Scooter Saga

Depressed?  I'm not depressed.  If I was depressed, where was the “black cloud”, the pain, the inability to get out of bed that I had heard about?  Degrees of depression never occurred to me.  Life just seemed like a lot of work, visions of swimming through gelatin, my worldview was kind of flat. Surely I could mind–over–matter that. For a time after my diagnosis, I tried every non-pharmacological treatment for depression I could think of.  It didn’t help.  I had resisted resorting to prescribed antidepressants because I thought my depression was specifically due to the onset of my Spinocerebellar Ataxia and recent retirement, and consequently, not responsive to pharmacologic treatment.  I still slept well (neither too much or too little) , hadn't gained or lost weight, maintained a healthy appetite and didn't feel like biting anyone's head off–too often.  But, focusing on people who were worse off and how fortunate I was not to be: in pain, terminal, single, fina

Lucy (1998–2011) One of the first things I did after my early retirement due to Spinocerebellar Ataxia, was get a dog. We'd always loved dogs, especially Australian Shepherds, and still missed Samantha who died, at age 14, in 1995.  I knew I couldn't move fast enough to manage a puppy, so my criteria in choosing a suitable  canine  companion was that she be less than 40 lbs, less than 4 years old and definitely  not  a fur shedder. Elizabeth went with me to the Humane Society where Lucy and I found each other.  She weighed 55 lbs., was seven years old, and was a champion fur shedder.  Oh, well... Lucy became my constant companion, preferring to be in any car to being left at home.  But sometimes, it was necessary.  I had to go to Northeast Portland to deliver my old laptop to a buyer.  Lake Oswego to Northeast Portland, at rush hour, is about a 30-45 minute schlep.  It was hot outside.  I decided to leave Lucy, much to her disappointment, at home. We had an electr

When you spend most of your time in the house, for whatever reason, you will get the lion's share of the door knocks.  My customary response is not to answer it. Most of my friends, knowing about my Ataxia and that it takes forever for me to get to the front door, either call first or come prepared to wait–forever. Ignoring the knock at the door  can be an effective strategy in avoiding the unwanted visitor, but it doesn't work if you're outside, so it's best to have several different defenses. I've had to work on my "I'm not interested" skills.  Trouble is, while some people have no difficulty saying "I'm not interested", I do.  I just want everyone to like me (another disability). My son and husband love the  door to door  game, their specialty being the student soliciting donations for a non-profit.  But Jason has a job and his own family home.  Earl usually gets home after the door to door people have come and gone. They miss al

Skeeter and various other devices (computer, tablet) are my companions in solitude.  I'm still aware of the loss of coordination  (speech, gait, hands) , but they aren't. It can be easier to be in the company of inanimate objects. I don't need to give them any thought or consideration.  Ironic that that's important to me, given that no one in my life makes any demands on my time. I've come to differentiate peaceful solitude from lonely isolation–I don't think I grasped the difference when I was young.  I always thought the more people around, the better–even as a shy child.  I still prefer being with people and enjoy social occasions.  My important peeps know about my Ataxia and don't care. I'm grateful for that.  But, I don't foresee a time when I don't think about how my struggles appear to others, however close they are.  In solitude, I can choose to not care. Solitude may afford me the opportunity to figure things out on my own