Wheeling Through the Hood

As you might expect, some of my craziest stories involve beer. Like that time I accidentally ordered a “jug” of beer for $1.25 in Vietnam (thinking, of course, that I was ordering a mug), foolishly finished it anyway (waste beer, never!), and was promptly propositioned by two women on a motor scooter, resulting in now-drunk me explaining to prostitutes just how unsafe it would be for three people to ride a single motor scooter. Or that time I was in South Africa at an all-black university, during Apartheid, drinking warm beer after sunset in a dorm room with a new friend who told me—as he was shaking my hand—that he was having a conversation with a white person for the first time in his life. Or that time I was in New Zealand, or Peru, or Austria… hell, just name a country. And now I can add to that list Orlando, Florida.

Long story short, Celgene invited me and a handful of other multiple sclerosis bloggers to Orlando for an MS summit on brain preservation, the focus of their new website The MS MindShift. (Full disclosure, Celgene paid for the conference and all travel, thoughts here are my own.) Interestingly, their new oral MS drug ozanimod, still awaiting FDA-approval, was never mentioned once. If you haven’t heard of it, you likely will, as results from a study were just released this week showing that patients treated with ozanimod did indeed lose less cortical grey matter volume than did those treated with another MS therapy (Avonex in this case). The conference was enlightening, but the beer adventure afterward became the story.

Dave and Nicole from My New Normals

Let me set the stage. After saying our good-byes to Nicole and Tommy Lemelle (My New Normals), Caroline Craven (The Girl With MS) and her partner Tim, Ashley Ringstaff and Patty Long, the remaining misfits—Cheryl Hile and husband Brian along with Jodi Johnson (Edible Monster)—hatched a plan to go out to dinner. But first, Brian wanted to get a beer. At a special, out-of-the-way brewpub. My kinda guy! After my previous worldly beer escapades, which my wife Laura has always stunningly supported, how could I say no? How much trouble could we possibly get into? We were in Orlando, home of Walt Disney World, Legoland Florida, and Gatorland for Christ sakes! How I overlooked Orlando’s “CSI: The Experience” is beyond me (cue the intro scream, YEEEEAAAAHH, that you just have to listen to one more time). That oversight turned out to be prophetic.

Let me be clear: Brian, troublemaker-in-chief, chose the brewery. Not me. (I know, shocker.) He said it was .4 miles from our hotel. Until I got a text later from Cheryl saying it was more like a mile, along with the advice that we could take a bus. But handicap accessibility and public transportation are notoriously unreliable. And Jodi was using Bumblebee, her properly named yellow scooter. Since I can roll a mile and needed the exercise, especially with the tantalizing reward of a beer, I figured why not set off on foot and wheels. I love exploring!

After we gingerly crossed the train tracks in downtown Orlando, the mood shifted. And then shortly after we went under the highway overpass, the mood shifted further. Laura’s Spidey sense started tingling. I was telling her that it was just dehydration and she needed a pint of porter. She protested.

“I think we are in the hood,” she said. I started to explain that dilapidated buildings, cars on blocks, and sketchy people aimlessly lingering does not qualify as “the hood,” when a stranger interrupted us.

“You guys lost?” We did appear to be a misplaced motley crew with one person in a yellow wheelchair, one on a yellow scooter, and one trying to keep her composure.

“Nope,” I proudly said. “We are going to meet friends at a brewpub!”

“Ohh-kay,” he said. “But you do realize you are in the middle of the hood. Right?”

Eye daggers more deadly than any weapon wielded on Game of Thrones were thrown my way. Even Arya with her dragonglass and Valyrian steel would have been no match for Laura’s optical stabbers.

“Don’t worry, I’ll walk with you,” said our new protector, who now reminded me of GOT's The Hound. “Sometimes getting around the Parramore is like playing a video game where you’ve got to shoot away the pimps, hoes, beggars and drug dealers—pew, pew, pew!” His fingers were firing in all directions. My God.

At this point we all cautiously and quickly got out our phones to see how far we still had to go. Far enough. But now turning around seemed folly, since we were no longer on the fringes, but smack dab in the middle of the hood. Thankfully I didn’t look up Parramore on Urban Dictionary until I was safely at home and under the covers of my own bed, where my phone glowed the ominous definition….

“Parramore: 1) the worst hood in Orlando, even worse than Pine Hills (“don't come into Parramore unless you wanna get glocked down”). 2) The most notorious neighborhood in Orlando, aka the 407 (“Parramore, the only place in O-Town with more stray cats and glocks than people”).

Since at the time I didn’t realize being Glock-less in the Parramore was unwise, I trusted in the one weapon we did have: two rolling gimps. If we tilted our heads just so, flailed our arms just so, and let loose a little drool, we might be able to convince the unawares that we were highly contagious, and in no way did any hoodlum want to catch this infectious action. No siree. Alternatively, I considered doling out my phone and wallet (minus beer money) to the first passerby just to get it over with.

Soon The Hound had to peel off, but he told us with deep care that we were getting close, and that we would probably make it. And then like a castle cutting through the mist, its drawbridge lowered, Broken Strings Brewery appeared. Appropriately, Brian and Cheryl were sitting beneath a huge middle finger (I was thinking we were all screwed), which became even more appropriate after we found out they had no had no porters or stouts or dark beers of any kind—Laura’s preference (now I was doubly screwed). 

But we were there. In one piece. With all of our material possessions. Enjoying beer. So you could say that it was a mighty fine way to end the day, learning how to preserve our brains in the morning and how to dodge pimps in the afternoon. Only now we had a new problem: it was the end of the day, the sun was setting, and we were in a bar. And still in the hood. Walking back was not an option and, with the possible exception of an Uber RV, no one ride could handle multiple rolling aids. The city bus beckoned. And it was coming!

With Bumblebee, Jodi points out who'll get mugged first.

And then it was going. Our MS rears could not get outside in time. So now we were outside waiting for another bus. Without beer. At dusk. In the hood. Presented with the gift of extra time to panic, I sized up the situation the way one might size up what to do when a bear charges a group of people. Who will get mauled first? Cheryl ran a marathon on all seven continents in a single year, the first MSer to ever do so and I am part of her fan club, which means she’s more than an order of magnitude faster than I am. And she has endurance. Her husband Brian (due to his love of beer, I am also in his fan club) needs to keep up with her, so he’s quick enough. Laura runs, fast, and is smart. Jodi’s scooter scoots along a steady brisk pace. And then there’s me, with my manual wheelchair, where a curb cut can slow my progress to a crawl. It was no contest. Heck, Omar (re: The Wire) could take me down with a mere sideways glance.

While I was in the middle of preparing my final remarks—something like, “save yourself, go on without me” so that it may spawn a meme—it dawned on me that people reading my obit might mistake my untimely demise in Parramore for a freak mosh-pit accident (so Dave-like, they’d say) at a Paramore concert. But then another bus rolled up and out flopped a ramp—it was fully accessible! It was a pleasant surprise to us and apparently an even bigger surprise to the passengers, as many had to move to accommodate a pair of disabled riders. I even overheard one exasperated passenger exclaim “There’s two of ’em?!”

Not this Paramore.

As we headed back to the relative safety of downtown, our epic adventure winding down, I got to thinking. The Parramore wasn’t such a bad place. Struggling, yes, but the people we met were nice. A new soccer stadium in the area hopefully will help turn around some of the negative perceptions of the community, which has only received bad press, from Even Breathing Is a Risk in One of Orlando’s Poorest Neighborhoods to a piece titled The Rise and Fall of an African American Inner City: The Case of Parramore, Orlando.

We struggle with our health issues. These residents struggle with life. But we all soldier on, trying not to feel sorry for ourselves, making the best of our relative situations. It’s all we can do, hoping and believing that one day our tide is going to turn. And if it maybe doesn’t? We try to drown out that nonsense. For we are a merry band of optimistic misfits. And we will soldier on. We will give our challenges the full Johnny Cash.

Our trusty brewpub finders Cheryl and Brian dinged the dinger on the bus. Our stop. Curious. The bus stop was directly under the highway overpass, dividing downtown and Parramore. We trundled off the bus en masse, and as it belched its way into the skyscrapers of Orlando, a wistful haze started settling over me now that our odyssey was moments from concluding. We turned to roll downtown. But wait! At the end of our sidewalk where there was a curb cut were orange barrels and safety tape. Closed. So we turned around and spied the other end exiting toward Parramore. More orange barrels and more tape. We were in the middle of a closed sidewalk with no escape. The adventure was going to continue! Perfect.

When a Friend with MS Dies

On March 7, after 30 years of living with multiple sclerosis, my friend Michael McDaniel passed away at the age of 55. News of anyone being taken with the disease many of us share, especially at such a young age, is disturbing, uncomfortable, frightening. Don’t let it be.

Life with a serious health issue, as is death, is unpredictable. But that’s also just life. Don’t forget that. I got a note the other day from a gentleman recently diagnosed with ALS. He joined the optimistic misfits at ActiveMSers because he doesn’t plan to bemoan his diagnosis and fold up the tent. No.

Instead of frittering away valuable time worrying about what might happen (or even what will likely happen), pause and reframe those thoughts. Pause and let today wash over you. Every day bathe in the now. Let the now cleanse the uncertainties of tomorrow.

No, it isn’t going to be easy. I’ve lost friends and family to car accidents, to cancer, to mental health issues, to drug overdoses, and to MS. No matter the age, no matter the cause, it’s never easy. Instead I choose to celebrate each day—the sunrises, the sunsets. I choose to live the biggest, richest, fullest life I can. In the face of daunting health challenges, I choose. I choose.

This is what I said at Mike’s celebration of life in Albuquerque last month. Writing and speaking these words helped heal a piece of me, and hopefully helped his friends and family better navigate this difficult time. Perhaps it will aid in your journey, too.

This is my final solid to Mike.

(For his celebration of life in Phoenix last weekend, which I was unable to attend, the family asked for a video of my eulogy, which I provided. If you prefer to watch rather than read, you can view it here: https://youtu.be/qLmohcOBQDM)

Mike McDaniel Eulogy

Good morning. I’m Dave Bexfield. To understand just how much Mike meant to me, I need to tell you a little about myself. When I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis 13 years ago, I also started a website called ActiveMSers. Today, it is one of the longest-running MS blogs on the internet with thousands and thousands of followers—I have countless MS friends all over the world. But I only had one best MS friend. And that was Mike McDaniel.

We met shortly after I was diagnosed at a dinner arranged by friends. At the time, I didn’t know many MSers and as a newly diagnosed patient, I was not-so-subtly playing the role of a deer. A deer staring into headlights, frozen.

But then there was Mike, telling me how he carried his daughter Madison on his shoulders. To prove that he could… and, apparently, to keep his wife Rachel on the cusp of cardiac arrest. Okay, I thought. That’s one hell of a streak of stubborn. I like this guy. As long as he didn’t live in a distant town, maybe we could be friends. Turns out he lived closer to me than I could have ever imagined—his house was only a few blocks from mine.

So began our 13-year friendship. And like any friendship, I’d occasionally drive him crazy, and he’d occasionally drive me crazy. But we learned from each other. Especially at the gym. I urged him to work out harder, faster, longer. He taught me, well, the opposite. As much as exercising was good for our health, socializing was healthy for our well-being. And when it came to the art of socializing, Mike had few peers.

Everyone at the gym, it seems, knew him. In the middle of my sets lifting, I’d hear echoes of “Mike!” and, sure enough, another in-depth conversation between Mike and gym-goer cum friend would ensue. His friendliness was infectious. I used to playfully interrupt them, urging the chatterboxes to get back to working out, but over time I realized that that those moments between sets were far more important than eking out an extra rep or two on the shoulder press.

One of my favorite Mike stories happened during an evening when my wife and I invited Mike and Rachel over for a unique dinner. It was going to be unique because the two gimpy guys were going to make a feast all by their lonesome. And by feast, I’m talking a five-ingredient black bean soup, a favorite recipe of mine because it is so easy and so fast—30 minutes tops.

So, an hour-and-a-half later, we were sitting down to a “gourmet” meal. We did it! I had taught Mike exactly how to make it, even initially letting him take charge of cutting the onion with a huge, very sharp chef’s knife. But after seeing his eyes grow into saucers and imagining Rachel’s disappointment with being married to a 9-fingered husband, I took on the knifing duties. We were so proud of our accomplishment, and I was thinking, Dang, Mike might even start cooking this simple soup for his family. Teach a man to fish, right? At the end of the meal he pulled me aside.

“Dave, I’ve got to tell you something.”

I almost stopped him right there. I knew how good it felt to accomplish a difficult task. He didn’t need to thank me. This was my gift to him for being such a great friend. I started reaching around to pat myself on the back when he finished his thought.

“Dave, I hate beans….”

As we both moved up the disability chart, and I moved out of the neighborhood, getting together became more challenging. We relied more on phone calls, but that just wasn’t the same. So we hatched a plan. We were going to go on an epic adventure. Two gimpy guys. No caregivers. A Thelma and Louise outing—without the driving off a cliff stuff or Brad Pitt. However there were a few problems.

Since neither of us could walk well, we were kind of stuck in the car. And because of MS and bathroom issues, we couldn’t be gone for more than a couple of hours in the event Mother Nature called. So the plan came together sort of by default. We were going out to lunch! At a fast-food restaurant with a drive-thru. And we were going to eat in the car…. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a movie-worthy adventure, but eating Popeye’s—at a local park, watching the ducks do things ducks do—was unforgettable.

The last time we talked, our conversation steered, as it often did, to our families. Mike was unbelievably smitten with Rachel, and unbelievably proud of Maddie. Maddie was driving now, which worried him. But he was most worried about Rachel. He knew her happiness was tied to his health… and he had no more answers in that department. He wanted to give her more time. She earned it. She deserved it. He loved her so much. But he knew what lie ahead.

We wrapped up with our standard goodbye… “So how are you doing, Bexfield?” “Fantastic, Mike. As always. And how are you doing, McDaniel?” His voice was weak from the MS, but right then it got stronger. Defiant. “I’m good, real good.”

Telling big, fat lies about our health always made us laugh through our grimaces. But, you should know it wasn’t really a lie. No. I’ll forever be fantastic. And know that Mike, wherever he is, will forever be good. Real good.

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.