Friday, August 18, 2017

If it was about heritage and history....

So fuck you  Donald Trump supporters.

These statues of Confederate leaders are just there to remind African-Americans what their place was and what the people who like the statues think it should be.

If it were about history and heritage we would be honoring the victims.


Better yet, here's a statue of a real 19th Century American hero who actually helped free slaves. 

Henry Beecher, a conductor on the Underground Rail Road.  My favorite chaperoning assignment was to his church


Friday, August 11, 2017

Originally published in the blog of the Prospect Park Track Club

Race Report: Michael Ring’s Club Team Championship

I always used to find a way to run this race. I never tried to run my fastest because my fastest cannot ever help the team. Sometimes I ran the men’s race and then the women’s race just to get in the extra miles. A few times I ran all the way to the start because recently it began coinciding with the first day of the Summer Streets program.  Whenever possible, I scheduled my family vacations around this race.
But in May of 2014, I lost control of the ability to schedule vacations and races. I was diagnosed with Guillain-Barré syndrome; my immune system malfunctioned and started treating the myelin sheets of my motor nerves as enemies. I went from marathon-ready to paralyzed in a few days. (Eventually, I was re-diagnosed with a rare variant of this rare disease. I have acute motor axonal neuropathy. That means my immune system attacked the motor axons themselves.) It was a no-brainer to ask for a medical deferral in the marathon I was going to run the end of that month. But it never occurred to me that I wasn’t going to be able to show up for a 5-mile race in August.
Between May and July I moved from one hospital to another five or six times. Most of them happened with a strange sense of bureaucratic emergency. Doctors and social workers worked together to find me a bed and then with hardly any notice at all, I was transported to a different hospital. But my wife and I had some say in where I was going for the last hospital. At that point I needed to be transferred to a long-term subacute medical facility, known to most people as a nursing home. My wife visited these places and let me know that they would all suck and that there was a facility that had the best physical therapy, and the worst food, but was in Chinatown. The place they came in second on her list was on Fifth Avenue around E 100 Street. Looking back, it was probably selfish of me but I really wanted to be uptown, near Central Park. I had this fantasy that I could get a day pass from rehab and get to Central Park to see the Club Team Championship Race. I wanted to see the race and I wanted to be seen.
On August 2, 2014 I put on my happy face when a few of my teammates ran south on Summer Streets to visit me in Chinatown after the race. After they left I went to my happy place; I reviewed all the times I ran to the start of this race. Running over the Brooklyn Bridge as the sun was rising, running up Lafayette and Park Avenues. I remembered what it was like to run from Brooklyn to the northern end of Central Park arriving just 90 seconds before the race was to start. I also remembered what it was like to run through the Park Avenue Tunnel at 34th St. because the police weren’t looking. Although this disease was able to temporarily take away my bodily functions, it couldn’t touch my memories. But the memory I replayed countless times was what it was like to run that last mile in a race that ends at the 102nd St Transverse – with the hill behind me and that long straightaway past Engineers Gate, then a slight left turn and the sounds of cheering teammates.
In 2015 I got a ride to the race. I had just graduated from using a walker to a forearm crutch to get around. I don’t think anyone knew how challenging (frightening) it was for me that day. My balance was terrible. Well, it wasn’t really a balance issue, I was still suffering from a lack of proprioception in my legs. That meant that while I had the nerve function hold up my body weight and walk, I couldn’t always tell where my legs were. It was weird. I don’t think anyone noticed my tears of joy when I got up to the top of that big rock so I could see everyone run by. I remember looking back at Mount Sinai Hospital to the east of Central Park thinking that symbolically that’s where I was last year and looking forward to Park Drive and knowing that was where I would be next year.
And yes, in 2016 I ran the race. Running isn’t really the word I should use. The New York Road Runners Club allowed me to start behind the women in their race so I could finish among the slowest men. I walked. My body wasn’t ready to run yet.
But this past Sunday, I was able to live the dream that I had three years
ago. And Holy Moly, I was incredibly happy with myself because this was a race. I just went to the New York Road Runners Club race results website to see if I met my goal of sub-20 minute miles. Not only did I do that, but I beat someone. I did not come in last!
Okay, back to talking about race strategy. My plan for this race was to alternate running and walking every minute. I actually installed a boxing match timer on my phone for one minute rounds and one minute rest periods. (The Galloway apps that make audible alerts cost money. WTF).  The race started with a little problem. I couldn’t get the app to work and I didn’t want to stand at the starting line fiddling with it. So I decided to just count my steps – 50 walking steps and then 60 running steps. I did that for the first couple of miles but I was beginning to lose my mind. Luckily, I noticed how evenly the cones were put out by the New York Road Runners. So I’d run for three cones and walk for two cones.

It’s Tuesday morning and I’m just about to send this off to the Communications Committee. There is something I need to add. At last night’s membership meeting I had intended to stand up and tell my story when Tom asked about recent races. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t do that. I started to choke up as I raised my hand. I’m saving the water works for November’s meeting.But then there was the last quarter-mile. That quarter-mile that I ran so many times in my head. I started to think about how glorious it was to be living that this dream. This quarter-mile was better than I remembered it. It wasn’t just the Prospect Park Track Club slammed into me tapped me on the shoulder.
Thanks Linda Chan
cheering for me. It started with the cheers zone from North Brooklyn. I saw someone I didn’t even know pointed me and screamed, “Look it’s Michael Ring and he’s running!”  So, I had to clear my head because I had to do two things; I had to run the rest of the way and more importantly I had to not fall down. The not falling down part became a big challenge when one of my favorite teammates

Wednesday, August 9, 2017

This is why it is important to look good at the finish line

Three years, three months and two days ago I stumbled into my doctor's office. She told me I had Guillain-Barré syndrome. By that night I was admitted to intensive care and I couldn't hold up my body weight. I came home 137 days later because it only took one person to transfer me between a bed at a wheelchair.

Yesterday, I was a little tired and thought I would take an evening off from running. But I'm sure glad my friend Janel woke me up because we were a great running team. And I'm also glad John was there to make this little movie.

In two months and 27 days I intend to finish the New York City Marathon. It will be the 20th time I finish the New York City Marathon and the 30th marathon that I will finish
video

#FUGBS


Monday, July 24, 2017

I'm not so sure why wrote this... I'm blaming my summer cold

The other day I was walking down 7th Avenue in Park Slope. I wasn't going anywhere special and I had the time to take a look at the poster attached to a lamppost.

I never knew this guys name, or more than a little slice of his story. He always sat on a milk crate in front of key Food. Well, not always he went somewhere else to sleep. But I can keep track. But, I know he was there for a long time. I think before my kids were born I remember him. Definitely since my kids were little. Yeah, he was definitely there when my kids were very little. Because I know he told my kids "Don't forget to read a book" before they were old enough to read a book. Sometimes I gave him a dollar, or sometimes I gave them fresh fruit. But not that many times. I never knew his name was Derrick McGlashen till I saw that he had died.

Derek noticed that I had been missing from the neighborhood for a while when I returned from the hospital. He showed his shock at seeing me in a wheelchair and asked if I had been an accident. I told him no, I had some weird illness that literally knocked me off my feet but I was gonna get better slowly. He never held back his joy in seeing the leave the wheelchair and start getting around the neighborhood on crutches and then a cane. He was really happy to see me walking around the neighborhood. I even showed off a little running for him. He made me feel good about my recovery and didn't ask for or expect anything in return.
........................................

So this past Saturday I participated in ultramarathon. It was a six hour race that started in the evening and ended at 11 PM. Trophies were given to anyone who finished greater than the marathon distance. The first time I did it I got to 27 1/2 miles. That was a couple years before my immune system malfunctioned. I did this race last year and got to 13 miles. When I started the race the director gave me a trophy for last year's effort. I humbly accepted it because I knew that it took me as much work to cover 13 miles as it did the people who did more than 40 in the same amount of time. Before this race started there was a little award ceremony because people were being inducted into the Broadway Ultra Society's Hall of Fame. Some of the former inductees were there. There were people who ran marathons in every state for five times. There were people who ran across the country. I assume Phil was already in the Hall of Fame because he holds the world record in the 48 hour race. But Saturday he got inducted.

I was just thinking how excited I was that some of these amazing athletes know what I've gone through in the past few years. They told me they were inspired by my recovery. I don't know what I'm trying to get at. I really don't. But I just think it's really cool and I feel good that I've inspired the homeless the Vietnam veteran as well as the world-class athletes.

So I'm trying to figure out why I'm writing this at all. I'm just thinking this is gonna be one of those rambling blog posts that I hope no one really reads. But I'm trying to bring it together. Is it that is no difference between homeless people and world-class athletes? In some ways, yes. Is it also that I'm kind of addicted to positive feedback. That's for sure! I guess it makes people happy to see me improve, I'll keep improving to make people happy.

Friday, July 21, 2017

You can't make a living finding MetroCards anymore (Updated 7-21-17)


Probably final update, July 21, 2017.

Back in May 2014 I suddenly stopped taking the subway on a regular basis. About the same time the MTA started charging a dollar if you didn't bring them a Metro card when you wanted to put money on it. Now that I'm back taking the subway on a somewhat regular basis I've made an observation that there are a lot less Metro cards laying on the floor in subway stations. This could be because people are keeping their valueless Metro cards for refill purposes, or that people are picking them up to save a dollar and they need a new card, or that the MTA is doing a better job at cleaning the stations. In any case, I'm not finding subway stations with their floors strewn with MetroCards.

However, when I do find cards laying around the subway the ratio of how many have value on them is about the same as it was before 2014. Between 5% and 10% of the cards I find sitting on top of the vending machines have some money or some days of use left on them. Also, I'm still noticing the same amount of cards on the floor in supermarkets, parks or places that are not subway stations. Those cards are still worth bending down and picking up. Every time I do that I remind myself that there was three years where I couldn't bend down and pick them up.


Update, May 24, 2016

It's been a long time but I'm finally updating this.


It's kind of ironic but the MTA gave me a Metro card with my picture on it. I don't have to put money on it and it just comes loaded with eight swipes a day. I guess they'd rather have me on public mass transit then send an Ack-Stress o Ride to go get me. This past Saturday when I was approaching the starting line to the Brooklyn half Marathon there was a Metro car on the ground. I can bend down but it's hard to pick things up off the floor, so I compels my friend Josh to pick it up. He didn't need it so I wound up running the whole race with it in my pocket. I just checked it, and it's going to work till May 31. 



It has been a week since the fare went up and the MTA is collecting an extra buck if you don't refill you existing MetroCard.  The is not less litter.  In fact, I have seen many people pay the extra $1 for a new card when the top of the MVM is strewn with cards.  I also assume that I will start finding many $1.95 cards instead of $1.70 cards. People are just going to put $10 in the machine and get a $9.45 card.  After they ride 3 times for $7.50 they will toss the card with $1.95 on it.  (3-8-13)



The card to the above was found sitting
 on top of the scanner box.  It had $7.25 on it
.
So next week the MTA will start charging $1 if you need a new card.  I really don't think I will find any less.  People leave $45 cards on top of the MVMs because they are careless, not because they don't care about the money.  So instead of finding a lot of  $1.70 card I will find a lot of  50 cent cards.  (3-1-13)

The other day I watched a guy freak out as he was trying to swipe his way onto the subway.  He kept swiping cards and  could not get in.  He slammed a pile of cards on top of a payphone and stored over the the machine and bought a Single Ride.  After he went through the turnstile I check the value on those cards.  They added up to over $20, mostly $1.70 cards and a few larger cards that had recently expired.  People just don't know that they can go over to the booth and get them combined. (12-25-11)

Now the bonus is 7%.   $10 gets you $10.70 and the fare is $2.25.  But, 4 trips is $9.  With $1.70 left our the card there is no extra ride when someone buys a $10.00 card.  Since 2011 started I have been finding cards with $1.70 on them for every one that used to have a nickel on it.


In the sidebar of this Blog I list the sum of the value of the MetroCards that I find. If I find 5 or 10 cents in a given day I don't post it, I wait till it adds up to something worth typing.

I would like to point out that I believe that every MetroCard that I find was lost by somebody. They were not put there for me to find. On more than one occasion I found some valuable cards (Transit Check Gold) and moments after I scanned it at the reader I saw a desperate individual looking at the ground in a subway station. Asking that person if they lost their MetroCard and returning it to them was more satisfying that riding for free for the rest of the month.

I think the design of the MetroCard lends itself to getting drooped. It is the thinnest thing in your picket. If you keep it with your cash or keys it can slide out without being noticed. I would urge everyone who uses a MetroCard to use a MetroCard holder of some sort.

That said; finding value on MetroCards is like winning at gambling without the risk of loosing your own money.

If you are interested in doing this either for sport, competition or to save money or to supplement your income; here is some advice.
  • The further you are from the subway the more likely the card has value on it. The highest value cards that I have found have been in on the Brooklyn Bridge, on the courses of races, in the middle of intersections, in supermarkets, parks, etc. These were not drooped by careless litter bugs. Nobody would walk to the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge just to flick their MetroCard onto the sidewalk. It was dropped by somebody pulling their camera out of their pocket. So if you see a MetroCard in a place having nothing to do with the MTA, pick it up.
  • The cards just inside the turn-style are not worth picking up. I have seen countless slobs swipe their MetroCard with one fair left on it and drop it like they drop everything they have no more use for.In a subway station don't just look at the MetroCard Reader. Look on top of the MetroCard Vending machines. Look in the cracks in the vending machine. Look on the little shelf on the front of the "token booth". Especially the stations that do not have anybody working in them; the burgundy stations
  • Most of the cards I find in the subways station have 5 cents on them but many have $1.50 or some other amount under the subway fare. But like the lottery slogan, "Ya never know" sometimes there is $20 or more just sitting there waiting to be pickup. The upcoming increase in fare will obviously improve the quantity of cards with left over fare on them.
  • Many of the cards I find with more then $10 or $20 on them are "expired" I don't think many people know that you can exchange them for a new one
  • Follow the instructions on the card reader. If it says "Please Swipe Again", do it, just 2 or 3 times, then put it in the trash. If it says "See Agent" do that, but first try it again another day. That card probably has some value on it.
  • When it comes to combining MetroCards, don't over burden the "token clerk". It might be their job to combing MetroCards into a usable amount but some evoke unwritten "I can only combine 4 or 5 rule". Some have refused to help me at all because they said they have been on the ground. One clerk even told me her machine did not combine cards. I would not advise arguing with these people. They work in a bulletproof booth and it is an extra felony to "assault" them. They also have a pretty crappy job, there is no point in giving them a hard time.
  • If you look at the rest of my blog, you will see that I am a marathon runner. I run a lot. When I run, I make a point of passing through subway stations (I get some stair training). Also loops around Prospect Park can be a little repetitive. A larger loop can include many subway stations. The F train: Prospect Park and 7th Ave, the Q/B Train Parkside, Prospect Park and 7th Ave and the 2/3 Train Grand Army Plaza and Eastern Pky/Brooklyn Museum.
I once found a Transit Check Gold MetroCard. It worked for 3 and a half months. The original owner did not tell their payroll manager it was lost. But most of the monthly MetroCards I found did not work for as long as they should. The original owner contacted the MTA and reported it lost. They got a prorated refund. I was kinda glad.

Whenever I find a student MetroCard or a Senior/Disabled Card I hand it to the "token clerk". They are issued to specific individuals and it is against the law to use them.


Karma works both ways. If I ever see someone looking for a "swipe" to get them on the train, I always give them one. Also, I befriended a man in my neighborhood of little means (I don't believe he his homeless). We started talking about all the things that can be found. I told him I find lots of MetroCards. He did not even know what they were, he has not ridden mass transit in years he said. Now he picks up MetroCards and keeps them in his picket till he sees me. I do not give him the value on them. I give him 10 times the value on them or $10, whichever is greater.



I asked this question to the MTA:

Customer (******* ****) - 05/06/2009 12:18 PM
I read in the news that a man was sentences to jail time for bending metrocards.

http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/04/30/bent-metrocard-is-forgery-court-rules/

Are there any regulations against


1. Picking up discarded metrocards from the floor of a subway station or on the top of the metrocard testing machine?
2. Asking the booth attendant to combine them into a usable amount?
3. Using them for personal use?
4. Giving them to a friend or family?

This was the response I got:

Response (Melissa Glasgow) - 05/06/2009 03:21 PM
This is in response to your recent e-mail message to MTA New York City Transit regarding MetroCard.

As you may know, you may have uneven balances of several Pay-Per-Ride cards (that you have previously purchased and hold primary ownership of) moved to 1 card at the service booth of any one of our stations. You may only process 5 cards at a time (four old+ the one that the remaining values are being transferred to). This limitation exists to prevent fraudulent activity. You may also send your MetroCards to MetroCard, 2 Broadway, Room B11.59, New York, NY 10004. Due to fraudulent activity at our MVMs, this transaction/feature was removed from our MVMs, several years ago.

However, under the circumstances you have described, the station agent has the discretion to refuse to perform the transaction and summon NYPD Transit assistance, if he/she suspects fraudulent activity at our booths and/or turnstiles.

http://www.mta.info/mta/news/releases/?en=080625-NYCT85
http://www.mta.info/metrocard/termsunltd.htm

Thank you for having taken the time to contact us.

I asked what law I would be violating. The responded by telling me to submit a Freedom of Information Act request:

This is in response to your recent e-mail to MTA New York City Transit requesting information regarding the MetroCard tariff and the laws surrounding it.

Please be advised that the information you seek may be available under the Freedom of Information Law (FOIL). You must submit an electronic FOIL request to the appropriate MTA agency via the FOIL request page on the MTA website. If you send an electronic FOIL request in any other way or to the wrong agency, you will not receive the records you are seeking. You may submit an electronic FOIL request at www.mta.info/foil.htm. Be sure to select the appropriate MTA agency. Otherwise you may contact MUNY directly to investigate the feasibility if your request - http://www.mta.info/mta/aft/muny/

We hope this information is helpful and thank you for having taken the time to contact us.

Melissa Glasgow
Associate Staff Analyst

See more information in SubwayBlogger.com ,Yelp and The New York Post has an article about a women who finds cards. The New York times has a story about Single Ride Cards and refills. AM New York says the MTA is budgiting $48 Million in extra money from lost and unused MetroCards.  The Daily News thinks this is news.

Friday, July 7, 2017

Yesterday was Independence Day

I'm not big on holidays but I always try to celebrate the Fourth of July. Usually just my planning to do something outdoors. I did that yesterday, by running a 10K, Today I'm feeling that wonderful pain, that is simply reminding me how hard I push myself yesterday. Yay me! Blah blah blah blah blah. This post is not about running.

I'm thinking about all the new Americans I've been meeting. When I was hospitalized and in rehab I spent a lot of time with nurses and their aides. The vast majority of these nurses aides were immigrants. Many from Asia, the Caribbean and Eastern Europe. First, the kindness they showed to me was far beyond anything that could ever be written in a job description. Remember, I couldn't lift a fork or even put my own glasses on or off. So I spent a lot of time with these women. They met my kids, and talked about their children. Their children; first generation Americans. Their children were all earning professional degrees or they were already doctors or lawyers or engineers. They were all proud of their children and they had a lot to be proud of.

I'm thinking of the guy who sold me a chicken over rice from a halal cart hart last week. He sore I was struggling to put the bag of food he just gave me into my larger sack so I can carry it home. He came out from behind his cart and help me get situated so I can get my food home. I thanked him and he paused for a moment and said "thank you for letting me help you". I think during that pause he was looking for those words in English because I think he says them often in Urdu.

The other day I had to take it over at 5 o'clock in the morning. The driver would've thought from his Uber dashboard that this was going to be a short trip. But it turned out to have multiple stops in multiple boroughs. I asked him and he told me he had been working all night but he still treated me with patience and kindness.Given that his first name was Palingwende and his English was not so good it was easy to assume he was an immigrant. After he help me unload all the things we picked up along the way I not only tipped him generously (with my bosses money) but after I just impulsively wished him a happy holiday I realized it might be his first Fourth of July here. So I shook his hand and wished him a happy Independence Day and thanked him for being here. In our country.

I was once online to pick up some lunch in downtown Brooklyn and noticd that the overdressed couple in front of me were holding a thick official looking envelope. At first I thought they might have just gotten married. Then I noticed the American flags on the envelope and that they were holding little American flags. I took a a big breath and asked them if they had just become citizens. They said yes and I paid for their lunch.. Years later I saw a guy on the subway holding a similar envelope and a flag. The guy sitting next to me asked him if he just took the oath of citizenship. He said yes and everyone on that subway car shook his hand He looked like he was struggling to hold back the tears

One last little story. I'm currently serving as a director on my co-op board. Since am lucky enough to have my days free I've been learning more about what it's like to maintain a 90-year-old six-story building. Right now my apartment house is surrounded by bridgework and pipe scaffolding. Were practically done with the project to make sure that the building doesn't leak and bricks don't fall on people on the sidewalk. Part of that project means attending meetings with the engineer, the project manager, the architect and the contractor is doing the work. A regular question the project manager asked for the contractor is, "How many men are working today?"On February 16 the contractors answer was "one, just me. Today is a day without immigrants" Our project manager knew that since we were a Park slope building we would be cool with that.

I know it might be too little too late and if my co-op board doesn't want to approve this I'll do it out of my own pocket.... But those guys worked hard in all sorts of weather. I think I want to buy them all a cup of coffee. So I'm gonna figure out a way to get a Dunkin' Donuts gift card to the owner of the company that did all the work.

So, seven years ago I spent Independence Day in Northampton Massachusetts. They have a tradition there of having people take the oath of citizenship in public on the Fourth of July. I blogged about it here, wouldn't it be great if that was a national tradition.

I've been stalling in publishing this post because I couldn't think of an appropriate picture. Then I found the photo to the right on a blog that usually shows people committing the sin of inappropriate behavior on the subway. As a New Yorker, as an American, as a human being this photograph brings me only joy.

Friday, June 23, 2017

I did not write this, but you should read it.

Believe it or not, sometimes I am at a loss for words. I used to see people who are using a cane or walker and I would tell them that I used to use that kind of device and that I hope they got to throw it away like I did. Now I keep those words to myself because many of those people replied that that was a nice thing to say but it's never going to happen. You see, in the world of broken bodies, my condition is the exception. I am slowly getting better. But for most people with neurological conditions their symptoms are worsening over time. So, now when I see someone using assistive device that I used to use, I just keep my mouth shut. I might've been trying to make them feel good, but I don't want to make them feel bad.



I don't want to pretend I know anything about MS. It's just that as far as I know it's something that gets worse over time. So sometimes I see people who outwardly look a little bit like me. Or like I did a few months ago or a few years ago. And it makes me sad to know that while I'm getting better they are trending in the opposite direction.

Please read the essay below. If you read just some of it the beginning is fine. Originally, my daughter gave it to me because it was just one of those practice reading essays that she had to answer questions about in preparing for her standardized tests.


On Being a Cripple

To escape is nothing. Not to escape is nothing.
–Louise Bogan
The other day I was thinking of writing an essay on being a cripple. I was thinking hard in one of the stalls of the women’s room in my office building, as I was shoving my shirt into my jeans and tugging up my zipper. Preoccupied, I flushed, picked up my book bag, took my cane down from the hook, and unlatched the door. So many movements unbalanced me, and as I pulled the door open I fell over backward, landing fully clothed on the toilet seat with my legs splayed in front of me: the old beetle-on-its-back routine. Saturday afternoon, the building deserted, I was free to laugh aloud as I wriggled back to my feet, my voice bouncing off the yellowish tiles from all directions. Had anyone been there with me, I’d have been still and faint and hot with chagrin. I decided that it was high time to write the essay.
First, the matter of semantics. I am a cripple. I choose this word to name me. I choose from among several possibilities, the most common of which are “handicapped” and “disabled.” I made the choice a number of years ago, without thinking, unaware of my motives for doing so. Even now, I’m not sure what those motives are, but I recognize that they are complex and not entirely flattering. People–crippled or not–wince at the word “cripple,” as they do not at “handicapped” or “disabled.” Perhaps I want them to wince. I want them to see me as a tough customer, one to whom the fates /gods /viruses have not been kind, but who can face the brutal truth of her existence squarely. As a cripple, I swagger.
But, to be fair to myself, a certain amount of honesty underlies my choice. “Cripple” seems to me a clean word, straightforward and precise. It has an honorable history, having made its first appearance in the Lindisfarne Gospel in the tenth century. As a lover of words, I like the accuracy with which it describes my condition: I have lost the full use of my limbs. “Disabled,” by contrast, suggests any incapacity, physical or mental. And I certainly don’t like “handicapped,” which implies that I have deliberately been put at a disadvantage, by whom I can’t imagine (my God is not a Handicapper General), in order to equalize chances in the great race of life. These words seem to me to be moving away from my condition, to be widening the gap between word and reality. Most remote is the recently coined euphemism “differently abled,” which partakes of the same semantic hopefulness that transformed countries from “undeveloped” to “underdeveloped,” then to “less developed,” and finally to “developing” nations. People have continued to starve in those countries during the shift. Some realities do not obey the dictates of language.
Mine is one of them. Whatever you call me, I remain crippled. But I don’t care what you call me, so long as it isn’t “differently abled,” which strikes me as pure verbal garbage designed, by its ability to describe anyone, to describe no one. I subscribe to George Orwell’s thesis that “the slovenliness of our language makes it easier for us to have foolish thoughts.” And I refuse to participate in the degeneration of the language to the extent that I deny that I have lost anything in the course of this calamitous disease; I refuse to pretend that the only differences between you and me are the various ordinary ones that distinguish any one person from another. But call me “disabled” or “handicapped” if you like. I have long since grown accustomed to them; and if they are vague, at least they hint at the truth. Moreover, I use them myself. Society is no readier to accept crippledness than to accept death, war, sex, sweat, or wrinkles. I would never refer to another person as a cripple. It is the word I use to name only myself.
I haven’t always been crippled, a fact for which I am soundly grateful. To be whole of limb is, I know from experience, infinitely more pleasant and useful than to be crippled; and if that knowledge leaves me open to bitterness at MY loss, the physical soundness I once enjoyed (though I did not enjoy it half enough) is well worth the occasional stab of regret. Though never any good at sports, I was a normally active child and young adult. I climbed trees, played hopscotch, jumped rope, skated, swam, rode my bicycle, sailed. I despised team sports, spending some of the wretchedest afternoons of my life, sweaty and humiliated, behind a field-hockey stick and under a basketball hoop. I tramped alone for miles along the bridle paths that webbed the woods behind the house I grew up in. I swayed through countless dim hours in the arms of one man or another under the scattered shot of light from mirrored balls, and gyrated through countless more as Tab Hunter and Johnny Mathis gave way to the Rolling Stones, Credence Clearwater Revival, Cream. I walked down the aisle. I pushed baby carriages, changed tires in the rain, marched for peace.
When I was twenty-eight I started to trip and drop things. What at first seemed my natural clumsiness soon became too pronounced to shrug off. I consulted a neurologist, who told me that I had a brain tumor. A battery of tests, increasingly disagreeable, revealed no tumor. About a year and a half later I developed a blurred spot in one eye. I had, at last, the episodes “disseminated in space and time” requisite for a diagnosis: multiple sclerosis. I have never been sorry for the doctor’s initial misdiagnosis, however. For almost a week, until the negative results of the tests were in, I thought that I was going to die right away. Every day for the past nearly ten years, then, has been a kind of gift. I accept all gifts.
Multiple sclerosis is a chronic degenerative disease of the central nervous system, in which the myelin that sheathes the nerves is somehow eaten away and sear tissue forms in its place, interrupting the nerves’ signals. During its course, which is unpredictable and uncontrollable, one may lose vision, hearing, speech, the ability to walk, control of bladder and/or bowels, strength in any or all extremities, sensitivity to touch, vibration, and/or pain, potency, coordination of movements– the list of possibilities is lengthy and, yes, horrifying. One may also lose one’s sense of humor. That’s the easiest to lose and the hardest to survive without.
In the past ten years, I have sustained some of these losses. Characteristic of MS are sudden attacks, called exacerbations, followed by remissions, and these I have not had. Instead, my disease has been slowly progressive. My left leg is now so weak that I walk with the aid of a brace and a cane; and for distances I use an Amigo, a variation on the electric wheelchair that looks rather like an electrified kiddie car. I no longer have much use of my left hand. Now my right side is weakening as well. I still have the blurred spot in my right eye. Overall, though, I’ve been lucky so far. My world has, of necessity, been circumscribed by my losses, but the terrain left me has been ample enough for me to continue many of the activities that absorb me: writing, teaching, raising children and cats and plants and snakes, reading, speaking publicly about MS and depression, even playing bridge with people patient and honorable enough to let me scatter cards every which way without sneaking a peek.
Lest I begin to sound like Pollyanna, however, let me say that I don’t like having MS. I hate it. My life holds realities–harsh ones, some of them–that no right-minded human being ought to accept without grumbling. One of them is fatigue. I know of no one with MS who does not complain of bone-weariness; in a disease that presents an astonishing variety of symptoms, fatigue seems to be a common factor. I wake up in the morning feeling the way most people do at the end of a bad day, and I take it from there. As a result, I spend a lot of time in extremis and, impatient with limitation, I tend to ignore my fatigue until my body breaks down in some way and forces rest. Then I miss picnics, dinner parties, poetry readings, the brief visits of old friends from out of town. The offspring of a puritanical tradition of exceptional venerability, I cannot view these lapses without shame. My life often seems a series of small failures to do as I ought.
I lead, on the whole, an ordinary life, probably rather like the one I would have led had I not had MS. I am lucky that my predilections were already solitary, sedentary, and bookish–unlike the world-famous French cellist I have read about, or the young woman I talked with one long afternoon who wanted only to be a jockey. I had just begun graduate school when I found out something was wrong with me, and I have remained, interminably, a graduate student. Perhaps I would not have if I’d thought I had the stamina to return to a full-time job as a technical editor; but I’ve enjoyed my studies.
In addition to studying, I teach writing courses. I also teach medical students how to give neurological examinations. I pick up freelance editing jobs here and there. I have raised a foster son and sent him into the world, where he has made me two grandbabies, and I am still escorting my daughter and son through adolescence. I go to Mass every Saturday. I am a superb, if messy, cook. I am also an enthusiastic laundress, capable of sorting a hamper full of clothes into five subtly differentiated piles, but a terrible housekeeper. I can do italic writing and, in an emergency, bathe an oil-soaked cat. I play a fiendish game of Scrabble. When I have the time and the money, I like to sit on my front steps with my husband, drinking Amaretto and smoking a cigar, as we imagine our counterparts in Leningrad and make sure that the sun gets down once more behind the sharp childish scrawl of the Tucson Mountains.
This lively plenty has its bleak complement, of course, in all the things I can no longer do. I will never run again, except in dreams, and one day I may have to write that I will never walk again. I like to go camping, but I can’t follow George and the children along the trails that wander out of a campsite through the desert or into the mountains. In fact, even on the level I’ve learned never to check the weather or try to hold a coherent conversation: I need all my attention for my wayward feet. Of late, I have begun to catch myself wondering how people can propel themselves without canes. With only one usable hand, I have to select my clothing with care not so much for style as for ease of ingress and egress, and even so, dressing can be laborious. I can no longer do fine stitchery, pick up babies, play the piano, braid my hair. I am immobilized by acute attacks of depression, which may or may not be physiologically related to MS but are certainly its logical concomitant.
These two elements, the plenty and the privation, are never pure, nor are the delight and wretchedness that accompany them. Almost every pickle that I get into as a result of my weakness and clumsiness–and I get into plenty–is funny as well as maddening and sometimes painful. I recall one May afternoon when a friend and I were going out for a drink after finishing up at school. As we were climbing into opposite sides of my car, chatting, I tripped and fell, flat and hard, onto the asphalt parking lot, my abrupt departure interrupting him in mid-sentence. “Where’d you go?” he called as he came around the back of the car to find me hauling myself up by the door frame. “Are you all right?” Yes, I told him, I was fine, just a bit rattly, and we drove off to find a shady patio and some beer. When I got home an hour or so later, my daughter greeted me with “What have you done to yourself?” I looked down. One elbow of my white turtleneck with the green froggies, one knee of my white trousers, one white kneesock were blood-soaked. We peeled off the clothes and inspected the damage, which was nasty enough but not alarming. That part wasn’t funny: The abrasions took a long time to heal, and one got a little infected. Even so, when I think of my friend talking earnestly, suddenly, to the hot thin air while I dropped from his view as though through a trap door, I find the image as silly as something from a Marx Brothers movie.
I may find it easier than other cripples to amuse myself because I live propped by the acceptance and the assistance and, sometimes, the amusement of those around me. Grocery clerks tear my checks out of my checkbook for me, and sales clerks find chairs to put into dressing rooms when I want to try on clothes. The people I work with make sure I teach at times when I am least likely to be fatigued, in places I can get to, with the materials I need. My students, with one anonymous exception (in an end-of-the-semester evaluation), have been unperturbed by my disability. Some even like it. One was immensely cheered by the information that I paint my own fingernails; she decided, she told me, that if I could go to such trouble over fine details, she could keep on writing essays. I suppose I became some sort of bright-fingered muse. She wrote good essays, too.
The most important struts in the framework of my existence, of course, are my husband and children. Dismayingly few marriages survive the MS test, and why should they? Most twenty-two- and nine-teen-year-olds, like George and me, can vow in clear conscience, after a childhood of chicken pox and summer colds, to keep one another in sickness and in health so long as they both shall live. Not many are equipped for catastrophe: the dismay, the depression, the extra work, the boredom that a degenerative disease can insinuate into a relationship. And our society, with its emphasis on fun and its association of fun with physical performance, offers little encouragement for a whole spouse to stay with a crippled partner. Children experience similar stresses when faced with a crippled parent, and they are more helpless, since parents and children can’t usually get divorced. They hate, of course, to be different from their peers, and the child whose mother is tacking down the aisle of a school auditorium packed with proud parents like a Cape Cod dinghy in a stiff breeze jolly well stands out in a crowd. Deprived of legal divorce, the child can at least deny the mother’s disability, even her existence, forgetting to tell her about recitals and PTA meetings, refusing to accompany her to stores or church or the movies, never inviting friends to the house. Many do.
But I’ve been limping along for ten years now, and so far George and the children are still at my left elbow, holding tight. Anne and Matthew vacuum floors and dust furniture and haul trash and rake up dog droppings and button my cuffs and bake lasagna and Toll House cookies with just enough grumbling so I know that they don’t have brain fever. And far from hiding me, they’re forever dragging me by racks of fancy clothes or through teeming school corridors, or welcoming gaggles of friends while I’m wandering through the house in Anne’s filmy pink babydoll pajamas. George generally calls before he brings someone home, but he does just as many dumb thankless chores as the children. And they all yell at me, laugh at some of my jokes, write me funny letters when we’re apart-in short, treat me as an ordinary human being for whom they have some use. I think they like me. Unless they’re faking….
Faking. There’s the rub. Tugging at the fringes of my consciousness always is the terror that people are kind to me only because I’m a cripple. My mother almost shattered me once, with that instinct mothers have–blind, I think, in this case, but unerring nonetheless–for striking blows along the fault-lines of their children’s hearts, by telling me, in an attack on my selfishness, “We all have to make allowances for you, of course, because of the way you are.” From the distance of a couple of years, I have to admit that I haven’t any idea just what she meant, and I’m not sure that she knew either. She was awfully angry. But at the time, as the words thudded home, I felt my worst fear, suddenly realized. I could bear being called selfish: I am. But I couldn’t bear the corroboration that those around me were doing in fact what I’d always suspected them of doing, professing fondness while silently putting up with me because of the way I am. A cripple. I’ve been a little cracked ever since.
Along with this fear that people are secretly accepting shoddy goods comes a relentless pressure to please–to prove myself worth the burdens I impose, I guess, or to build a substantial account of goodwill against which I may write drafts in times of need. Part of the pressure arises from social expectations. In our society, anyone who deviates from the norm had better find some way to compensate. Like fat people, who are expected to be jolly, cripples must bear their lot meekly and cheerfully. A grumpy cripple isn’t playing by the rules. And much of the pressure is self-generated. Early on I vowed that, if I had to have MS, by God I was going to do it well. This is a class act, ladies and gentlemen. No tears, no recriminations, no faint-heartedness.
One way and another, then, I wind up feeling like Tiny Tim, peering over the edge of the table at the Christmas goose, waving my crutch, piping down God’s blessing on us all. Only sometimes I don’t want to play Tiny Tim. I’d rather be Caliban, a most scurvy monster. Fortunately, at home no one much cares whether I’m a good cripple or a bad cripple as long as I make vichyssoise with fair regularity. One evening several years ago, Anne was reading at the dining-room table while I cooked dinner. As I opened a can of tomatoes, the can slipped in my left hand and juice spattered me and the counter with bloody spots. Fatigued and infuriated, I bellowed, “I’m so sick of being crippled!” Anne glanced at me over the top of her book. “There now,” she said, “do you feel better?” “Yes,” I said, “yes, I do.” She went back to her reading. I felt better. That’s about all the attention my scurviness ever gets.
Because I hate being crippled, I sometimes hate myself for being a cripple. Over the years I have come to expect–even accept–attacks of violent self-loathing. Luckily, in general our society no longer connects deformity and disease directly with evil (though a charismatic once told me that I have MS because a devil is in me) and so I’m allowed to move largely at will, even among small children. But I’m not sure that this revision of attitude has been particularly helpful. Physical imperfection, even freed of moral disapprobation, still defies and violates the ideal, especially for women, whose confinement in their bodies as objects of desire is far from over. Each age, of course, has its ideal, and I doubt that ours is any better or worse than any other. Today’s ideal woman, who lives on the glossy pages of dozens of magazines, seems to be between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five; her hair has body, her teeth flash white, her breath smells minty, her underarms are dry; she has a career but is still a fabulous cook, especially of meals that take less than twenty minutes to prepare; she does not ordinarily appear to have a husband or children; she is trim and deeply tanned; she jogs, swims, plays tennis, rides a bicycle, sails, but does not bowl; she travels widely, even to out-of-the-way places like Finland and Samoa, always in the company of the ideal man, who possesses a nearly identical set of characteristics. There are a few exceptions. Though usually white and often blonde, she may be black, Hispanic, Asian, or Native American, so long as she is unusually sleek. She may be old, provided she is selling a laxative or is Lauren Bacall. If she is selling a detergent, she may be married and have a flock of strikingly messy children. But she is never a cripple.
Like many women I know, I have always had an uneasy relationship with my body. I was not a popular child, largely, I think now, because I was peculiar: intelligent, intense, moody, shy, given to unexpected actions and inexplicable notions and emotions. But as I entered adolescence, I believed myself unpopular because I was homely: my breasts too flat, my mouth too wide, my hips too narrow, my clothing never quite right in fit or style. I was not, in fact, particularly ugly, old photographs inform me, though I was well off the ideal; but I carried this sense of self-alienation with me into adulthood, where it regenerated in response to the depredations of MS. Even with my brace I walk with a limp so pronounced that, seeing myself on the videotape of a television program on the disabled, I couldn’t believe that anything but an inchworm could make progress humping along like that. My shoulders droop and my pelvis thrusts forward as I try to balance myself upright, throwing my frame into a bony S. As a result of contractures, one shoulder is higher that the other and I carry one arm bent in front of me, the fingers curled into a claw. My left arm and leg have wasted into pipe-stems, and I try always to keep them covered. When I think about how my body must look to others, especially to men, to whom I have been trained to display myself, I feel ludicrous, even loathsome.
At my age, however, I don’t spend much time thinking about my appearance. The burning egocentricity of adolescence, which assures one that all the world is looking all the time, has passed, thank God, and I’m generally too caught up in what I’m doing to step back, as I used to, and watch myself as though upon a stage. I’m also too old to believe in the accuracy of self-image. I know that I’m not a hideous crone, that in fact, when I’m rested, well dressed, and well made up, I look fine. The self-loathing I feel is neither physically nor intellectually substantial. What I hate is not me but a disease.
I am not a disease.
And a disease is not–at least not single-handedly–going to determine who I am, though at first it seemed to be going to. Adjusting to a chronic incurable illness, I have moved through a process similar to that outlined by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross in On Death and Dying. The major difference–and it is far more significant than most people recognize–is that I can’t be sure of the outcome, as the terminally ill cancer patient can. Research studies indicate that, with proper medical care, I may achieve a “normal” life span. And in our society, with its vision of death as the ultimate evil, worse even than decrepitude, the response to such news is, “Oh well, at least you’re not going to die.” Are there worse things than dying? I think that there may be.
I think of two women I know, both with MS, both enough older than I to have served me as models. One took to her bed several years ago and has been there ever since. Although she can sit in a high-backed wheelchair, because she is incontinent she refuses to go out at all, even though incontinence pants, which are readily available at any pharmacy, could protect her from embarrassment. Instead, she stays at home and insists that her husband, a small quiet man, a retired civil servant, stay there with her except for a quick weekly foray to the supermarket. The other woman, whose illness was diagnosed when she was eighteen, a nursing student engaged to a young doctor, finished her training, married her doctor, accompanied him to Germany when he was in the service, bore three sons and a daughter, now grown and gone. When she can, she travels with her husband; she plays bridge, embroiders, swims regularly; she works, like me, as a symptomatic-patient instructor of medical students in neurology. Guess which woman I hope to be.
At the beginning, I thought about having MS almost incessantly. And because of the unpredictable course of the disease, my thoughts were always terrified. Each night I’d get into bed wondering whether I’d get out again the next morning, whether I’d be able to see, to speak, to hold a pen between my fingers. Knowing that the day might come when I’d be physically incapable of killing myself, I thought perhaps I ought to do so right away, while I still had the strength. Gradually I came to understand that the Nancy who might one day lie inert under a bedsheet, arms and legs paralyzed, unable to feed or bathe herself, unable to reach out for a gun, a bottle of pills, was not the Nancy I was at present, and that I could not presume to make decisions for that future Nancy, who might well not want in the least to die. Now the only provision I’ve made for the future Nancy is that when the time comes–and it is likely to come in the form of pneumonia, friend to the weak and the old–I am not to be treated with machines and medications. If she is unable to communicate by then, I hope she will be satisfied with these terms.
Thinking all the time about having MS grew tiresome and intrusive, especially in the large and tragic mode in which I was accustomed to considering my plight. Months and even years went by without catastrophe (at least without one related to MS), and really I was awfully busy, what with George and children and snakes and students and poems, and I hadn’t the time, let alone the inclination, to devote myself to being a disease. Too, the richer my life became, the funnier it seemed, as though there were some connection between largesse and laughter, and so my tragic stance began to waver until, even with the aid of a brace and a cane, I couldn’t hold it for very long at a time.
After several years I was satisfied with my adjustment. I had suffered my grief and fury and terror, I thought, but now I was at ease with my lot. Then one summer day I set out with George and the children across the desert for a vacation in California. Part way to Yuma I became aware that my right leg felt funny. “I think I’ve had an exacerbation,” I told George. “What shall we do?” he asked. “I think we’d better get the hell to California,” I said, “because I don’t know whether I’ll ever make it again.” So we went on to San Diego and then to Orange, up the Pacific Coast Highway to Santa Cruz, across to Yosemite, down to Sequoia and Joshua Tree, and so back over the desert to home. It was a fine two-week trip, filled with friends and fair weather, and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, though I did in fact make it back to California two years later. Nor would there have been any point in missing it, since in MS, once the symptoms have appeared, the neurological damage has been done, and there’s no way to predict or prevent that damage.
The incident spoiled my self-satisfaction, however. It renewed my grief and fury and terror, and I learned that one never finishes adjusting to MS. I don’t know now why I thought one would. One does not, after all, finish adjusting to life, and MS is simply a fact of my life–not my favorite fact, of course–but as ordinary as my nose and my tropical fish and my yellow Mazda station wagon. It may at any time get worse, but no amount of worry or anticipation can prepare me for a new loss. My life is a lesson in losses. I learn one at a time.
And I had best be patient in the learning, since I’ll have to do it like it or not. As any rock fan knows, you can’t always get what you want. Particularly when you have MS. You can’t, for example, get cured. In recent years researchers and the organizations that fund research have started to pay MS some attention even though it isn’t fatal; perhaps they have begun to see that life is something other than a quantitative phenomenon, that one may be very much alive for a very long time in a life that isn’t worth living. The researchers have made some progress toward understanding the mechanism of the disease: It may well be an autoimmune reaction triggered by a slow-acting virus. But they are nowhere near its prevention, control, or cure. And most of us want to be cured. Some, unable to accept incurability, grasp at one treatment after another; no matter how bizarre: megavitamin therapy, gluten-free diet, injections of cobra venom, hypothermal suits, lymphocytopharesjs, hyperbaric chambers. Many treatments are probably harmless enough, but none are curative.
The absence of a cure often makes MS patients bitter toward their doctors. Doctors are, after all, the priests of modern society, the new shamans, whose business is to heal, and many an MS patient roves from one to another, searching for the “good” doctor who will make him well. Doctors too think of themselves as healers, and for this reason many have trouble dealing with MS patients, whose disease in its intransigence defeats their aims and mocks their skills. Too few doctors, it is true, treat their patients as whole human beings, but the reverse is also true. I have always tried to be gentle with my doctors, who often have more at stake in terms of ego than I do. I may be frustrated, maddened, depressed by the incurability of my disease, but I am not diminished by it, and they are. When I push myself up from my seat in the waiting room and stumble toward them, I incarnate the limitation of their powers. The least I can do is refuse to press on their tenderest spots.
This gentleness is part of the reason that I’m not sorry to be a cripple. I didn’t have it before. Perhaps I’d have developed it anyway–how could I know such a thing?–and I wish I had more of it, but I’m glad of what I have. It has opened and enriched my life enormously. This sense that my frailty and need must be mirrored in others, that in searching for and shaping a stable core in a life wrenched by change and loss, change and loss, I must recognize the same process, under individual conditions, in the lives around me. I do not deprecate such knowledge, however I’ve come by it.
All the same, if a cure were found, would I take it? In a minute. I may be a cripple, but I’m only occasionally a loony and never a saint. Anyway, in my brand of theology God doesn’t give bonus points for a limp. I’d take a cure; I just don’t need one. A friend who also has MS startled me once by asking, “Do you ever say to yourself, ‘Why me, Lord?”’ “No, Michael, I don’t,” I told him, “because whenever I try, the only response I can think of is 'Why not?”’ If I could make a cosmic deal, whom would I put in my place? What in my life would I give up in exchange for sound limbs and a thrilling rush of energy? No one. Nothing. I might as well do the job myself. Now that I’m getting the hang of it.
Copyright 1986. Arizona Board of Regents.
All Rights Reserved.

Saturday, June 17, 2017

I Definitely Don't Want a Card

My kids have made me a better person. Why would I want them to give me anything on the third Sunday in June?

Thursday, June 8, 2017

Thanks for the birthday wishes

Yes, it was a very good birthday.

I woke up early so I can be a useful member of society. And I don't think there's anything more useful than judging a middle school science fair.

In the evening I helped my running club organize a 5K race. It is so satisfying to see all the moving parts come together so that hundreds of people could simply have a good time.

Thanks forKristen
Then I ran the race. Ran! Ran! Ran! Ran! Ran! Ran! I used streetlamps and fire hydrants and big trees to mark my distances and I ran half the distance and walk the other half. I got a head start so I made sure I ran when I heard people cheering for me. And I knew they were cheering for me because it wasn't the generic you look great or go runner. Hundred wish me a happy birthday either by name or my personal cheer "Fuck You GBS"

Then, the post race event was a party for me. Of course it was because they sang happy birthday.

Finally. coming home to this card made by my daughter truly made my day.

©Sabrina Ring

Monday, June 5, 2017

Back to the bucket list

I'm not a list of things that haven't been checked off yet. I think that's kind of bad karma.

ü  I completed a  marathon (then 28 more marathons)
ü  I completed ultramarathon
ü  I ran from Brooklyn to Nassau County and back


Now I have one more item on the bucket list to check off. I ran over and East River bridge that doesn't have a pedestrian lane. I ran over the Rikers Island bridge. Then I ran a 5K race on Rikers Island.

The race itself was kind of underwhelming. I imagined that I would run past prisoners behind barbed wire and gated windows, doing what I imagined prisoners would do. Or I thought I would be part of some overdramatic scene out of Oranges the New Black, or the first minute of a Law and Order Episode. But none of that. In fact it was just a little spooky. Running around buildings that I thought could have been empty because behind the barbed wire there were no cars parked next to them and no indication that people could even see me through the windows. I found out that often you see prisoners taking care of the landscaping but that was canceled for the day because we were running there. I also saw no evidence of people visiting, which I only hope was the case because we were there early on a Saturday morning. There was just one point where prisoners were yelling out the window. And in fact there were yelling very positive messages of encouragement. And I actually did find it encouraging that people who were locked up would cheer for me. I also thought we be transported around the island in a paddy wagon, but it was just a regular school bus that they use to move visitors around in.

And the race wasn't really designed for runners. I think about 75% of the participants was staff at the island and it was an excuse for them to get to see from a different angle and be cheered on by their workmates. At the water station they handed out sealed plastic bottles and the mile markers seem to be randomly placed around the course. They said you had to finish the 5K within one hour and I thought that would've been pushing my limits. The clock said 1:00:02 when I finished but my teammates GBSs said the course was more like 2.85 miles. The most memorable part of the course was actually the awesome views we had of the runways at LaGuardia Airport.


But here's the thing. Three years ago I was suddenly paralyzed. And I thought, I really believed, that I wasn't ever get to get to check anything off my bucket list again. I accepted that. I really thought that GBS sealed the lid on that bucket. I spent uncounted hours in the hospital reviewing my accomplishments. Remembering that that was who I was ..... Now I get to sit here and brag about one more running event that I got to check off my bucket list. 

LinkWithin

Related Posts Widget for Blogs by LinkWithin

This is not me

This is not me
Not me.

Blog Archive