Misadventures in MS

You would have been sooo proud of me. See, this past fall, I was out using my off-road wheelchair exploring the trails near my house. Dirt trails. Clogged with leaves. And tree roots. And precipitous drop-offs on either side. Technically not quite cliffs or chasms—only four or five feet at most—but for someone using a wheelchair it was basically SKIRTING DEATH. And I was doing it with aplomb, with little assist from Laura. Until we reached a crossroads. OF DEATH.

To the right, a gorge (aka, small ditch). To the left, a steep ravine (aka, small sloped drop-off). And across the path lay an impassable impediment (aka, large tree root). To advance, the only choice was to skirt the tree root OF DEATH to the left, placing my wheelchair dangerously off-camber on the lip of the ravine OF DEATH to avoid the gorge OF DEATH on the right. Given my history, we know how this would ordinarily play out. But I was a changed man.

I was newly older (50) and presumably newly wiser (jesus, I made it to 50). Plus, I was flush with new-found knowledge that some followers of ActiveMSers subscribe to the WWDD (What Would Dave Do) mantra. I certainly did not want to encourage my virtual friends to do anything moronic that could result in an unplanned ER visit. So I did the unthinkable. I turned to Laura to tell her that it was time to turn around. That maybe we should exercise caution. Me.

“Oh hells yeah, we totally got this” was all I was able to make out from Laura as my wheelchair lurched forward like it was a football sled being propelled by the front four of the ’85 Chicago Bears… being chased by bees. Before I could fully express my uncertainty about this rash, Dave-like decision, we were already at Mach 2 and fully committed. What could possibly go wrong?

Now I’m always one to explore possibilities. I’m just a curious dude. But the bottom of a ravine OF DEATH is not an area that ranks highly on areas I’d like to explore. And yet, as I was looking up admiring the trees—as I was sliding down into the ravine OF DEATH on my back—it dawned on me that I shouldn’t prejudge. Once I took stock of my new surroundings, I was relieved to discover how wrong I was. It was just a regular ravine, as I was still alive. And apparently, unbelievably, uninjured. No bones sticking out, gashes in flesh, internal injuries that would require a helicopter evacuation and immediate surgery. Nothing. Just that I was now at the bottom of a ravine. On my back.

I was relieved. Oh wait, bad choice of words. Because panicking when one has multiple sclerosis can conjure up the need to relieve oneself. So naturally I now had to pee. And poop. And I was at the bottom of a ravine. On my back.

Thankfully, by the grace of all that is holy, a jogger came by at that moment. We were saved! He looked down at the woman tending to her disabled husband and his tipped over wheelchair, paused briefly, then realized either a) he was dropping out of the cardio zone or b) the frozen pizza he was cooking in the oven back at home was going to burn and light the house on fire. He jogged on. Meanwhile, I was still at the bottom of a ravine. Still on my back. And frustratingly out of my cardio zone.

Then Barbara, a neighbor, happened to stroll up, or stroll down as the case may be.

“Looks like you could use some help.” She was keenly observant. The wheelchair was quickly righted. With Barbara pushing, Laura pulling, and me cranking, we crested the ravine on the first try. It was almost too easy. Even my bathroom issues had dissipated.

“Again!” I hollered. The women were not amused. Is there a lesson in all of this, other than watching your purported caregiver—who predicts 99.9% of your moves correctly—like a hawk? I mean, other than to avoid ravines, both ravines OF DEATH or pedestrian ravines. Absolutely.

When you are managing a challenging disease or disability, there are undoubtedly going to be times when you are going to end up at a bottom of a ravine. On your back. Spoiler alert: that’s going to suck. (And you might have to pee.) But instead of bemoaning your fate, take a moment between curses to enjoy the unplanned view. And take stock of all the good in your life. Then dust yourself off and make your way out of that ravine—however slowly. You can do this. You can so do this.

Handicap Parking—A Trusty Guide so You Don’t Look Like a Freaking Idiot

When it comes to handicapped parking, I’ve pretty much seen it all with my multiple sclerosis. And just when I think it couldn’t possibly get any more outrageous, it does. Like the other day when Laura and I were stopping for lunch and someone had parked illegally in the blue striped area between two handicap spaces, leaving little room for my wheelchair. (Parking in the blue striped area is strictly forbidden, even if one has a handicap placard or plate, which—for the record—this person did not.) The offender spotted us navigating this cluster and once we got inside, hustled out to move her car. Good, I thought. Until we came out after our meal and saw that she had just moved her car down a couple spots and was now illegally straddling two handicapped spaces! I cannot make this shift up.

Who can and can’t (or shouldn’t) park in handicapped spaces is a debate disabled—and abled—people love to have. And both parties think they know what they are talking about. Many do. But many don’t. Which is why I’ve prepared this trusty handicap parking guide so you and your friends and family don’t look like friggin’ morons.

No, you can’t tell if that person is a scofflaw or really disabled, so stop the fuck trying. This has to lead the list. Many disabilities are invisible, and even if someone bounds out of the car like a famished cop at a Krispy Kreme (oh, just kidding officer!), they could still have a debilitating condition. Please don’t give them the stink eye. For example, with MS, you may walk fine at first before struggling to take steps at the end of a shopping trip. Or when a cool morning turns to a hot afternoon—sapping the strength of MSers like Kryptonite sabotages Superman—a too-close parking space when you arrive at work might feel miles away when it is time to go home. Think about this: Consider how important it would be to be close to the front door on a cloudless sunny day if you have a severe sensitivity to sunlight. Or if you are a vampire. Or if you have discovered the lost Ark of the Covenant and decided, like a moron, to look inside, and now your face is melting off and you need shelter. (Wait, that probably wouldn't qualify for a placard. And besides, you likely are a Nazi.) 

Nope, not bingo. This is illegal.

No, van accessible handicap spaces are not the same. Van-specific spaces are bigger and have striped areas on one or both sides of the space to accommodate a ramp for side-loading of wheelchairs or scooters. Intrude on those areas, and that spot becomes rather useless. (Shocker, that includes no motorcycles, which their owners park on those blue striped areas with more regularity than one would expect. And no shopping carts. Don’t leave them there!) If you don’t need the extra space and there are other handicapped spaces nearby, consider using one of those instead. It’s good karma.

No, you can’t assume that because a handicap placard or license plate is not visible, that the car is parked illegally. Yes, disabled people can forget to hang the placard (done that). And the placard can fall off the rear view mirror onto the floorboard while you are enjoying a quick beer—with your spouse as the driver—and then get a very expensive ticket (done that). Remember the assume rule. It makes an ass out of u and me. Actually, in this case, probably just you. I can be an ass about many things, but not when it comes to parking.

No, you can’t park there “for just a sec” to run in and grab something unless you have a placard. Why? Because when you take that space, that disabled person with a placard—you know, the one who is in the car right behind you, the one you didn’t notice—will assume you are parking legally. And drive on, circling block after block searching for another accessible space that may or may not exist, and potentially miss his romantic dinner reservation. This happened to me once. Once.

No, you can’t park there to pick up a friend because you are behind the wheel… and the car is idling… and you could immediately move if asked. Because there is not a chance in hell I am going to yell out my car window to ask you if you are really handicapped and, if not, to please kindly move. See invisible disabilities, above.

No, you can’t park there temporarily to unload your stuffed ferret collection that you are generously donating to charity. It’s parking reserved for the disabled. It is not a loading/unloading zone. And what in God's name are you doing collecting stuffed ferrets? And then trying to pawn them off on a charity? Don’t get me started on my stuffed ferret rant.

Also illegal. And still not bingo.
Can you believe this shift?

No, you can’t park over the lines for a little extra room because the space is so huuuge. Being able to park legally in a handicapped space does not mean you can also be an asshole. When you nudge over into a neighboring space, whether it is handicapped or not, the people in the vehicle next to you lose room. And they might need it for a wheelchair or to manage a pair of forearm crutches or to drive up in a mobility scooter. Or to unload their cherished stuffed ferret collection. Be considerate to all!

No, you can’t use your mom’s placard to run to the store to pick up her medication. Sorry. If your mom is not with you, you can’t use her placard. Period. It doesn’t matter if you are doing her this massive favor, even though you live with her in a spare bedroom (you pay rent!), and are 37. And a stubborn case of eczema does not qualify as a disability warranting the use of a handicap placard. And you definitely can’t use it if she is dead. That’s just fraud.

No, you can’t drive with the handicap placard hanging on your rear view mirror. It blocks your vision. Oh, and it’s illegal. And makes you look like an idiot. Don’t be an idiot.

No, you can’t borrow a handicap placard because you sprained an ankle. Such a bummer, I know. Especially since you look disabled! Get a temporary permit, which is often given out for those dealing with cancer treatments, leg or back injuries, or some pregnancies (particularly those that require bed rest). And that also means if you have a placard, you can’t lend it out to your buddy who busted his toe unsuccessfully attempting a keg stand.

No, you also can’t use someone else’s placard so you can get free parking. Cars with valid handicap placards in many cities (but not all) get to park for free with unlimited or fewer time restrictions. Score! (In San Francisco, published reports have found one could save as much as $14,000 a year!) But if you are not disabled, you are just a common thief. Next time you are in a Starbucks, why not just dump the whole “take-a-penny-leave-a-penny” jar into your pocket? The change might be a nice bonus after you rob that little girl’s lemonade stand.

No, it is not illegal to park in a handicapped space if your partner is going to run into the store while you and your gimp self are waiting in the car. But it’s a dick move. Park in a regular spot and wait there unless you plan to get out.

No, don’t call 911 to report a potential offender. Call the non-emergency number for your local police department or 311 (if that service is available) and report the abuse along with the license plate. But since so many disabilities are invisible, you best be darn tootin’ sure, like seeing an expired permit or not seeing one at all. It was recently reported that one cop just sits in a Costco parking lot and hands out tickets (50 a day!), but he must wait for each and every shopper to check for identification.

These are just a few guidelines to follow when it comes to handicap parking. And be forewarned: follow them. Because one state has fines as steep as $10,000 and 18 months in prison for anyone convicted of making false statements or providing misinformation to obtain a placard. Which one? You don’t want to find out the hard way. Happy parking!

Wheelchairs are not (that) Scary

For a couple years, my wheelchair was terrifying. Not to me, mind you, I’ve always been, like, whatevs. I’ve got MS and I deal with it. But to my niece Lindsey, who is approaching four, my wheels were a cross between Alien, Pennywise (the clown from It), and that horror movie doll Chucky. A trifecta of terror that could only be made worse with Nickelback songs playing on a perpetual loop. And then Lindsey had an epiphany, as much as a three-and-a-half-year-old can have epiphanies.

For her entire walking life, Lindsey demonstrated her running prowess and her hide-behind-mom’s-legs-and-moan skills whenever I appeared rolling anywhere near her. My arrival would cause that little girl to scatter like a freshly unearthed roach, which at first allowed for some peace and quiet. I was the Roomba, she was the dog—we had a mutual understanding to stay the hell away from each other. At least a generous arm’s length. And then inexplicably she dipped a toe in.

We met up with her family in Chicago this past spring and at first she eyed me warily, suspiciously. But when Lindsey got tired at the Shedd Aquarium, she deduced that riding on Uncle Davey’s lap might—might—be okay as long as Mom was nearby. Nearby as in holding her hand, ready to rescue her from this Mad Max fellow in a yellow wheelchair. A few times the fish distracted her so much (“THOSE ARE NOT PIRANHAS BECAUSE YOU CAN’T SEE THEIR TEETH!”) that she even dropped Mom’s hand for a minute or two. But it wasn’t until July that the thaw started to happen, when I was a thousand miles away…

She started laughing. With me. Not over the phone or on FaceTime, but on YouTube. My video “Laughing with Multiple Sclerosis” started trending in Wisconsin because she was watching it over and over. And over. With Mom vetting other videos for cursing (she knows her brother), Lindsey got to see her uncle in a totally different light, and she loved it.

So when Kathryn arrived for my 50^th birthday party a month later with Lindsey in eager tow, I was unexpectedly Mr. Popular. Our roles were suddenly, shockingly, reversed. I couldn’t escape her clutches as she latched onto me like refrigerator magnets on a mission. I also discovered it is beyond challenging to enjoy a beer when you have a squirmy child with all four limbs suctioned onto you all octopus like.

The highlight? On her last day we played bus at our local children’s museum using oversized foam blocks. Lindsey tasked herself as the bus driver (notice the seatbelt, safety first!) and I was, natch, the bus. We could not have had more fun, so much so that she was crestfallen when it was time to go home. I even got smothered with hugs and kisses, completely unthinkable just weeks earlier.

I can’t wait until we get to roll again together. Maybe next time I’ll play Thomas the Train! Or Lightning McQueen! I won’t miss too much the relative peacefulness and quiet of playing the bogeyman, no. But if I’m smart I’ll enjoy a quick beer before she spots me.

Traveler Confessions of an MSer

I’ve been all over the world with multiple sclerosis—to every continent sans Antarctica, to dozens of countries, to thousands of towns and cities. I always wax poetic about my adventurous travels. And yet as a seasoned MS globetrotter, oh so much seasoning, I have a confession. Before every trip, I am nervous as all get out.

One would think after trekking through the Himalayas, scooching on my butt around Machu Picchu, camping in the Sahara, and heli-hiking over New Zealand glaciers, I would be over pre-trip jitters. But no. As the clock ticks down to my departing flight, my stomach is in knots as my brain, despite my best intentions, goes through every SINGLE thing that could possibly go wrong.

Of course that often begins with complications in the bathroom department, then jumps to all sorts of potential calamities and surefire pitfalls that will turn a cheery vacation into a trip of doom. DOOOOM. The all caps (in a bellowing deep voice) is joined by dark clouds, clapping thunder, and a skull-and-crossbones warning beacon shining in the night sky like the Bat-Signal over Gotham.

Here’s the thing. In the 13 years that I’ve had this disease, most of which have required mobility aids including a wheelchair, I’ve somehow managed to survive more than a collective year of intrepid exploration of our grand planet. Hundreds of foreign beds, unfamiliar and inaccessible cities, and countless virtual deathtraps masquerading as bathrooms, and I’m still here, and I’m still having an awesome time.

Now, that’s not to say I haven’t had issues traveling. Oh, I’ve had issues, as Laura would seriously kink her neck nodding in agreement—picture a shelf of bobbleheads going full bore. Traveling with someone who has MS isn’t necessarily a “vacation”. For instance, a wheelchair-accessible water taxi in Venice has to be arranged in advance, isn't cheap (opt for the water buses instead, which are all accessible), and there's that risk of falling into the canal while transferring, getting the chin strap on your dorky hat caught on the propeller, and then drowning while fish finish off your half-eaten gelato. What a waste of good gelato! But the experiences more than make up for the challenges. The memories of fun far outstrip the bumps (but boy do those bumps make for knee-slapping good stories). And every time I get home, I look back and wonder why I was so worried. Pshaw, I think.

There are always hiccups when you leave the relative safety of your home. But even that’s relative. More accidents happen at home than anywhere else, so look at it that way and it makes perfect sense to get out of Dodge. For our next trip, we were almost off to Dubai, Oman, Jordan, and Egypt, but accessibility, 100-degree days, and, well, common sense, dictated the decision to book a more pedestrian cruise to Spain, Portugal, and the surrounds.

I’ll admit the nerves are just starting to percolate, even though I’m months away from our European vacation. Before I embark on any expedition, questions of travel fitness seep into my subconscious, and always will because of this darn disease. And I’ll bet that your brain probably does the same thing. Doubts will abound when you leave your usual habitat, that’s normal. That’s also life—and travel—with a disability.

But I’ll be okay. Just like you’ll be okay. (Quick tip, maybe avoid doing really stupid stuff like running with the bulls.) Keep getting out there, even it's a short road trip on a shoestring budget. If I can do it, I’m confident you can, too. And if you need any extra inspiration, please check out the craziness on ActiveMSers' Instagram (https://www.instagram.com/activemsers/). Happy exploring!

Begrudgingly Sharing My Kitchen

Oof, this one stings a bit. Before I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in 2006, I was the chef of the house. I made all the breakfasts, all the lunches, all the dinners. Laura was the baker, the dessert maker. And we were great at our roles. Evenings were feasts and I relished every opportunity to play in my kitchen (emphasis on MY kitchen) and experiment with every type of cuisine this planet has to offer. And I got good at it. Real good. Like chefy good.

As a learning cook in my twenties, though, I had my colossal failures. So colossal, they are lore in our household, defined simply as “incidents”—the blender incident, the cayenne pepper incident, the other blender incident, you get the picture. How was I supposed to know that using a knife to unjam a blender—while it was still running—was a bad, bad idea? Or that measuring spices over a pot of soup could go very, very wrong if the lid on your spice jar plunked off into the soup and the full jar of its fiery contents followed suit? And that leaving a blender unattended on the edge of a counter—spinning wildly with a red fruit smoothie mixture inside—was another bad, bad idea? Other than using logic, there was NO way to know this.

But I learned, and my mistakes grew further and further apart. Dinner parties were routine, and I even insisted on no potlucks. I wanted to cook. All of it. And then MS came along.

Soon after my diagnosis, Laura started making breakfast on a few weekends. I could, but she wanted to help, so I let her. But for the most part I still made all the breakfasts, all the lunches, all the dinners. I didn’t grill as much, but summertime grilling and MS don’t mix that well, sorta like high heat and half and half (uh, don’t do that).

And then a few years ago she took over making breakfast every weekend. I was okay with that. After all, she makes a mean Dutch Baby pancake (with sausage or crispy bacon on the side, crisped just how I like it). And then she was making her own breakfast some mornings. And then she was packing her own lunches for work some days. And then she was helping me in the kitchen some evenings. Suddenly, but not so suddenly, Laura had become my sous-chef de cuisine.

Today? I can’t really cook without her. Her mise-en-place assistance is invaluable, as gathering things to cook given my mobility issues includes the risk of ushering in another ice age due to my glacial speeds. When my hands are too tired (say, after an afternoon ride on my arm bike), she actually handles a knife properly, a massive pet peeve of mine. And now she even cooks fish better than I ever did. I’ll admit, I’m jealous. But proud as hell.

Sure, because of MS my duties have changed in the kitchen, our kitchen, but I’m still a chef. I’ll always be a chef, just like I’ll always be a snowboarder, a hiker, an explorer. Our shared disease often requires inconvenient—and unwanted—changes, and it is how we cope with these new realities that shapes the future richness in our lives. We can desperately cling to what we had as the rope burns through our hands. Or we can evolve and grow and lead fuller lives than we ever thought possible with MS. I choose the latter.

Now it is my job to teach her about a job she never wanted … teach her to be the chef de cuisine. Educate her on the importance of fond when making a pan sauce. Instruct her on the nuances of how to properly bloom garlic, the secret to cooking steak to a perfect medium rare, and why using razor-sharp knives is essential. And nod with understanding when she has the same, ahem, incidents I had decades ago—the wooden-spoon-left-on-a-hot-pan-too-long incident, the paper-too-close-to-the-hot-burner incident. Well, maybe not the same incidents. She knows by now to watch out for that damn blender.

Shocker! Caregivers Are People, Too

Poor Laura. I pride myself on being a bit stubborn with my feisty multiple sclerosis. Often it works. I’ve explored Machu Picchu, scooching down steps on my butt while Demi Moore looked on. I’ve hiked across rickety, bouncy wooden bridges risking life and limb, and survived. I’ve kayaked when I had no business kayaking, driven when I had no business driving, and cycled when I had no business cycling. And then there was last Friday night.

We know how this story ends. Not well.

So Laura and I were at a concert at a local winery, listening to a master sarod player accompanied by traditional Indian tabla drums and the melodic drone of the tanpura. (Yes, I had to Google all of those things, too.) The venue was intimate, cozy, and… not terribly handicap accessible. After navigating grass, crowds, and wine barrels, I tucked into a spot near the stage out of the way of the “abled” and parked my wheelchair to enjoy the performance, while my wife and mom found seats several rows back.

So far, so good. The music was trance-like, and took me back to my travels with Laura 25 years ago to our hazy hot week in Madras. And then there was intermission. Intermission, may I remind you, is when our brains double check our bladders. And my bladder, after the required wine at a winery, was now wide awake as if it had had several shots of espresso.

Fortunately, I was informed that the bathroom not only had a ramp, but also was fully accessible with multiple grab bars. As my 3-year-old niece is wont to loudly exclaim with each and every trip to the facilities, I CAN GO POTTY ALL BY MYSELF! There was just one important, sorta key fact that was left out: to access the accessible ramp to the accessible bathroom, there was this rather problematic 3-inch threshold to get there. Three inches, maybe even just 2.5. How hard could three inches be to navigate solo in a wheelchair, especially if you drop down backward, very, very carefully?

I discovered, hard. As, in excruciatingly slow motion, my wheelchair became a recliner, perfect to view the winery’s exquisitely wood-carved porch ceiling and the nose hairs of panicked patrons now sporting saucer eyes.

MS is everywhere in our lives. Even random Bentleys remind us.

“THAT’S my HUSBAND,” said my rescuer, Laura, as she and other concert-goers rushed to prop me back up. She had been in the line for the bathroom, and was shortly headed back inside to check on me and my needs (oh, so many needs), as she always does.

I have one primary job as an MS spouse: do not get hurt. Thankfully I didn’t! No bumped head, no concussion, no stitches—just a bruised ego. But I did violate rule #2: do not freak out your spouse. I should have asked for help from my care partner. It was an easy ask. But when you have a disability, you want to be as independent as you can be, and that urge can cloud judgement like a Seattle winter.

I upset Laura, which I try NEVER to do. But boy was she was angry, maybe not at me directly, but at this disease, and what it does to our lives, and how it reshapes virtually every little thing. And I can’t blame her. Especially if I had to deal with me.

Caregivers are allowed to get angry. They are allowed to hate the universe, at least temporarily. And they are allowed to roll their eyes when their spouse tries to assuage their feelings by dramatically playing Peter Gabriel’s In Your Eyes ala John Cusack in Say Anything. Yes, I resorted to desperation measures to cheer her up. I looked as despondent as Lloyd did in the movie, only holding up a cell phone instead of a boombox because, well, it isn’t the '80s. And, surprise, it worked about as well as it did for him.

The next morning all was forgiven (mostly). Because when you are coping with a challenge like MS, letting something like this linger doesn’t make it any easier. But for a few hours, a cathartic release is sometimes just what the doctor ordered, and even the best caregivers don’t need a prescription to go there. And it serves as a perfect reminder that caregivers most definitely are people, too. Always treat them that way. Because if you don't, holding a boombox over your head can sure get tiring.

When Adapting Fails, Epically

Oh, Dave. Dave, Dave, Dave. That’s sort of what the voice in my head was saying, along with maybe a few curse words, when I was trying to pee … in public, in broad daylight, in front of dozens of people. Let me explain.

Multiple sclerosis forces those with the disease to adapt as it progresses, to bob and weave around new disabilities, learning new tricks. Recently I had come up with a brilliant one to overcome a common and vexing problem. How to pee on long bike rides when a bathroom wasn’t an option.

In the past, I did what guys do on long rides: find a tree. But as my legs have gotten weaker in the dozen years I’ve had this disease, I’ve had to make changes. Avoid morning rides when my bladder tends to be most feisty, limit cycling excursions to a couple hours, and wear adult protection for emergencies (just in case). This worked okay-ish. But that MS potty pressure—and if you have this disease you almost certainly know what I am talking about—wasn’t going to go away and trying to jump off my trike when the urgency flag was flying had been getting harder, especially with an overheated body due to heavy exercise. What to do?

What my grandpa did when he needed a bathroom break flying B-17s in WWII: pee in a tube. Brilliant! Why hadn’t I thought of that earlier? A quick shopping spree on Amazon got me totally set up: condom catheter and tubing. (Yes, I realize this is a guy solution, but the SHEWEE does exist for women, although for obvious reasons I have not tested this.)

I know what you are thinking. What could go wrong? Other than EVERYTHING. But you would be wrong. It was stealthy, comfortable, and totally stress reducing. Indeed, my maiden voyage was going so well that at one point on the trail I thought I was in a dreamy fairy tale. Running into Rapunzel—yes that Rapunzel, the one with the long hair—will do that to you. Surreal doesn’t begin to describe the experience. (And yes, I did not miss the opportunity to make a lame joke about how long it took to wash her tresses.)

But minutes after our brief encounter, things turned, ahem, hairy. I had to go. Worse, my urgency situation had become rather, er, tangled. I had tucked the tubing deep into my shorts and extracting it meant some rather noticeable (and panicked) hunting in the groin area. Worse, I had just pulled into the MOST public section of the trail. On arguably the NICEST Sunday of the year. Lordy. Bikers, joggers, walkers, dog walkers, picnickers, kids, grandkids, great grandkids, people wandering aimlessly in my immediate vicinity for no discernable reason whatsoever, the works.

Deep breath, Dave. The now-unkinked tube is rather hidden, Dave. No one is looking, Dave, especially with you looking totally nonchalant drinking out of your water bottle, which would explain any puddling. Dave, just channel the theme song from another fairy tale, Frozen. Let it go, let it go, can’t hold it back anymore, let it go. Sing with me now, Dave, you know the lyrics.

Okay, it was a good idea in theory. Stage fright, performance anxiety, tinkle trepidation, call it what it you want. “It looks like you spilled a tiny bit of your Caprisun after you tried to jam in the straw and it broke.” Laura was unimpressed with my efforts and was tired of waiting for the crowds to dissipate given that it was midafternoon and hours from nightfall, so my maiden voyage ended with only limited success.

I’ll try again. I’ll keep adapting. When you have a disease like multiple sclerosis, you have to keep adapting, coming up with new solutions when old ones no longer work. That’s life with a disease. But if you see me pulled off on the side of the bike trail sipping water and looking forlornly into the distance as if I was trying to remember the words to an Idina Menzel song, maaaybe don’t stop to say hi.