Paying attention isn't enough

When I was little, I loved funeral homes.

I went, it seems, to an inordinate number of funerals when little, but the deceased were old. And I don't mean old for a little kid but old for their time.

Funeral homes were a chance to hang out with my cousins when adults were preoccupied, play discreet games and explore uncharted lands.

I still have what I am sure is an apocryphal memory of stumbling down some stairs and into the embalming lab and seeing sets of eyeballs on a rotating shelf.

I was reminded of that memory yesterday when I saw the stairs in question. Unfortunately, there were no games last night. When I spied the stairs, I was in a receiving line for a USA TODAY editor who died of cancer.

First off, not a fan of receiving lines. What can you say to a woman who has lost her husband or a Mom and Dad who have lost their son?

"I'm sorry" hardly seems to cut it. It is never easy for me to go places -- I think that is apparent -- so perhaps people see me and it means a lot to them that I went. But that is just not enough.

"Attention must be paid," and I do, but I need to do more.

I should be able to fix things, but I can't. I can't help the wife, the parents, my teary friend.

I no longer care for funeral homes.

The unhated

I may have told Mom that I hate people. Recognizing that my hatred is limited to jerks, I will now mention a few people I don't hate:

• The friends I had dinner with Monday. One cut my entree up; one poured my water glass into my sippy cup, and one have me limited edition white fudge Oreo cookies.
• The woman at work who filled out my form for a flu shot, then led me to the front of the line. At least I didn't get booed this time.
• A friend I complained to today.
• My sister and her family for an amusing dinner-table conversation.

There are probably others, but let's not get carried away.

How long?

Probably it is the fault of the time change, but I am grieving.

I woke up early, thought of my so-called life (not the TV show, though Claire Danes is awesome) and started crying for my life that never was.

I have had the genetic failure of Friedreich's ataxia all my life. I have known consciously that there was something wrong with me for 25 years and probably longer subconsciously.

When a high-school senior is asked if he is disabled by an interviewer for Duke University simply because the senior does not play sports, even a self-confident senior might be shaken. If that senior is me, lord knows what damage it inflicted. Man, if that was now, what a lawsuit we'd have.

Anyway, this is not new.

Wouldn't I be better off accepting things and not mourning?

I need a dog.

A real horror

I wish I liked Halloween more.

I haven't been in a costume since seventh grade, I wore a swashbuckler outfit -- a blue shirt Mom got from a friend in Greece, a gold belt  and a machete with a carved handle. And I went alone, with Mom.

In retrospect, it was pretty horrifying. Everything. going alone, the costume, everything except the machete. That was awesome, but Gram gave it to one of my cousins.

Halloween is a chance to be someone you aren't, to hide your true self. But even if I buy an authentic Spider-Man costume, I'm still going to be the Spider-Man in a wheelchair. I can't hide that.

My ultimate Halloween costume would be someone, anyone who can walk. But, you know, I can't walk.

Am I a jinx?

My first physical therapy student was pretty good at first. He was from the area, so he rooted for the same hapless teams. He did the PT that was written down, adding one exercise he thought would be good.

But he became less reliable as time went on. He had very good reasons for canceling our sessions -- his mother getting fired, for instance -- but I saw him less and less.

One Wednesday, he canceled, saying he had to go to traffic court. And I never heard from him again. I don't know if he died, got tossed in the pokey, lost his license or just didn't want to come. He just stopped answering emails.

I traded up, though, with the next one. I liked her and she said she really liked working with me. But she quit earlier this week -- her dad has been in intensive care and she needs to be with him.

I am disappointed but totally understand. It is just I am a little worried I am like the guy in the Johnny Cash song Thirteen, who sings, "The list of lives I've broken reach from here to hell."