A friend of mine warned me that things will be emotional next Friday, my last day at work, and I am already feeling it.
I was heading out and saw another friend who is off next week. We said our goodbyes and shared a hug and that was it. A good thing, too, because I had started to tear up.
Great, I am falling apart in my penultimate week. That's no good (although I did get to think of penultimate, which leads me to Monty Python).
I speak poorly as it is -- very slurry. For the curious it is known as dysarthria, another gift of Friedreich's ataxia. It gets worse when I get emotional. One of the treatment suggestions is to reduce stimuli when communicating. Like that'll happen next week.
My mouth gets dry and my nose clogs up and makes speaking more difficult. I gulp and laugh and talk all at the same time.
I took some speech therapy where I learned to take breaths after every phrase and SPEAK REALLY LOUDLY (for me). I rarely remember to do it. I am sure I won't next week. I wish I were John Cleese.
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2 comments:
You're the bloody pope, you are.
xxoo
JTG
I would be a great pope!
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