Well, things have been popping right along this week. We had the whole family up to work on household related projects last weekend, which was quite a boon. Carpet was torn out, repairs were made, and plans were laid to modify the shower in the master bathroom to make it handicap accessible. Then on Monday, did a lot of work on the home computer, updating programs, installing security patches, and reclaiming drive space. I also scheduled a visit to my doctor's office to get a flu shot, which I received on Tuesday. Cole was home sick on Monday and Tuesday, and Linda was home sick on Tuesday and Wednesday, so I've been trying to stay out of the way of any airborne contagions.

This weekend, I'm going to Dallas to record some music with one or maybe more of my old band members. I am feeling some trepidation about the visit, because only one of my former band mates has seen me since I got sick. I could be more sensitive than usual to reactions of people, especially old friends, who are experiencing the "shock" of dealing with my illness for the first time. That notwithstanding, the impact that my diminshed communication abilities, in particular, has on a person is usually eminently apparent on their face. I also readily percieve an intense predilection on their part for me to establish how we're going to deal with my handicap. Do we politely ignore it? Do we go to any length to avoid mentioning it? They're looking to me to set the standard for how to navigate around this giant obstacle. And, to be honest, I'm still figuring out how to do this. Most of my close friends know that it's in my nature to find humor in anything (and my disease is no exception), so I've made the occasional joke about myself or my predicament. These usually go over like lead balloons. I have a couple of friends that are with that program, but even some family members get uncomfortable when I crack wise about my condition. I sure don't want to ignore it, or pretend that it is not a big part of my "user interface". I want to find ways to effectively deal with it, thereby minimizing the impact it has on the rest of who I am. Of course, part of of who I am is the sicko who finds the occasional comedic nugget embedded in the otherwise dreary landscape of living with ALS. So, if you're one of the ones who wishes I'd lay of the jokes, steel yourself for more of the same. And if you're curious about how I want to accommodate my limitations, think of it in a context that wouldn't admit any embarrassment for any of the people involved, like talking to someone through a closed car window. Don't abandon all hope of communication and give up (please!). Don't pretend that you can hear the person just fine when you can't. Ask the person to repeat, as needed, but you do your share, too, and listen closely. If things are just not working, tell the person inside the car you're not understanding. If the person in the car is resourceful and committed to the conversation, they'll work with you until they find a way to communicate through the barrier. It may not be as clear or as efficient as it would be if the window were rolled down, but for those of us who got stuck with defective window controllers, it'll have to do.