Thirteen

Thirteen.

Thirteen plus.

Thirteen plus, and a patch.

That's the magic number.  13.  More if I feel the need.

I am, of course,talking about the number of pills that I have to take each day to stay alive.....sort of.  I can probably safely drop one or ten if I want my blood pressure to go up, my blood to thicken, or my ability to NOT shoot some one is taken away.

I used to take one or two aspirin when I had a headache, which I never had at any frequency.  Since 31 October 2006 that all changed.  I started taking all sorts of meds because that is the protocol.  Have a heart attack and they immediately start treating you for what causes the most heart attacks.  High blood pressure, blocked arteries, and stress (translated as the great desire to shoot idiots and other incompetent souls who waste the oxygen they use up during the day). Some times, some times, none of those symptoms are present, but then, once you start, you're stuck.  Believe me.  Starting to take meds is a lot easier than it is to stop taking meds.

You start, at least I did, with the belief that if you don't take them, you will die a most horrible and painful death.  Those that have never had one cannot imagine how painful they actually are.  Those actors who grab their chest and rub it and then deliver their lines about how they think they are having a heart attack have never experienced that pain.  Not that they are bad actors but you just can't fake what you know nothing about.

And that brings me back to ALS.

Those who have never been unable to things; roll your tongue, stick your tongue out and lick your lips, push air/liquids/food/pills around in you mouth, hold your lips tight against a glass rim while you are drinking so you don't drool, getting choked while you're drinking because it goes down your throat before you are ready for it to.  These normal every day things.  Have no idea what I am going through.  Have no idea what it is like to NOT do these things.

And the struggle is silent and hidden.  To look at me, or others who are afflicted with ALS, you would see a pretty normal guy of 57 who might show outward signs of having a stuffed up nose, but, little else.  You wouldn't see the struggles he goes through every day just to eat, drink, or survive.  And not shoot some one.  That's an idiot.  Or incompetent.  Who does, so desperately, want it to be the way it was one, two, six, eight, years ago.  Who struggles to swallow pills every morning, every night, and one in the afternoon, just so he can stay alive for a little bit longer.

Thirteen.

Thirteen plus.

Thirteen plus and a patch.

That's the magic number.

Until next time.............

DISCLAIMER:  No I am really not wanting to shoot some one.  It is a feeble, very feeble admittedly, effort to insert some humor into an otherwise very emotional writing.  I think that I have made you, the reader, cry enough this week.  So please do not call the cops, men in little white coats who have a funny farm, or the guys in the black SUV's who are parked just down the block to come get me.  It's too late.  For me.  And them.