MetroAccess, take a bow

Wow, MetroAcces. You have done it again, and honestly, I am shocked.

With all the mind-numbingly frustrating things you have done in the past -- late trips, trips that continued right past my destination to drop another passenger off, operators who regularly told me my ride was five minutes away only to have it show up an hour later and of course, the requirement to renew my membership every three years even though my disability is permanent -- you have managed to top yourself and really piss me off.

I teleworked today because I had to go to MetroAccess headquarters to renew my license. I did not want to go to work because last time I tried being picked up at work and dropped off at home, I got dropped off back at work. It was survivable in that the old location was near the subway, but I was not willing to tempt fate in our new location. Because I teleworked, I was ineligible to take advantage of the two-hour early dismissal at work.

Mom does my phone dealings with them and yesterday got a reminder that I'd be picked up at 12:30 for a 2:30 appointment. (It would take probably 20 minutes to get there but whatever.) She called this morning and got the normal recording, so we were a go.

Except we weren't.

At 1:15, Mom called, and the operator told her the building was closed by a maintenance issue. This same issue caused them to close yesterday, so it was not a last-minute emergency. The operator told Mom that they had not had time to call us yet to let us know. Their phones open at 8, so that means they had five hours. Even if they only have one operator and each call takes five minutes, they could have called 60 people.

I was so mad, I took sick leave for the rest of the afternoon and went to bed.

In addition to ruining my day and making me do this again, they cost me two hours of pay.

Nice job, MetroAccess.

People are the problem

I am answering some disability-related questions for a friend's school project about the subway system. If I separate the paratransit system from the regular transit system, most of my problems are with people.

The system seems to work OK.

It is people who crowd the elevators instead of taking the stairs.

It is people who stand right near the subway doors and don't move to the center of the cars as instructed. The other night, I was waiting to get on a car and two guys just continued to stand at the door ... until I just barreled on. (That is one system problem: You can't board gently. You have to just power on to make it past the gaps and humps.)

It is also people who threaten to have their way with me and Claren, although to be fair that was just once.

The paratransit system is a special kind of evil, but the transit system is OK.

It's the people who make it rotten. (Well, except for the cute gal in the loose-fitting shirt who bent over to talk to Claren.)

Out of service

I got out early on Friday, but I didn't get home till the normal time.

I got to my subway station, but no one was waiting for the elevators. Huh? Where were all my fellow elevator riders.

Then I saw the signs: The elevators were both broken.

It was a nice day so I started rolling.

And rolling. It turns out I missed one stop because I was on the wrong street. I finally saw the station I was headed to.

I got to that elevator: Out of order.

I gave up then, called Dad for a ride. But by then, it was rush hour so it took him a while to get there and a while to get home.

I still don't know how my other elevator users got home. I hope they had better luck than I. Oh wait, they probably just walked 20 yards to the stairs.

Thanks, MetroAcccess, for wasting my afternoon

Several years ago, I read a story in the newspaper that talked about how odd it was that MetroAccess, the Washington area's para-transit service, required people with permanent disabilities to recertify every few years. As if we might get better.

A Metro official said at the time, "We are considering broader changes to the application and eligibility assessment process for the coming year." This was in May 2008.

Apparently, those changes did not involve removing the silly requirement that people who have MetroAccess and have permanent disabilities go in and answer the same type of questions the same way they did before.

Oh, but there were changes, to be sure. I had to go downtown for the process. They closed the more convenient office in Virginia.

My pickup window was 2-2:30 today, but because of all the rain I asked Mom to call and make sure it was still on. It was, but my window was now 2:15-2:45. Not sure when they planned to tell me this. Never, I guess, because I got no call from them until the ride showed up at work.

We got to the Metro office about 3 for my 3:30 appointment to get recertified.

On the way in, this woman said to me repeatedly, "God bless you for that dog." It seems like Claren is the one who is blessed for dealing with me. But whatever.

At the office, I was OK waiting. I had a book. It's a good thing it is a big book because I did not get in until about 4:15. I signed three papers, said what subway stations I use, got weighed (450 in my power chair) and got my photo taken for the ID, and then waited for my ride home.

We picked up another rider on the way home. That was cool. It seemed on the way home. Then I noticed we were right near my work again. "Huh," I thought, "I guess the other rider lives near my office." I was going home, not back to work -- this was confirmed.

Then we stopped in front of my building. I said I was supposed to go to another address, but told the driver to just let me out and I'd get home from there. I was so mad, but it wasn't the driver's fault and I hear too poorly to argue.

The subway was good -- the elevator was right there and the train seemed to be wait for me -- but then I got to my stop and pulled up to the elevator just as it opened and filled with people who were able to walk.

I left work about 2, got home about 6, was crabby all night, so thanks again, MetroAccess.

Metro gets its kicks from just driving me down

I took the subway home from work Friday,and well, it was not too cool.

I rode an elevator down to the mezzanine to show to the station manager my para-transit pass, which allows free trips.

He just pointed to another elevator to get to my train so I hit the down button for the elevator and waited.

It came and as I was getting on, I heard it say "going down." Now I know I hear poorly, but I am 95% that is what it said.

Instead, though, it went up.

When it got to the street level, I said to the people waiting, "I'm going down." Knowing that I also don't always speak loudly and clearly, I also pointed down. Maybe they thought I was making a crude joke because they made no move to get on. One said, that's all right. I repeated myself. Finally, I said,don't you want to get on? And someone else said, Oh, are you going down?

We rode back to the mezzanine where they all got off. I continued to train level.

Once there, I had to get through the gates. Not easy. I pushed one side back, then the other. But when I pushed the second back, the first extended and blocked me. I eventually got stuck. One of the sides also knocked the cover off the joystick, which rolled off somewhere. I backed up and tried again, sort of got stuck, then made it through. I spotted the joystick and Claren grabbed it.

Now, I just had to wait for a train. It came fast, actually, and I realized I was too close to the rear of the station. The train drove right past me.

Another was due in a few minutes so I went to the front of the station, got on the train, got home easily.

But nothing is ever really easy.

Para-transit people? They're just really optimistic

I don't use para-transit services at the moment -- Dad drives me. I still like to keep my membership active, though, so when I got a renewal notice, I got the forms to fill out.

The application was pretty painless -- stupid but painless ... unless you are a doctor. Dr. B has to fill out like four pages of questions.

All about a person who, let's not forget, has a permanent disability.

I guess I should be grateful that I only have to state that I am disabled and need to use para-transit over public transportation once every three years.

Perhaps, though, the para-transit people aren't just trying to overwhelm people with disabilities with pointless paperwork or trying to winnow those eligible for the service.

Perhaps, they are just super-hopeful, and they truly believe and hope that I might have gotten over my permanent disability. If I am the recipient of a miracle cure, though, I promise to still rail against groups that waste my time.

She ain't heavy, she's my service dog

If last night is any indication, cute, furry animals will be the end of me.

I stayed up too late, first of all, watching Return of the Jedi. I'll be honest: I love the Ewoks. How can you not get chills when the spear and sling Ewoks smash logs into each side of a Chicken Walker's head?

In acknowledgement of my nights sweats, which have left me coated in sweat the past few weeks, I discarded my comforter and am sleeping in shorts and a T-shirt. Last night was cold, too cold for the T-shirt but no clothes were near enough for me to grab. But my fleece hoodie was right out in the open; Claren could get it!

I called her and told her to get it and pointed to my hoodie. She came out, looked where I was pointing, went over there and kept going, went all the way around my wheelchair, picked up a shoe and brought it to me. Claren then went and got the other shoe and brought it to me, tail wagging.

How could I not love her?

Of course I was still cold, so I flopped around on the bed till I could almost touch the hoodie and then Claren got it.

That was fine for about two hours. Then I woke up and had to go to the bathroom, having drank too much ginger ale while rooting on the Ewoks. I did take that opportunity to put some warm clothes on.

A stench woke me up a few hours later. Claren had eaten something that went right through her and onto the floor of my bedroom. I cleaned it up, then took Claren out to get anything else out. Then I figured I'd make her some rice for her morning meal in a few hours since I was up.

While waiting for the microwave, I decided to cancel my para-transit ride to work and just work from home today. I called the service and pushed "2," which is the number to cancel trips with the computer system. Unfortunately, it is also the speed dial for my folks and I guess I held it down too long because all of a sudden Dad answered. I just said:"You're not MetroAccess" and hung up. Only then did I realize it was Dad, so I called him back to tell him I was OK and I'd call later to explain.

Finally, I went to sleep on my love seat, but I had to open the patio door because the stink still bugged me.

Mom came later in the day to help me get the poop all out of the rug.

Claren seems fine tonight. Me? I'm tired.

Take this job and love it

Soon after I returned to the northern Virginia area, I started looking for a therapist. For some crazy-ass reason, the new job, the switch to full-time wheelchair use, giving up driving and my return home had not solved all my problems. I was still lonely and unhappy.

I found a good and kind person to talk to and one of her ideas was to go on full-time disability. I guess she thought it would give me time to do more enjoyable things and things I should be doing to get the most out of my body (exercise). Plus, it would certainly be less tiring than working.

I wouldn't consider it, I told her, because it would not allow me to live in the manner to which I was accustomed. This was really sad because journalism is not the most lucrative of careers.

Even more than that, though, I worried that most of the things I'd do with my time off might be enjoyable and easier than work but they would not make me less lonely. I can see writing and reading and sleeping more, none of which are really activities you do with other people. Work is the only place I engage with people I am not related to. That was true then and is still true now.

So when my sister, who has been calling disability groups to find financing for our house, tells me that no one can believe that someone with Friedreich's ataxia is working full time, I don't even consider applying for disability. Even on days like today, after a night when I sat bolt up in bed at 1 a.m. sure the fire alarm was going off only to realize my ears were ringing, when the para-transit kept me on the bus for almost two hours, when all I wanted to do at work was sleep.

I could sleep on disability, but who wants to awake and alert if I am the only one around.

I'm late

I ran late again this morning, mostly because of the water temperature issue. It didn't speed things up that I let the water run out of the faucet to get a little in the tub so I could soak my dainty rear. I just sat in it while I shaved and it is much less dangerous than certain family members are thinking.

It about kills me that I can't hurry up when I am running late. I can't say: Oh, I took longer in the shower, but I can shave precious seconds off my getting-ready time by running.

Of course, I could always do what the dumb fellow passenger does (10 minutes we waited for her today!): Just come out when I ready and screw the schedule.

Craptacular

Even if I hadn't run over some of Claren's poop at lunch, the day would have still been crappy. (HEE! At least I still have my rollicking sense of humor. I would say at least I have my health, but guess what? I don't. It's like 7Up and caffeine: Never had it, never will.)

It wasn't even totally my fault that I rolled in the poop. Claren really had to go, so I released her in an area where the path at work is about an inch above the land next to it. She went and I wheeled a little off the path to pick it up. I had to be careful because about 2 feet off the path is a really steep drop. I turned off my chair and bent down. This caused the chair to roll a little more off the path. At this point I was a little more worried about sliding down the steep drop, so I did not notice where my front wheel was until too late.

After I rearranged things and picked up the poop. I then went and scraped of my wheel and drove around in the grass to get the stinky off.

But as said it was a crappy day anyway. I ran late this morning because it took me 10 minutes to adjust the water for my shower. It is a very involved process that involves turning it all the way hot then down, then turning off the shower and just running water. It is getting worse, too, and the plumber my warranty company hired to fix it has been less than great.

Things were bad even before my ride to work, but they were nothing para-transit could not make worse. This time it wasn't even all the system's fault.

There is a woman who lives real close to me and works real close to where I work. She even goes in at a similar time. Sounds perfect, right? Well, except they drop her first every time even though they pick me up first. I am closer to a highway, so OK. The other problem is the woman: She comes out when her pickup is scheduled, not 15 minutes early as the service states.

I got to work then and had a busy morning, made busier because my boss is busy with non-day-to-day work so it was mostly me. I did my job fine, but I forgot I needed to do his job as well (he told me earlier). Or there was some dispute over how I did his job; I can't decide. Whichever, he wound up talking to me and sent out an email to our staff saying we slipped up on our main mission this morning. I don't like to slip up, whether it is my fault or not.

And it's cold, and I feel stressed, and my bottom hurts, so I should not sit on it. But hey, guess what again? I have to sit? Or go to bed. That's not a bad idea.

Careful what you wish for

As we were out walking, I was asking Claren what I should right about. My ride got me to work early today, and I didn't want to write about that even though it is frustrating that I cannot tell until I roll into work whether I will be on time, half an hour early or an hour late.

I do have some thoughts I am working on, but I am not quite ready to unleash them on the world, maybe my little sister, but not the world.

Then as we were crossing the street, the topic reared up in front of me and almost killed me.

Actually, it was on my right side.

I crossed the first two lanes of my street with no problem and started across the other two lanes. They were clear ... but out of nowhere, a car started shooting toward me.

I didn't really have many options at this point. It's not like I could speed up or turn around. I guess I could have waved my arms at the car but that would have meant stopping my chair. I decided to just fix the driver with my steely gaze. And keep moving to get the hell off the street.

It worked. The car began slowing about 10 or 15 yards before me and as it slowly passed me, the driver held out his hand, as if to say: "My bad."

Once I was out of the line of fire, I raised my hand, too, meaning: "What the hell?"

I was not particularly mollified by his hand gesture, but I am not sure what the correct sign is to express: "Sorry I almost killed you."

So tired

A friend of mine loaned me a DVD of a documentary about people who dress up as superheroes, and I wondered how this gal has time to watch DVDs. Another told me she was reading a book about the paradox of choice, and I was staggered. If I have the energy to read a comic book, I consider it a good day.

It must be the wheelchair and disability that leave me so bone-achingly tired after every day of work, before it, too.

I always dose on my ride into work, but today was something else. I opened my eyes as we were getting off the toll road, a few minutes from work. Next thing I knew we were pulling past the guard post at work.

And it seems all I can do is be tired. I can fight through it or nap; the result is the same.`

Font of grace wants a day or two off

Almost 10 years ago, my newspaper sister wrote a column about her siblings' disability. She said that I, and my brother, was a giver of grace because I offer people the opportunity to help a stranger. I don't know how she feels about her column after 10 years. I read it and still find the words ring true. That does not mean, though, that I am not sick to f--ing death of being a font of grace.

I had several notable experiences today, some exciting in the sense of I could have gotten hurt but didn't, some just annoying as hell. They leave me longing for a nice boring life, when I am not someone who needs help from strangers.

I got to work an hour late, after getting on the para-transit bus almost two hours earlier. I think I am just going to give the service props for coming up with new ways to make me, borrowing from Homer Simpson, "groin-grabbingy" late.

Today, I got on the bus a few minutes early and we drive about 20 to 30 minutes to a nearby town to pick up another client. We then drove her 10 minutes back to my town, and here is the twist: The client told the driver her dropoff was for 8 a.m., and she could not be dropped off early. So we sat for 10 minutes in front of the Herndon Senior Center. I understand that the center did not open till 8, but you can't schedule trips you can't be early or late for. At least that is what I have learned.

The upshot of my continued lateness is that I am not taking a comp day for working all day Sunday. I can't rely on getting to work on time anymore; at least now I will not be costing the company money. And this was my idea.

I went to the restroom and someone sat in the stall next to me. This was fine except for when I knocked the loose roll of toilet paper onto my neighbor's foot. The foot didn't move, but I was too embarrassed to apologize, and no way in hell am I reaching under a stall divider -- no matter what. So I just fled.

I went into the bathroom later and I did notice the stall next to the wheelchair stall has two loose rolls of toilet paper. That was not why I went to the bathroom, but as I was transferring to the toilet, I reached out to grab the grab bar and just missed. My head smacked the stall divider, and I tweaked my ankle, but I was OK. The biggest problem: I was in a tight spot and kind of stuck. I could move plenty, but there was not enough space to enable me to stand.

Then I heard someone come in the bathroom. In a minute or so I heard the faucet so I figured he was leaving and I could get back to my grunting and standing. But then I heard: Excuse me, are you all right?

I laughed and said yes, but when he asked if I needed help I took him up on it and opened the stall. Fortunately, I had not pulled my pants down before I fell. He helped me up on to the toilet, then my chair and held the stall door for me to get out so I did, though I still had to go to the bathroom. I just went and looked at myself in the mirror and asked God silently if he was fucking happy with himself (I tried not to curse, Mom, I used dashes in the first paragraph but could not use dashes here). I didn't get an answer, but the guy, Jim (he introduced himself; two strangers in one bathroom stall would be unseemly), left, so I went back to the stall and did my business.

I so wanted to tell someone what had happened and not my little sister or a relative. I don't know why but I wanted a friend to share it with. There are several people at work I would like to have told, but I am not sure they would like to be told, or even know what to do with it. So I sucked it up. I do that a lot.

Finally, I went to aqua therapy and did more walking and exercising. I am growing more jealous Aquaman each time I go, and I bet he doesn't have to worry about falling in the bathroom. I can't even imagine there are toilets underwater.

Explain this, please

I see my neighbor so little, one might wonder if she maybe is avoiding me. After tonight, we can remove the "maybe."

As I was heading out to walk Claren, Carissa came out. (I only remember her name because it reminds me of Clarissa, who explained it all.) My neighbor, without the "L," had a brace on her forearm.

I asked what had happened and she said she fell. She said she was going tomorrow to get the X-ray results, but she didn't think it was broken. She didn't sound all that broken up by it (hee), and when I said sorry, she said: "It's OK, what are you going to do?"

I really replied: "Yeah, I know about falls."

Nervous laughter and a "yeah" ensued.

At least I didn't tell her this:

I was cold this morning. I don't know why because it is so nice out I didn't even where a coat to work. Still, I was cold, so I stayed in the shower too long. I also was in the shower extra because my new bottle of shampoo didn't just have a cap, it had a seal, which I had to peel off with my teeth.

I don't know if that is why I fell – because I was hurrying. I don't know why I fell; I just did. I swept half the stuff off my sink on the way down, too, as I tried to catch myself. It didn't work. I hit the ground, and my head smacked the toilet, luckily I hit the plastic seat parts, not the porclien. But I had some trouble getting up. There was lots of howling, and I called myself or my legs a word that I am not sure even exists but sounds really bad. I didn't really want to shimmy up the wheelchair backward because I was shirtless and that would cause scratches from hell. I finally got up but was so tired.

I went to brush my teeth and my brand new electric toothbrush was dead. It works tonight, but seriously it was powerless this morning. I dragged the dead toothbrush across my teeth a few times, then put on my shirt and went to zip up my pants, and no, I also don't know why I did it in that order. The zipper was totally wedged down in the pants fabric and would need pliers to get out. No time for that, though, because at that point my ride called to say it was outside. I rushed to the kitchen, grabbed some food (not even my normal breakfast muffins) and left. That is actually why I didn't have my coat, not because it was really warm.

I was more or less on time for my ride – it had called early – and we left by 7:10 a.m. for another pickup. We got there in five minutes and waited until 7:45 a.m. I rushed, nearly killed myself, left my coat and preferred breakfast all so I could sit in a GODDAMN bus for 30 minutes. Clarissa would have had an explanation. But I sure don't.

Permanent means forever

Apparently, the former editors of my college newspaper are not the ones who do not know the meaning of permanent.

As I have mentioned, they deleted the permanent folder where I had stored stuff I wanted kept permanently. I thought then this was the height of permanent silliness.

Yesterday, I got a letter from my para-transit service saying my membership was about to expire and I would need to reapply. Not a simply phone call or e-mail that I need to extend my membership. No, a full reapplication.

That means I have to ask my doctor to once again fill out the form that says 'this disability is: __ permanent __ temporary." And once again Dr. B will have to check off all the hurdles I would face trying to use regular transportation. Then I will have to go see one of the service's occupational therapists to determine that my doctor and I are not lying. As if anybody would want to use this service. Half the time, I am tempted to start driving again just so I need not use it.

This actually will be my second re-enlistment -- one every three years -- but last time I did not have to get my doctor to fill out the application. I only had to see their OT. The service drove me there, was way late and I missed the appointment and waited around in a crazy line. It was great.

A cynical person might wonder whether the service creates inconveniences lije this to weed people out.

I am sure the editors deleted the permanent folder because they assumed no one used it but them. Silly.

But without being cynical, I honestly have no idea why a permanent disability is only six years long.

On time but still a rotten trip

Once I realized my trip this morning would go straight by my building without dropping me off, I wanted to pitch a fit.

Not because I was worried about being late. The other rider's destination was close enough to my job that I knew I'd still be on time and I was.

The other rider just rubbed me the wrong way. She was polite to me but kind of condescending to the driver and she seemed to blame the driver for making her late.

I hate my para-transit service. With a few exceptions, the drivers are its salvation. Even the one with ... shall we say ... eccentric habits.

We dropped the other rider off and then I learned the whole story. She was moaning about being late, but the driver had to wait at her house for 15 minutes, stop at the mailbox and wait for the woman to put her dog in.

Man, I hate people.

Stupid disabled person

One might think that I would be empathetic to people running late for the para-transit bus. I know all too well the many dangerous delays that await people with disabilities. For example, falling into your basket of dirty laundry, dropping the soap and spending what seems like an hour fishing around for it behind your shower chair, spending an eternity getting the water not too hot or cold.

One might think I'd be empathetic, but one would be wrong. I get up earlier enough that such delays don't make me late.

So when I have to spend 10 minutes (really 25 but we were early) waiting for another client only to have him cancel, I want nothing else than to curse, suggest someone perform an anatomic impossibility or something else equally mean-spirited. Especially after the night I had yesterday.

All day yesterday, I had felt kind of blah. Mom said it was the weather because she felt the same. Of course, after three bites of dinner (pizza for my nephew's birthday), all the food in Mom's body did not decide ithadtogetoutnow. Not that it is a contest.

I was fine afterward; the screwed-up muscles aren't limited to the ones in my legs. They are in my little tummy as well. But I didn't want dinner or the Spider-Man cake for dessert.

When I got home, I figured I'd just brush Claren, take my pills, watch the Simpsons and go to bed. Hahaha.

First, my pills weren't near my chair so I planned to get them later. I brushed Claren and watched the Simpsons, at which point my bladder decided it really had to empty itself. I got in my chair as fast as I could, pretty fast, although one shoe came off. Anyway I hurried to the back without the shoe.

To make a long story shorter and a little less gross, I did not make it entirely. I had to shed my clothes, so I was standing in the bathroom bottomless. I put a towel on my chair and wheeled out to get a change of clothes. I got them but could not get them all the way up because I was wearing just socks and they could get no traction on the rug. I then decided to switch wheelchairs -- why I thought this would work I don't know -- but it didn't. My feet kept sliding and could not support me so I wound up on the floor, with my pants around my knees, and Claren curled up in front of me (where she always goes when I fall). Finally, I got in my power chair, although the seat cushion got wedged behind my back. I had to wheel over to my stripper pole to stand up, push the cushion down and sit back down.

Then I had to go take my pills, take Claren out and go to bed. And given the digestive issues I had earlier, by then I was so hungry.

And I was really hungry this morning, when I had to sit and wait for a turkey who canceled.

This Republican rocks

In October of my third year in college, Mom, my brother and I headed down to Emory University in Atlanta for a bunch of medical tests. Emory had a mitochondria lab, and doctors thought maybe my brother and I had something screwy with our mitochondria.

There was no test for Friedreich's ataxia, and doctors had no clue. They would see me and say: Oh, you clearly have FA. Then they would see my brother and said: Cleary, he doesn't, so you don't either because brothers would not have different ataxias.

Turns out they were right and wrong. Yes, we brother don't have different ataxias but no, my brother really did have FA, apparently just not a text-book case like mine (I so rock).

But that was years later, back to Emory.

The feature test was a muscle biopsy. My only complaint now after 16 years is the same as the one I had back then: They did it too neat so it is hard to see. The other tests included a lumbar puncture, blood work (passed out for that) and 24-hour urine collection. I know one of Mom's memories is walking to our motel near the hospital with these two empty jugs in her hands.

The doctors learned nothing from these tests, and our insurance company decided these tests were not diagnostic but exploratory. And they would not pay. Jerks.

After going back and forth with them, Mom called her congressman to try to get some help. Frank Wolf assigned a staffer to look into it as I recall, and the issue was settled. I don't know if Frank did anything, but I never forgot it. Perhaps, that is why I emailed him after the hellacious para-transit trip.

I like to think I am in a détente with the para-transit company. I had a very unsatisfactory complaint call about that trip, but then my brother, who now works with disability issues, gave me the email of an exec at the company. She seemed to shake some heads, so things have been better lately, not perfect, but better.

Yesterday I got a call about the hellacious trip again. This time, the woman was quite apologetic. I found out why when I got my mail.

I had a letter from Congressman Wolf, who said he asked for a status report on the situation from the company. Maybe I should ask him to find out why God allowed this disease to strike me. Fighting Frank might get an answer.

Of course, sad songs make you sad, idiot!

I have a playlist on my iPod called "sad." It has, obviously, a lot of sad songs, many achingly so.

I listen to the Cowboy Junkies' "I'm so lonesome I could cry," and I just want to comfort the singer, let her know that she isn't alone. I hear U2 sing "All I want is you," and I can't imagine a sadder song. Singer Bono seems to be truly mourning and yearning for someone out of reach. It makes me want to cry because I often feel that everyone I want, even as a friend, is out of reach because I am different and limited or don't hear or don’t drive. (Wow, I sound whiny. A friend once told me whiny people were better because it means they can imagine a better life. I really hope I do more than imagine.)

But the "sad" playlist doesn't only have sad songs. It is a playlist for when I am sad, and hopefully the music lifts me out of my funk. Mixed in with James' "Out to get you," is Bonnie Raitt's "Thing called love," which reminds me of good times in college. Next to "Brick" by the Ben Folds Five is "Breakfast at Tiffany's" by Deep Blue Something. (Yes, that dorky song makes me feel better always.)

It is not working yet today. The songs are making me sadder. Friday was a bad day.

We had another meeting yesterday in the awful conference room about the buyouts. Turns out I could technically spend the holidays job hunting because if not enough people take the buyouts they will lay people off staff-wide. I cannot imagine a scenario where I'd be cut, but I don't understand a lot of what management does.

I was late to work, mostly because a stupid other rider was not ready when we showed up to pick her up. And she wound up not even riding with us after all, so we sat there 10 minutes for nothing. Then the GPS all sent the driver off the highway to back roads two or three exits early so that added to my lateness.

It also has gotten quite cold. It is only November and I am freezing. I may be screwed.

Finally, my worst fear is being ignored. It is hard for me if someone says I'll call you or e-mail you later and doesn't. I know rationally there are many valid reasons I might float down someone's to-do list. Emotionally, I feel tossed overboard.

Yesterday, my instant message program was not working. At least I hope it wasn't working. No one responded. I stopped IM'ing because I didn't want someone else to not answer. Rationally, I know it could not have been working right. Emotionally, I was drowning.

And now my "sad" playlist is weighing me down.

I'd rather write than work anyway

I Am able to post this because my ride, which was supposed to arrive between 10 and 10:30 am, got rescheduled for 10:59 a.m. Traffic, I am told.

I also spoke to them about my complaints and was told that my trip is 18 miles and therefore can take up to two hours. I pointed out that there is public bus service that could do the job in an hour and was told that it did not matter because those were county buses, not city buses. So since the city buses do not run to where I live, a two-hour trip is equitable.

I can't begin to say how sick I feel.

I was feeling pretty good when I left my doctor appointment yesterday.

The appointment actually was not with a physical therapist but with a doctor of rehab medicine. I told her all my problems and she told me where to go for treatment.

I left with a handful of prescriptions.

One is for aquatic physical therapy, which has me pysched. That is to treat my legs and improve general conditioning. She gave me a script for a regular PT as well to work on similar things on dry land.

One is for occupational therapy and another for speech therapy to work on swallowing and voice.

I got one for a new wheelchair and a seating clinic with a good wheelchair company not the piece-of-crap company my insurance company sends me to.

The coolest one is for a electronic stim anklet, which is just coming on to the market. I will be a guinea pig for it. But it is supposed to tell my ankle to hold my foot up by reading my nerves in my calf. The doctor was pretty excited and said it might even lead to standing. I think she is a little optimistic, but it will start me toward my lifelong dream of becoming a cyborg.

But then I started thinking more about insurance and cost. I have to pay $1,500 before my insurance starts to cover therapy, and then it is still only 80% a visit. Who knows about the wheelchair?

Mom says if any of it makes me more fit, it is worth it. And it probably is, but if I use all my money for getting fit, what then? I can be fit and homeless? One of my sisters and her family are planning to build a house with an in-law suite for me. It would be a dream come true, in so many ways, but it costs money. Money I am about to spend on therapy?