Stumblr: Life with MS

A while back, Charlotte (my stepdaughter, for anyone who stumbled here via a means other than Facebook) posted something to Facebook about her annoyance with able people using the handicapped door opener. One of her friends took issue with this – “stop calling me lazy and who am I hurting?!” was the gist of his reply. I vowed to write an even-tempered, kind response but didn’t manage to pull together thoughts for a couple of weeks, at which point my posting something would have verged on creepy. Luckily, there’s a blog for that! Today I will tackle a few of my pet peeves as they relate to life as a person with MS and how others (like you!) might modify their behavior to minimize frustrations to those less abled. 1.        Handicapped doors are not for you. They are marvelous things. Most doors on businesses are HEAVY, even for the able-bodied, so doors that open at the press of a button make my life much easier. They might make ...

This tiny notebook contains angst to rival my teenage diaries.

Saturday evening I went through the week's mail, finally opening a bill that I assumed must be the $126 my insurance company recently informed me I owed for a routine office visit because "a catheter was inserted by a doctor." As we'll discuss later, I am perfectly capable of inserting my own catheters (foreshadowing!), and I was already pissed (*rim shot*) that my doctor's choice of specimen collection, which had already robbed me of some dignity, also would rob me of an extra $96. I tore the envelope open, a suitable amount of outrage at the ready to share with my ever-patient spouse, Neal. And then I saw this: That's an outrage! If I were you I wouldn't pay it! This alarmingly high figure was not unfamiliar. I had seen it before, in January, when my health insurance was mysteriously discontinued for two weeks. My then-employer blamed the insurance company and vice versa. I never got to the bottom of who was to blame and decided not to pursue ...

As many of you know, Neal and I used to run a trivia night on Capitol Hill. Its original incarnation was at the Pour House, a Pittsburgh-themed bar that was a very doable half mile walk from our home. A dear friend was in town visiting, and I was thrilled to share my local celebrity status with her (oh how they used to cheer when Neal said, “Helping me, as always, is the lovely and talented Score Babe, Rebecca!”). We delighted our guest with music selections and trivia tailored to her interests. The three of us stuck around for an extra round of Yuengling after the game was done. A good time was had by all. Initially. Then we set out for a lovely walk home. When we were within three blocks of our destination, something went horribly wrong. I’d been vaguely concerned about “making it” about halfway through the walk, but I had complete confidence in my sphincter’s ability to hold its own (or my own, as the case may be). I recall encouraging cries of “We’re almost there!” from my com...

Picture it: Washington, DC (or, more accurately, Arlington, VA), 2004. Neal and I are getting groceries at Shopper’s Food Warehouse for the Superbowl Party we’ll have that night. My stomach is acting funny, so I make repeated trips to their sad, stinky little bathroom. Sitting under the fluorescent light I noticed my feet were asleep. Both of them. Full pins and needles. Weird, right? But I stood up fine and walked okay, so I got on with buying avocados and chicken wings. Football snacks do not make themselves. In the weeks that followed, the pins and needles persisted, subsided some, and then moved to my thighs, torso, and eventually settled in my arms and hands. Neal was a little worried, but I shrugged it off. In high school I’d had a numb-ish forearm for months that was attributed to a pinched nerve in my elbow. In 2002 I had spasms that distorted the right side of my face and were alarming to see (sorry, Neal!), but they didn’t affect  my  life much and also disappeared ...