There Is Nothing Anyone Can Do

I just poured a bowl of Alpha-bits for my breakfast. I went to put my spoon in the bowl and my hand shook sufficiently that I spilled half the bowl out while putting the spoon in. I've picked up the Alpha-bits. This kind of spillage is now a common occurrence in my life. Whether it's eating with a spoon, fork or even with chopsticks, dropping food as I eat it, thanks to shaking hands, is normal.

ALS is a tough disease. Even the anti-depressants can't take away that sad reality. It's hard to deal with the ever increasing weakness, the shaking, the exhaustion. It's a sad thing when the quality of my morning is measured on the quality and success of a bowel movement. It's distressing knowing that I will pee on myself at least once today for certain, and at some point will have wet underwear no matter what I do. They won't be really wet, just a drop or two. Just enough to remind me that I can't go pee the way I used to.

I have trouble chopping vegetables these days. Onions, peppers, garlic, carrots, potatoes; all of them present a challenge to me, not because I cannot cut through them, but because the repetitive action of cutting several of them tires me out. Mashing avocados for guacamole, mashing potatoes for dinner, kneading dough for baking; these things all force me to stop and take a break in the middle of the process. Katherine usually finishes them up for me.

These days even wheeling my wheelchair any great distance is difficult. Yesterday Katherine and I went shopping at the local Co-op. I wanted supplies for making lasagna this Sunday. I wheeled myself around the store while Katherine managed the shopping cart. By the time I got home, my body was so beat that I transferred to the couch and didn't move until bedtime. Katherine ate at the table while I ate dinner on the couch.

Like I said, ALS is a tough disease. It gets you a bit at a time, until one day you realize it has you completely. And there is nothing anyone can do about it.