Thank You, David

There is no end to the thanks I need to give to David for helping me so much on this trip, for working so hard to make it happen, to keep it happening. As I sit here, typing away, he is loading the truck with my commode chair, all our luggage, various additional bags, and all kinds of small stuff. This is just routine for him. Let me tell you some of the more challenging things he has done to help me on this trip. Let me leave out some of the most challenging, embarrassing ones for me.

First of all, there is dressing and undressing. After watching several of my performances in dealing robing and disrobing, David finally gave up and said "I know you can do this, but this is silly. I am going to help." He is unafraid to pull off jeans, and even underwear if necessary, in order to make our mornings go quicker and easier. He is unafraid to haul up jeans and pulls on shirts that get stuck to me when I pull them on. He simply grabs stuff and does it, without complaint.

Then there is the whole step and fetch it routine. Here I am sitting at the table typing. David walks by me without a word, pours a cup of coffee, puts milk in it, walks over and puts it down beside me. Yes, I can get my coffee. I didn't because I wanted to type. He did, because he is a good person. Other things like that happen often. I need a towel; he gets a towel. I need a push to get into the bathroom; he pushes. I forgot my pills; he grabs them from my suitcase and puts them beside me. And the list goes on, and on, and on.

Of course there is the driving. He drives a bit more than half the time. But the driving is the least of it. When we stop, he asks if I want to get out. Getting me in and out of the truck is a non-trivial task, especially now that we have broken the wiring for the wheelchair winch. He has to manually lift the wheelchair in and out whenever I want out. Yet he constantly encourages me, telling me it is not problem. When we are on the road, he is undismayed by my announcements that I need to pee into the jug, or that I "just blew a catheter", or that I want to stop to get something to eat. He takes it all in stride.

Then there is the biggie, the transfers. The transfers into and out of the truck require that he "boost" me up and guide me down from the lift chair to the wheelchair. The transfer from one side of the truck requires that he push me across the transfer board and pull to help me sit up again. The transfers on and off of beds, with me in various stages of dress, mean he has to pull, push, lift and sometimes even drag me fully onto the bed.

He is doing a ton of work. I am sure he will tell you that very little of it is particularly difficult for him. I disagree. The constancy of it all must wear on him. He rarely says anything about it, except that "it's fine". Yet I know for a certainty that this trip would not have happened without all his help.

Thank you, David