Claren was back at work today, moving a little slowly but she is on the mend.
The wheelchair guy came by, too, and put on a nice swing-away arm on the controller so I can sit at desks and tables. Not sure why he didn't give me that one to start.
The only problem now is I need to get up at 5:30 and take Claren out myself, instead of Dad doing it.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Monday, March 31, 2008
Matt's best friend
One of the hardest things I do these days is going to work without Claren.
It isn't that everyone ignores me and asks where my service dog is. I will admit that got old real fast when I couldn't bring Claren in because I broke my collar bone. Here I am with a bloody brace, and people are asking if my dog is OK.
I just miss her badly. I look under my desk to get her before I go anywhere. I leave things on the floor because she is not there to reach them.
She has become a part of me, and when she is not there I am not all there either.
Claren pulled a muscle Sunday, I think, so she had to stay home Monday because she could not really walk. She was limping around and looking pathetic.
I don't know if I looked pathetic but I sure felt it. I told my little sister that I wanted to cry or barf. I missed Claren; I was worried about her; it just didn't feel right without her.
Maybe it is a good thing I have no prospects for a girlfriend; she or Claren would be way jealous. (Note to Natalie Portman: We would totally figure it out.)
I'll decide tomorrow whether to give her another sick day, but I am loathe too do it. If she is out sick, I wind up feeling poopy.
It isn't that everyone ignores me and asks where my service dog is. I will admit that got old real fast when I couldn't bring Claren in because I broke my collar bone. Here I am with a bloody brace, and people are asking if my dog is OK.
I just miss her badly. I look under my desk to get her before I go anywhere. I leave things on the floor because she is not there to reach them.
She has become a part of me, and when she is not there I am not all there either.
Claren pulled a muscle Sunday, I think, so she had to stay home Monday because she could not really walk. She was limping around and looking pathetic.
I don't know if I looked pathetic but I sure felt it. I told my little sister that I wanted to cry or barf. I missed Claren; I was worried about her; it just didn't feel right without her.
Maybe it is a good thing I have no prospects for a girlfriend; she or Claren would be way jealous. (Note to Natalie Portman: We would totally figure it out.)
I'll decide tomorrow whether to give her another sick day, but I am loathe too do it. If she is out sick, I wind up feeling poopy.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Man knights dog
From here on out, I will be referring to Claren, my peerless service dog, as Sir ... (yes, I know she is a girl but I am all about equal rights), Sir Showoff. Either that or Little Miss Showoff.
She passed her recertification test with flying colors. I was pretty sure she would because when eyes are on her, she is close to perfect. When we're home alone or out for a walk, then she can be a little stinker.
She passed her recertification test with flying colors. I was pretty sure she would because when eyes are on her, she is close to perfect. When we're home alone or out for a walk, then she can be a little stinker.
What I'd give for a few sourcesI
I hate reporting.
In college I got taken to task by the head of the board of visitors at UVa. for something. My editor in chief did not seem to think it was a big deal, so he was probably just mad, the story was not wrong.
Some peaceniks got so mad at me they complained, too. I went to their meeting and just listened. I didn't tell them I was a reporter, not that I hid it, I just didn't stop their meeting, stand up and announce myself. I did tell the people near me, but one of them wrote a letter accusing me of deceit. I rolled my eyes, but wish I had figured out a way to tell people I was a reporter.
In grad school, I tried to interview a scientist who reportedly was the basis for Jeff Goldbloom's character in Jurassic Park. I was pretty excited, but he turned out to be kind of a jerk. He answered every question with a one-word answer. It was probably my fault -- I should have asked better questions -- but still.
I don't mind answering questions and talking about myself, but I always felt like I was imposing as a reporter. Plus, hearing and writing fast have never been my strong suits, and they are really crummy now.
Nevertheless, I wanted to be a journalist. Gay Talese says in The Kingdom and The Power that Harrison Salisbury of the New York Times was destined for journalism because he was very shy and very curious.
That's me, so I became an editor. That way I could just read stuff.
But with my friends, I find myself back in the reporter role because they don't volunteer much. I have to ask. It is hard for me, and everyone, I am sure, and when I find something obvious out that I didn't know I feel stupid.
For instance, I did not know this couple at work was dating until I got an invitation to their wedding. Well, not an invitation really. It was an email from the groom that he had sent to a number of folks telling us about the wedding website and mentioning that one could RSVP there. I did nothing because I never got an invite to RSVP to. Then I got another email that went to a subset of that first email's respondents asking everyone to please RSVP. I emailed him back that I had never been invited so I didn't RSVP. That was the last I heard from him.
Another for instance: I found out a friend has a boyfriend. Part of me was glad because she is smart, funny, cool and beautiful, and I would hope someone like that would have someone. A little part of me was glad. Mostly, I was kind of sad. She was, I thought, my only unattached friend, and it made me feel better about my unattached status. If she did not have someone, how the heck could I? She doesn't have to deal with a wheelchair. I'd be lying, too, if I didn't say that part of me held out hope we could be unattached together in some way, shape or form.
My friends rarely vent to me either, which maybe I should be glad about. But it actually makes me feel a little left out. My little sister said people probably feel a little stupid venting to someone in a wheelchair, but I miss it. I never think or say: "You think that's bad; try getting into a wheelchair from the floor, you lazy ass." It would make me feel more normal to have regular problems to think about.
I guess I need to do some more reporting, but what if I get sued for slander?
In college I got taken to task by the head of the board of visitors at UVa. for something. My editor in chief did not seem to think it was a big deal, so he was probably just mad, the story was not wrong.
Some peaceniks got so mad at me they complained, too. I went to their meeting and just listened. I didn't tell them I was a reporter, not that I hid it, I just didn't stop their meeting, stand up and announce myself. I did tell the people near me, but one of them wrote a letter accusing me of deceit. I rolled my eyes, but wish I had figured out a way to tell people I was a reporter.
In grad school, I tried to interview a scientist who reportedly was the basis for Jeff Goldbloom's character in Jurassic Park. I was pretty excited, but he turned out to be kind of a jerk. He answered every question with a one-word answer. It was probably my fault -- I should have asked better questions -- but still.
I don't mind answering questions and talking about myself, but I always felt like I was imposing as a reporter. Plus, hearing and writing fast have never been my strong suits, and they are really crummy now.
Nevertheless, I wanted to be a journalist. Gay Talese says in The Kingdom and The Power that Harrison Salisbury of the New York Times was destined for journalism because he was very shy and very curious.
That's me, so I became an editor. That way I could just read stuff.
But with my friends, I find myself back in the reporter role because they don't volunteer much. I have to ask. It is hard for me, and everyone, I am sure, and when I find something obvious out that I didn't know I feel stupid.
For instance, I did not know this couple at work was dating until I got an invitation to their wedding. Well, not an invitation really. It was an email from the groom that he had sent to a number of folks telling us about the wedding website and mentioning that one could RSVP there. I did nothing because I never got an invite to RSVP to. Then I got another email that went to a subset of that first email's respondents asking everyone to please RSVP. I emailed him back that I had never been invited so I didn't RSVP. That was the last I heard from him.
Another for instance: I found out a friend has a boyfriend. Part of me was glad because she is smart, funny, cool and beautiful, and I would hope someone like that would have someone. A little part of me was glad. Mostly, I was kind of sad. She was, I thought, my only unattached friend, and it made me feel better about my unattached status. If she did not have someone, how the heck could I? She doesn't have to deal with a wheelchair. I'd be lying, too, if I didn't say that part of me held out hope we could be unattached together in some way, shape or form.
My friends rarely vent to me either, which maybe I should be glad about. But it actually makes me feel a little left out. My little sister said people probably feel a little stupid venting to someone in a wheelchair, but I miss it. I never think or say: "You think that's bad; try getting into a wheelchair from the floor, you lazy ass." It would make me feel more normal to have regular problems to think about.
I guess I need to do some more reporting, but what if I get sued for slander?
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
FA is such a load of crap
Since my brother and I first started going through FA, one of the problems has been our stomachs. I am a fiber fan. It doesn't solve what my primary care doctor calls irritable bowel syndrome, but it helps … sometimes … if all other factors are going my way … if my daily routine has not changed … if the food I have eaten is normal. Wait, scratch that. I don't think it has anything to do with food. Last night a pasta salad set me off. Pasta salad? And no, you don't really want to know what "set me off" means; safe to say it is not something I would wish upon others. Maybe Darth Vader.
This first started happening to me in college, and I blamed the institutional food. I got a friend with a car to drive me regularly to Bodo's Bagels to get a turkey sandwich on a salt bagel. That I could handle. I guess I owe the food service at the University of Virginia an apology.
No doctor could find a cause for my stomach woes, so I sucked it up. I remember kneeling down, bent over my dorm trashcan taking a teaspoon of Kaopectate. I used to slam my knee into the floor to keep from gagging. I still slam my knee into the floor, but it is no longer on purpose.
I mostly just suck it up even now 15 years later, because I am sure it is related to FA, even though no doctor has told me so. In fact, early on they told me it was unrelated. My brother, lots of anecdotal evidence from the Web and my own issues are all just coincidental to FA. Right. (Not that I don't still love the medical profession.)
I just looked over a few fact sheets on FA. None mentions stomach problems. I also really should not look at such fact sheets. God, how depressing. "Some people with less severe symptoms of Friedreich's ataxia live much longer, sometimes into their sixties or seventies." They make it sound like good news.
This first started happening to me in college, and I blamed the institutional food. I got a friend with a car to drive me regularly to Bodo's Bagels to get a turkey sandwich on a salt bagel. That I could handle. I guess I owe the food service at the University of Virginia an apology.
No doctor could find a cause for my stomach woes, so I sucked it up. I remember kneeling down, bent over my dorm trashcan taking a teaspoon of Kaopectate. I used to slam my knee into the floor to keep from gagging. I still slam my knee into the floor, but it is no longer on purpose.
I mostly just suck it up even now 15 years later, because I am sure it is related to FA, even though no doctor has told me so. In fact, early on they told me it was unrelated. My brother, lots of anecdotal evidence from the Web and my own issues are all just coincidental to FA. Right. (Not that I don't still love the medical profession.)
I just looked over a few fact sheets on FA. None mentions stomach problems. I also really should not look at such fact sheets. God, how depressing. "Some people with less severe symptoms of Friedreich's ataxia live much longer, sometimes into their sixties or seventies." They make it sound like good news.
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