it’s alright.”
She asked how old I was, and repeated “too young” when I told her. We introduced ourselves to each other, her name was Sheila. She asked a little bit about my progression, my symptoms, what my support structure was like. She agreed in the end that I was in the best possible situation and seemed mollified, but still upset. Danielle showed up then, and we said goodbye.
Once we were in the store, I said quietly, sheepishly, “I just made a total stranger cry.”
Two:
We stopped on the way home, randomly, in Goldendale, Washington. Because we needed a pee break and we’d never been there before. We discovered an honest to god observatory, saw some deer in a graveyard, and then Danielle saw a bookshop and wanted to go in. The book store turned out to be an Everything Store – the guy had literally everything. Books, jewelry, games, toys, fishing gear, light bulbs, office supplies, plumbing gaskets, literally everything. The shopkeep was named Dan, and came out when he heard us come in.
“Good morning,” he said cheerfully. “How are you today?”
“Fantastic,” I told him, “you?”
“Wellllll I was GONNA say ‘hobbling along’, but saw your cane and thought better not.”
I laughed and told him it would have been alright. He told me to have a look around and tell him if I needed help finding anything, he probably has it. After looking around a bit, I conceded, “You really DO have a little bit of everything.”
I stood at the counter while Danielle looked around. He looked over to me. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened? Is it an injury? Something you were born with?”
“ALS,” I told him, “Lou Gehrig’s – recently diagnosed.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said.
I gave him what is now my standard, “Thank you. I’m doing really well, though.”
And after awhile he smiled and said, “You know, I can tell. You’re going to be okay, you’re handling this great. You have a very bright spirit. You’re handling this with the right attitude; you’re gonna be fine. Nothing’s gonna get you down.”
I grinned and told him he was absolutely right. I have the slowest progression, the best support network, and the most amazing friend in Danielle. “That’s the right way to be about it,” he said.
We introduced ourselves, and had a little chat about the origin of my name, he told Danielle and I about the apartment he had in the basement of the store for his kid (“I didn’t want him living at home”) that his son never moved in to, his other property in a town of 93 people, the work he does on it. We chatted about a whole lot of little things while Danielle figured out what she wanted to buy. I bought some Topps stickers – because I’d been on vacation 3 days and hadn’t bought ANY – and instead of selling me five packs for $10, he asked if I’d like to buy the whole box for $15. I said heck yes. We said our goodbyes with a promise to stop in again if we were in the neighborhood. He repeated his complete confidence that I was going to handle this just fine.
We left the shop, and I was in a great mood.
++++++
Both reactions were sincere, neither was an incorrect way to behave. Your reactions are entirely your own. The only ways you could possibly screw it up when I tell you about my disease is to a) gasp and tell me it’s SUCH an awful disease and it’s going to get so much worse, or b) tell me it’s my own fault somehow for a life of sin or something. Or laugh. That would be pretty bizarre and awful of you.
Both reactions sincerely touched me. One left me troubled, one left me buoyant. Neither of my reactions are the responsibility of the person invoking them. I have a hard time accepting the inverse, though. When I tell someone about the diagnosis, and it predictably troubles them, I feel guilty and responsible for bringing them down. It’s not my fault. And it’s not her fault that her deep sadness troubled me so much. It was not his job to cheer me up. And it’s not my responsibility to sugar coat or put a smiley face on a terrible situation.
It is not my responsibility, but it is my nature. And I could tell it was his, too. He and I are of the same “Fuck it, it’s gonna be alright” mentality.
And sometimes, I’m of her mindset, too. This is terrible, I feel helpless, I wish I could change it.
Both reactions are correct and useful, in their own turn. And I’m happy to have met both of them, this weekend. It’s put words to perspective, and both of them were very sweet people and I’m glad they spoke the words they did. It means the world to me, to know I’m not alone when I’m sad, and to know there are cheerleaders who have got my back when things look awesome.
Even when – especially when – that support is from complete strangers.
I saw Zoë Keating in concert last night. She’s an amazing musician who makes sublime music with a cello and some looping software.
Do me a favor. In another tab, open this link. Listen to it as you read this. The piece you are hopefully listening to is called Escape Artist. It’s my favorite. I love the places it takes me, the way I feel, and the calm it brings.
My other favorite is a piece called Optimist, and it’s always been One Of Those Songs. You know. You hear it and it hits you and it’s like, “FUCK, man, this is my song. This is me. This is everything I’ve been trying to SAY.” And while Escape Artist is my favorite because of the emotional and mental places it takes me, Optimist was My Song. It was an embodiment of what I am to my core, the thing I’ve always wanted to be, who and what I am when I take off the mask. My philosophy, my purpose, my soul, conveyed in cello and software. Artistry and technology.
Optimism has been high this week, but it’s been put through the paces. It’s been a week of The ALS Show. The whole weekend was about the Walk, which gave me a boost of love and support. At the end, though, the whole day was a reminder of my disease, and a display of it’s various stages, a glimpse into my future with it. Monday my carpool was traveling so I walked to the bus and I was tired from it all day. Tuesday I had all kinds of job stress because I’ve turned into our purchasing/finance person and it was the end of the quarter. Wednesday I had the appointment with Dr. Goslin. Thursday I had a meeting with the Elder Care attorney and faced a lot of important but terrible decisions. And then a meeting with my amazing realtor and talked frankly about the practicalities of buying a house when I know I’m not going to stay there forever because eventually I am GOING to have to live in a nursing facility until the end. Friday, work was harsh, there was physical labor and stressy conversations, and then the concert. Finally. The concert.
I sat in a dark room, with strangers, listening to my soul resonating. And out of nowhere, I had the thought:
This is what I want to hear as I die.
It just came as a true statement, and I could clearly imagine this sublime music playing as I slipped away, and everything would be calm and perfect. I started crying, and it was a comforting, profound moment of perfect acceptance. I am going to die. And it is still going to be okay. I cried as I sat in the theater and listened to her pouring her heart out through her cello, and I knew for a fact that it was going to be alright. No one noticed that I was crying, it was just the music and I, and it was perfect and calm and connected. With astounding clarity, the universe reached out and touched my shoulder through her music, and whispered to me of comfort and love and understanding.
I keep this blog, and it helps me put order to chaos. I have a job, and it keeps me grounded. I have a fantastic, amazing support group, and they give me strength and hope to survive every day. I have music to keep me sane.
I am, at my heart, an optimist. I’m going to be okay. Somehow. Even if I die, that will be okay, too. It’s going to work out, and on days like this, in moments like this, I am in perfect peace and acceptance.
And now you should listen to Optimist. It would be a perfect end, for this to be the last thing I ever hear. And so I leave it here for you, with love and acceptance and faith that it really IS going to be okay.
I promise.
Speaking of cards!! You may remember a conversation I had with my dear friend Megan about playing the “I’m dying” card, and she decided to needed to make me actual cards with various demands.
GUESS WHAT.
SHE MADE ME THE CARDS.
She and her fantastic husband Colin actually made me the cards. They are a physical thing. They are sparkly embossed and amazing. They ALSO gave me the Jack Skellington and Oogie Boogie figurines you see (and I heart them SO HARD) and the black heart decoration which does not at ALL show up in this picture. But it is soft and awesome.
Megan is one of the most thoughtful people I know. She once made me a little box of lip cutouts that she’d kissed with lipstick on, for when I need smooches and she is not there to give them. I can’t tell you how amazing she is. Her husband Colin, who I’ve known just as long, is also amazing and full of love. He is the perfect partner in crime for her and I love them more than I can ever possibly tell you.
And THIS, THIS is how I survive with a smile. I am orbited by planets of awesome, and the pull of their gravity keeps me from collapsing in on myself.
I love these cards and I am looking forward to the looks on people’s faces when I actually use them. I love the people who made them. I love the people who gave suggestions for them. I love that I have such amazing people in my life. I love that my diagnosis has shown me exactly how loved I am, and how completely I am surrounded by the brightest and best people in the universe.
I love my life, ALS and all.
I was introduced this week to a comic called Spinnerette. You can read it here. It’s a pretty fun send-up of superhero comics and usually pretty goofy – a fun romp of a comic. I’m not finished with the archives yet, so I can’t give you a complete opinion, but it’s well drawn and occasionally funny.
The reason it was recommended to me, though, is that one of the main characters has ALS. She built a robot suit so that she can use what time she has left to fight crime, Iron Man style. I halfway expected to be vaguely insulted by how they treated the disease, but she’s actually pretty matter-of-fact about it, and the reactions of people around her are pretty faithful. She’s not her disease, that’s not the point of her character. It’s her motivation, but not her reason to exist. I like that a lot.
Similarly pretty accurate is the reaction when she tells the plucky heroine that ALS is degenerative, and she only has a few years to live.
http://www.spinnyverse.com/index.php?id=87
And you can just..feel her frustration. The main character is more sensitive about this woman’s ethnicity than she is about her disease.
This is exactly how not to react when someone tells you they have ALS. Or any other disease for that matter. Please don’t do this. It is REALLY REALLY frustrating. You think you’re being all chipper and optimistic, but you’re really just sticking your fingers in your ears and going LA LA LA LA LA. You’re in denial and it’s really hard to be around you. You’re telling us that we can’t be honest with you when we’re having a bad time. You are obligating me to put a happy face on my hurt for your comfort, and fuck you for that.
ALS isn’t all shit, all the time, but sometimes it really is awful and we should be allowed to be up front about it. Allow us to break the news that YES, this is FATAL. And then let us be okay with that, and help you come to accept it, too. And when you accept how horrible it is, you can truly appreciate how marvelous the rest of it is, most of the time.
…Now where’s MY mech suit, dammit.
One of my very favorite, most used bits of gallows humor is the idea that the world somehow owes me something because of my disease. I call this the “Fuck It, I’m Dying” defense.
…Of course I don’t actually BELIEVE that, that would be stupid. Even though I know there are some terminal patients who do think that way, it makes absolutely no sense and that’s a ridiculous way to think. I present you my very very favorite poem ever:
A Man Said to the Universe
BY STEPHEN CRANE
A man said to the universe:
“Sir, I exist!”
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.”
POW. The world don’t owe you JACK SHIT, my friend, if you’re dying today or tomorrow or a hundred years from now. But it’s funny to think so.
Any time I think I might get in a little trouble at work, like I forgot to submit my monthly status report (OH MY GOD I TOTALLY FORGOT TO SUBMIT MY MONTHLY STATUS REPORT! SHIT!) my friend and coworker asks, “What are they going to do, fire a dying woman?” When we don’t choose where I wanted to go to eat, “Demand it anyway. You’re dying. OVERRULED. We’re gonna go get Mexican, bitches.”
I was talking tonight with my dearest Megan (who is awesome and you should BE so lucky to know her) about traveling for business, and sourpuss coworkers who just want to go to the hotel after work and not explore the city. Especially if you’re in another country! COME ON MAN, LET’S GO HAVE AN ADVENTURE. Megan agreed, “Yay, adventure! Demand adventure. Play the I’M DYING YOU HAVE TO TAKE ME ON AN ADVENTURE card.” I told her, “I LOVE that card!”
And then she said, “Okay, now I want to make you cards. Two-sided, business card, or maybe a little bigger, like an old fashioned calling card…One side: I’M DYING. Other side: miscellaneous demands.”
I’M DYING…
I DEMAND CAKE.
I DEMAND SEX.
I DEMAND KITTENS.
I DEMAND ADVENTURE.
I DEMAND FREE STUFF
YOU HAVE TO FORFEIT THIS ARGUMENT
TELL ME I’M PRETTY
BUY ME SOMETHING
CARRY MY SHIT
CARRY ME
I’m sure you all can help me think of other good ones. Let’s hear them.
The hardest thing about my diagnosis so far has not been coming to terms with my own mortality.
It’s been coming to terms with allowing myself to ask for help.
To say I’m fiercely independent is a bit of an understatement. Its source is two-fold – I really hate imposing on other people for things that only benefit me, and I have a stupid deep-seated need to prove to the world that I can do it by myself, thank you. It makes it harder than necessary to get things done, sometimes. I’ll take two hours to show up to a party because I don’t want to ask another friend to drive ten minutes out of his way to pick me up when he goes. I’ll load myself up like a pack mule and walk home rather than ask a coworker “hey, can you swing me by the store tonight?” even though they’ve TOLD me they’re more than willing.
Two true stories:
I had a coworker friend who waited in his car in the parking lot while I ran in for some groceries, because I’d insisted I could walk to the store later, it’s fine, I don’t want to impose on you, I might take forever, it’s okay really, I can do this – so he insisted on taking me to the store and waited outside so I didn’t feel like he was hovering over me and rushing me while I picked up the things I needed. He’s super nice and I still feel bad about that.
My boyfriend at the time once berated me because I occasionally asked him for rides to the store – we’d been dating for over a year, he was living with me so the grocery runs were for our mutual benefit, and goddammit YES I WILL GIVE YOU A RIDE, just tell me we need to go to the store, woman.
My diagnosis has come with a very humbling lesson of “No, you CAN’T do it by yourself, actually.”
The truth is that I can’t carry boxes up the stairs anymore. I can’t walk the mile to and from the bus twice a day, every day. I have had to learn how to ask for help. My outer circles have been amazing at offering assistance – I’ve been told that friends are willing to come over and scoop my freaking litter box twice a week, if I want to set up a schedule. Grocery runs. Yard work. whatever it is, just say, and someone will help me do it. I just have to let them help.
I just have to ask.
The “I don’t want to impose” part of me is appalled at this turn of events, of course. Yes, they’re willing and they say they’re happy to do it, but…they’re going out of their way! For me! Just to take me to the stupid store! I don’t deserve to trouble them so much! The “I’m independent” part of me is learning to shut up as it’s proven time and again that not only is accepting help not a bad thing, it’s becoming mandatory. It’s dangerous, because I’m also lazy by nature, and so the temptation to just not do the things I don’t like to do in the name of saving spoons or whatever other excuse is strong. I hate mopping the floor. And I’ve got people willing to do it. But I CAN still mop the floor, so that independent side of me makes me do it, while I can, because the imposition side of me is mortified at the thought of making someone else clean up the cat puke. Eventually I won’t have the strength to stand up long enough to mop my floor. So I’ll have to ask.
Okay.
So. The reason this is on my mind today, is that Danielle, my best friend and main babe, has set up a fundraising site for me. And she’s demanded asked that I link it here. This is a thing that is purely for me, to help with upcoming medical expenses and to cross a few things off of my bucket list while I’m still able to do them. The truth is, being sick in America is very, very expensive. Moving house is expensive. Buying and renovating a house for wheelchair access is expensive. Vacations are expensive. And while I have a job – a good job – I’m keeping afloat. But the time will come, sooner than I want to admit, that I have to leave that job and figure out how I’m going to live for the rest of my life on 60% of my income. ALSA says that it takes $200,000 a year to care for a person with ALS. That’s substantially more than the $700 or so I’ll be getting a month from SSI when I’m unable to work. I just can’t do it.
And so I’m asking.
Danielle told me that I have her permission to tell you guys that she made me do this. And she did; this is something I’d never have done on my own. And I’m incredibly grateful to her, because I still haven’t gotten the hang of this whole “take care of yourself first and let people help” thing, and she’s been an excellent coach and an amazing guardian in that respect. She’s been really amazingly good for me. But it’s not entirely under duress; I’m also..just…asking. I admit I can’t be completely independent, and I must impose on the kindness of my friends, family, and complete strangers on the internet. I’ll put it up on the sidebar over there. I’d be grateful if you could help.
I’m asking if you can.
(edit: Oh my dear, precious, sweet sensitive children. How ANGRY you all are. I didn’t write this in perfect seriousness, which I would HOPE was obvious (hyperbole is fun and mental! It’s fundamental!) but I also don’t expect to actually convert anyone to the cause with it. I don’t use gentle, persuasive tones in this piece because I’m not trying to be gentle or persuasive. It’s not a rally, it’s a rant.)
Seriously, world, why all the hate?
I realize that humans are hateful, spiteful creatures and will find a reason to hate on even the most innocuous things.
Awww a sweet boy-meets-girl love story! WHERE IS THE REPRESENTATION FOR THE GAY COMMUNITY!? Uh. Okay. Here’s a sweet boy-meets-boy love story then! WHY ARE YOU SO GENDER BINARIST? HUH? Okay…here’s a ..person meets person love story? WHERE ARE THE PEOPLE OF COLOR AND THE DIFFERENTLY ABLED CHARACTERS? Well I only wrote this with two people total… OH SO YOU ARE BIASED AGAINST POLYAMORY HUH? AND WHAT ABOUT THE ASEXUALS? THIS IS VERY OFFENSIVE.
Seriously, people, calm yo tits.
YOU ARE ASSUMING I AM FEMALE. I AM OFFENDED.
No I’m assuming you’re a bitch.
THAT IS INCREDIBLY SEXIST AND YOUR BLOG IS PROBLEMATIC.
Well my LIFE is problematic, fucker, so what. But while you’re here and angry, my little social justice warrior, let me explain the difference between ACTIVISM and SLACKTIVISM. And why the Ice Bucket Challenge is both, and why that’s okay. (tl;dr – IT IS OKAY BECAUSE IT IS FUCKING EFFECTIVE)
I have a deep-seated hatred for a lot of ‘awareness’ campaigns. I feel you. I cringe when I see pink ribbon bullshit on everything (SERIOUSLY SUSAN G. KOMEN IS AWFUL AND YOU SHOULD NOT GIVE THEM YOUR MONEY). I am actually ANGRY when those stupid games inevitably make their way around on Facebook again, where some girl sends a facebook message to all the other girls on her friends list asking them to post their bra color, or their handbag color, or shoe size, and not explain what that is or why. Let me run this by you:
22!
18!
10!
7!
293495!
…Are you now aware of breast cancer being a problem?
Well, yes, because EVERYONE IS AWARE OF BREAST CANCER. EVERYONE ON FACEBOOK KNOWS WHAT IT IS AND THAT IT IS TERRIBLE. But seeing a string of numbers on your friends feed does NOTHING. Except piss me off, because you’re wasting my time AND feeling smug about it.
This is slacktivism. “Post this status in honor of everyone you know who has died of cancer!” Okay, that does NOTHING. “Sign this online petition!” That does NOTHING. “Retweet this!” NOTHING. Nothing has changed because of you. When you post pictures of abused animals, you are actually HURTING your cause, because I do not like to see that and I will defriend your ass so fast you’ll see smoke.
Protip: If you are friends with the sort of people who need to be told that animal abuse is bad, YOU NEED NEW FRIENDS.
I can see why you might be tempted into Ice Bucket Challenge hate. But let’s see if I can’t calm yo tits FOR you. Hakuna your tatas, as it were:
1. “How does dumping water on your head cure a disease?” It doesn’t. Shut up. No one thinks it does.
2. “This is wasting perfectly good water.” Uh..we can’t send this one bucket of ice water to Africa. Just like the crusts from your sandwiches when you were a kid, this particular act of waste is not taking food/water directly out of the mouth of a person who needs it. If you want to be outraged about water shortages, go write a letter to Nestle and tell them to stop bottling water from drought regions and selling it.
3. “You bought that ice instead of just making some, you could have given that $2 to charity.” True. I also bought this soda, and this shirt, and my bus ticket to get to work. I have a LOT of money I could have given to charity. I didn’t. I’m just not that much of a saint. And neither are you. Until I see you selling your shoes to give the proceeds to charity, until I NEVER see you with a Starbucks in your hand or a store-bought lunch, you can shut it.
4. Most of the videos don’t explain what ALS is. No. Most of them are 7 seconds long, and it takes that fucking long to SAY Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, never mind saying what the fuck it IS.
5. “You’re dumping water on your head rather than donating money”. That’s not necessarily true. In the original bet, it was an either/or. It’s evolved into an AND situation. You don’t get visibility into the bank accounts of the people involved, so you don’t get to see that part and don’t know for a fact that they aren’t. But a lot of people ARE. See #6. Also? There are some little kids doing this. Last I checked, 6 year olds don’t have $100.
6. “This is not doing anything to raise awareness.” You, sir, are a liar. And you should feel bad. Or maybe you’re so wrapped up in your cocoon of IBC hatred that you’ve not seen anything about the RESULTS. So let me educate you:
Today, the ALS Association reported that they have received donations totaling over 22.9 million dollars.
Last year by this time, they’d received 1.9.
Let me do the math for you.
In the last two weeks, the ALS Association has received ONE THOUSAND TWO HUNDRED PERCENT OF ITS USUAL DONATIONS.
ONE.
THOUSAND.
TWO HUNDRED.
PERCENT.
I have no statistic on how much of an increase OTHER ALS charities have seen. Oh wait, let me google that shit for you. Project ALS has raised $96,000 in a single weekend. Team Gleason isn’t reporting, but I know damned well they’ve seen a spike from co-opting this meme (bastards). The MND Association has certainly seen an upswing in donations.
The OTHER thing you don’t see?
Millions of people watching these videos, wondering what the hell ALS is, and then googling it. And learning.
THERE is your awareness, bitches. In these last two weeks, if even a THOUSAND people became aware of ALS without having been directly affected by it (because that’s cheating), then I’d consider it safe to say awareness has been raised. But tens of thousands of people now know what ALS is, when a month ago they were ignorant. And MILLIONS have heard the name.
How the fuck can you hate that?
You can’t.
Sit down. Shut up. Watch the fucking videos. Laugh. Donate some goddamn money. Lighten the fuck up.