Scooter Saga

Actually, I don't.  Earl makes a good living, still likes the work and is more than happy to support himself and this high maintenance woman on one salary.  That said, I worked much of my adult life as a registered nurse, retiring prematurely because my Ataxia kept me from doing the work. Certainly dealing with a progressive neurological condition had its own issues, but suddenly not working outside the home was a difficult adjustment. I just couldn't figure out what the problem was.  I didn't need a job, income wasn't an issue. I retired sooner than I had planned, but still in the expected time frame range.  Not being much of an involved parent of adult children, I didn't expect to be attended to or kept occupied.  Then I got an email from a friend and former work colleague.  She referred to my role at the nursing school where I spent the last 17 years of my career.  It hit me–it wasn't an outside job or a salary, it was feeling competent I was missin

Disclaimer:  I try to adhere to the dictum, "If it's not about Skeeter, it didn't really happen, and it's not funny, don't post it."  But, somethings just aren't funny and it is my blog after all.  This is neither funny nor about Skeeter–just important (I think).  Oh well–In for a penny, in for a pound. My husband had a co-worker commit  suicide  and it threw him for a loop.  I could tell Earl was dying  (OK, poor choice of words)  to ask me if I'd ever thought of it, but also afraid of my answer.  So I sent him this email instead of saying, "Well, hell yes!" and thus stifling any chance of a dialogue.  Given that we sleep together, an email may seem ridiculously impersonal, but it gave me time to think, write,  and  think .  Earl had time to think, read,   and think . Earl, I know your friend is on your mind, wondering how her plan could have been missed. How bad could life have been?  Could you ever inadvertantly overlook importa

So unattractive Ah, the dreaded cough.  Aside from the difficulty in swallowing that may occur with Ataxia, many unaffected people also fear the hacking that comes with advanced age.  I was surprised to discover I wasn't alone in wanting to avoid any undesirable noise emanating from my throat. Like falling, it tends to elicit attention, even when it's just a "swallowing down the wrong pipe" event.  Of course, it usually happens in public or the middle of the night– oy .  I just don't want a "cough" to be heard as a "hack".  I'm only in my sixties! The progression of the dreaded cough starts with a little tickle in the back of my throat.  I give a discreet, throat–clearing "ahem" with the hope that it will dissipate quickly.  Then a single, but real, cough (maybe two) .  "Please, please–now go away." Finally, it grows into a full-fledged coughing session and, by then, I have surrendered. To hell with it. Cou