Here are my medical records. Happy?

I met a woman tonight when I was out walking Claren. This woman, I'll call her Cheryl because that's her name, had a dog, too, and we let our pups meet and made some small talk.

We moved mighty quickly into big talk.

"So why are you in a wheelchair," she asked. Not content to just make me feel awkward, she also asked, "When was the last time you walked?" Because it is neat to make strangers relive the pain of their lives.

She wanted to know more stuff, too, and I told her whatever she asked.

Part of me, a very large part, wants to say, "Ummm, I’ll tell you if you tell me your most private, painful secret."

I accept that I have no medical privacy in doctors' offices. It is not a doctor’s appointment, unless med students come by to watch "the amazing ataxian. He doesn’t walk, doesn’t talk (clearly)."

I really just want to say, "None of your business" to Cheryl and her kind of people.

But then I think about how disabled I am and how badly I want to be cured and how that needs money, maybe from some random person who just donates to a cause because it’s a disease some polite, plucky little guy she talked to has.

Also, that might qualify as mean bitter.

See, I have no choice.