God does answer prayers*

*It turns out the son of a ... just has a really f----d up sense of humor.

My little sister was having some friends over tonight and asked me to join them.

I didn't really feel like it, but I did not have a good excuse. I had slept until 11, taken a long nap, and the most work I had done was watching Mom give Claren a bath.

I came back from my walk with Claren and Mom thinking I'd just pop into the bathroom and head over to my sister's -- I mean it was outside so there would be no wheelchair problems and there were s'mores involved.

Out of regard for the easily grossed-out, I wont detail what took place in the bathroom, only that afterward Dad had to tighten the toilet seat, Mom had to clean a little, and I had to shower.

Needless to say, I did not go over to my sister's.

The Little Engine That Could didn't have FA

Sometimes, I think I could run if I could just remember how.

Not necessarily walking, it is definitely running that I think of as a memory lapse.

It just seems so simple. Everyone does it. If only my stupid brain would remember how to do it.

I know it doesn't work like that. I am not going to run, walk or whatever just because “I think I can.”

When I had just given up driving and after I had failed miserably in my attempts to use hand controls, I told a woman at work of my predicament. Oh, I am sure you will get the hang of hand controls if you keep trying, she said kindly but totally missing the idea of FA.

It often seems that I get nothing out of trying so hard. Except being tired, that is.

The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak, and for that, I blame God.

I dreamed a few nights ago of God, played by Wilford Brimley, saying to me, We'll do this together. I woke right up and my first thought was: Wilford Brimley? Really? But it was a dream; I didn't really pick him.

I felt pretty good about this dream, too, until I woke up and kept right on falling and wobbling like I did before.

Beating you with a wheelchair tied behind my back

I told a former co-worker once that I was surprised how much I enjoyed competing in horse shows because I did not consider myself competitive at all. But that's not quite true.

I am competitive when people talk about their issues, and I think to myself: “You think those are issues? Those kinds of things don't even keep me up at night!”

The Washington Post Magazine's XX Files weekly column is easy to find – right next to the crossword so Dad has almost always creased own up work the puzzle – and I read it religiously, even though it has nothing to do with that awesome TV show its name plays off.

Actually the XX doesn't refer to an FBI case but chromosomes. I am actually not sure if I lose guy points for reading it, but I am confident in my manhood. And sometimes you read really strong stories, like one about a dog and a somewhat crazy man who while petting the usually scared dog told its owner: “Animals like me because they know why I'm sad."

But you also have to read ones like today's column in which a 28-year-old feels she is being left behind because her two siblings have gotten married and have one child each.

Oh please; 28 practically is a child! (The following may not be so much the good kind of bitter as pathetic rant – does it make it better that I know this -- and I am sure the 28-year-old is a wonderful person.)

Try being on the edge of your 38th birthday and the only single one among six siblings in a family where family life is of high importance. Try having no expectation of your marital status changing in one year or 10.

Try being one of two siblings (my brother who also has Friedreich's ataxia is the other) without children. The one brother who has kids has one daughter. Dad is an only child, so goodbye family name.

And I am not even directly playing the wheelchair card.

Give me raspberries or give me death!

I know that following the “ataxia diet” recommended by the Ataxia Center at UCLA will not cure Friedreich's ataxia. I am not sure whether it will kill me.

I kid, of course, but the diet cuts out cakes, muffins, donuts, pies, even unsweetened fruit juice, and brown sugar. What is oatmeal without brown sugar? White goo.

I am not even sure what “unsweetened fruit” is. Isn't fruit naturally sweet? I guess lemons and limes, but who eats them?

The thing here is that I can't walk. I have no girlfriend and that is low on the list of likelihoods. I fight depression regularly. I fall.

I don't want to take things that make like worth living like watermelon and peaches and mangoes and brown sugar. Raspberries!

Life sucks; it shouldn't taste bad, too.

That fall? I own it

I read a story the other day about how Michael Jackson patented one of his signature moves: leaning far forward without falling.

Granted, he actually patented “a shoe 'system'” to enable dancers, or anyone really, to perform the signature move, but I have plenty of signature moves; I should be churning out patents

There is the show-stopping fall when transferring to or from the wheelchair. Who would not want to perform that one? My shoe system would be simple: Wear roller skates but do not skate. Walk.

And who would not want to do spit-takes with regularity? For that system, I will need only pretzels, but as an added bonus I will toss in tips to make coughing while drinking a snap. Talk while taking a sip. Lean your head back. I will not rest till all my patent users are choking regularly.

My various bathroom escapades alone would keep a patent attorney busy for decades.