absence of pain with ms

Some of the latest dolls and clothes:

So, here’s the deal.  A few days ago I decided to make monkey bread, you know, cut up some biscuits, toss in melted butter, roll in cinnamon sugar, load in pan and bake.  So simple to do.  Such a mess to clean up when it goes wrong!  Didn’t have a problem putting it all together and getting it in the oven to bake.  Getting it out of the oven was when it all hit the fan.  At least I wished it had hit a fan rather than hitting my hand, my jeans, my socks, and even worse, the floor!

I am mostly to blame for it all, taking it out of the oven with one hand and then trying to balance it all with the other.  I knew it was going as soon as the pan cleared the oven.  Reached out with my uncovered left hand and felt a fast sear of pain as the pan tipped, covering the left hand with melted butter, cinnamon sugar, and pieces of biscuit before hitting the floor.  Two seconds of searing pain and then nothing.  I knew though to get the hand under cold water asap, and I held it there for a long time, not even noticing my jeans were covered with the same mess until later. As soon as all the gunk was off the hand I cut a spike off my aloe vera plant and squeezed the juice on the burned area, topped it with sterile gauze and held it on with an ace bandage that I kept in the freezer for things like this.  Ya see, it’s not the first time I have burned the same hand, usually forgetting I should grab a potholder before grabbing a pot that is coming off the burner.  Not that I’m getting old or anything, just using my head to hold my hat on instead of using the brain.  

Funny thing about having MS.  It causes the myelin around the brain cells to die, keeping the nerve receptors from letting the brain know it should be sending out signals that protect people from injuring themselves and being unaware that it is serious.  Thus a few seconds of pain that is so reduced in intensity that I have to take care of it immediately before I forget something is injured.  On the one hand, I don’t hurt physically as much as others with normal brains.  On the other hand I have several injuries that I don’t even know about because I don’t feel them.  This can lead to infection of the wound, and when it gets serious I DO feel pain.  Still not as intense as it used to be before the myelin was gone, but I could live in a bubble and still manage to get hurt.  It has kept me from getting tetanus shots when I probably needed them, but it has also allowed me to continue what I’m doing until forced to stop by the fatigue, another of the fun things about MS.

Fatigue!  My worst enemy!  The source of years of being labeled by family and friends, all of whom have labeled me lazy, no good, not much of a woman:  Hurtful things when only I knew there was nothing left inside to work with.  I knew better but had never heard of MS at that time.  No one in this area had heard of MS.  There was only one time I heard about it — when  Annette Funicello  told her story of the battle she fought with it.  I was in my 50’s before I knew I had it.  An “orphan” disease, incurable, still nothing at that time to fight it.  It’s still an orphan disease with no cure, but now there are some medications that can help control the symptoms.  I’m allergic to them all.  Lucky, huh?  The fatigue was finally explained, as were the debilitating headaches that sent me to bed for weeks at a time, as well as the clumsiness and the falling on my face so often.  And still, 67 years after the symptoms began, there are still the labels attached to me.  And there are still people who think I’m lazy.  My mom never believed the diagnosis to her dying day and some family members doubt the problem exists.  I stopped driving a car when my vision became so bad that I almost caused a wreck because I didn’t see the oncoming car as I pulled out in front of it.

Yeah, vision!   Blindness, in my case it comes and goes.  I’ve been totally blind for as long as three days, while some folks have been blinded for life.  Some days I have perfect vision in both eyes, most days I have been able to see well with one eye only if I shut the other one.  

There are thousands of people in the world living with this disease.  And yet it is still an orphan disease, mainly ignored by the public.  We have two awareness months every year — MARCH AND OCTOBER!!!  But MS is ignored both of those months, overshadowed by breast cancer, a disease that strikes so many, including my sister, but has protocols to fight it into submission and remission.  MS, never mentioned in ads during those months, seldom the recipient of donations to find a cure, is ignored.  MS actually is more prevalent than breast cancer in some areas, yet is still ignored.  I guess we live longer so it doesn’t matter to many that our lives are ripped apart because of it.  Few people even know about it.   If it comes down to it, there are people living miserable lives not knowing they even have the disease.  My symptoms began when I was eleven years old.  I was diagnosed when in my 50’s.  

No two people have the exact symptoms, so it’s not easy to diagnose. I think I would be correct in saying that a lot of us are labeled “hypochondriac:” because MS symptoms are diverse, imitating other diseases, seldom even considered by doctors inundated by true hypochondriacs who take up their time and wear out their patience when there are so many who really need their help.

Okay, no more whining. It’s a sunny day and I’m going to grab my power chair, winter coat and a blanket for my legs and get outside for some fresh air, or as much as can be breathed in by the facemask. With no immune system of my own and a working sinus infection going on I sure don’t need to be around people who might have something I really don’t want to share with them. We have a lot of them in this building!

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Christmas a few years later

A little while ago I was listening to some music being streamed by Amazon Music when I heard a song that took me back to the early days of guitars in church.  At least in Catholic churches.  My sister learned to play a guitar first, teaching herself.  I had always wanted to learn so then she taught me.  And she signed us up to play Sunday Mass at a local church.  It was a small one, almost a mission church, and with MEG at the front I was happy to try it.

I think it was about 1971, Meg and I were going to make the Midnight Mass something special that year.  We enlisted some of the kids in the congregation and even a few adults to help out in the new group we had formed.  For weeks we practiced for that Mass.  We were all psyched up for something great.

In the meantime our sister from out of state came home for Christmas, bringing a guest with her.  A very unwelcome guest as it turned out.  Naturally we all went in to mom’s house to welcome her home and hear all the latest news from her part of the country, as well as to have our favorite food.  Mom had been cooking for a while getting everything ready for Christmas dinner, but we were allowed to sample the brown and serve rolls, homemade, of course from an old recipe still in the family today.  The caramels were brought out, as well as pecan pie and the cake of the day, orange slice cake I think.  We spent several hours catching up as all the family who lived away came home one by one, or family by family.

All was well for a couple of days.  With Meg doing the high sounds and playing lead guitar I didn’t have a worry in the world.  Christmas Eve finally arrived and I took a nap so I would be wide awake for Midnight Mass.   I also went over some of the songs to be sure I would remember the tunes.  It’s amazing how easy it is to forget the music to Silent Night when you are nervous.  I didn’t worry much though because Meg would be there.  She has the talent.  She has the skill.  She can make a guitar speak.  Nothing to worry about.

Oh yeah?  The hammer fell late in the afternoon when Meg called.  Her voice barely above a whisper, tears in her words, she broke the news.  Smc’s guest had reared it’s ugly face.  Everyone at Mom’s house had the flu!  Including and especially Meg!  I had to be the lead at Midnight Mass.

The big problem for me is that I can’t hit the high notes in Christmas carols, and they all have high notes. Some go from the basement to the sky in the same work. I’m an alto or at best second soprano. And I had to lead the singing? But Meg reminded me that a few of the kids in the new group had great voices that could hit those notes, so all I had to do was get them assembled and started. HA!

Time arrived and most of the kids sat back down when I told them Meg wouldn’t be there and it was up to us. So there I was, all alone behind the microphone, guitar shaking in my hands, popping lozenges to keep my mouth moist each time it dried out. Father gave the signal, he was ready to begin. In a quavering voice I began the opening procession, “O Come, O Come Emanuel “. Father sang along, and as fear took over my voice became higher and higher and all of a sudden I was hitting those notes Even the highest ones were hit spot on. My group began to form around me and it happened! Our very own Christmas miracle. I had never before done that, and I never have again but that night the angels were helping out and we formed a heavenly choir.

When Mass was over there were so many people gathered around to congratulate us, and the statement I heard most was “I didn’t know you could sing like that!” I could only tell them it was news to me also, but it’s amazing what fear can do for the human voice.

So, I never heard animals talk, but that night I heard angels singing right there in that little mission church. Joy To The World! And Alleluia.

Oh, the song that made me remember that night is “Lord, Teach Us to Pray” by Joe Wise. He’s on UTube, but I wasn’t able to put it on here. Just not that good at doing things on the computer.

Back to highway 81T

Once again in my memory I am back at that white stucco house just down the road from my grandparents and it is Christmas Eve. The baking and candy making is finished, we have prayed the rosary while trying to remain awake until it is over, and most of us are in bed. And the memories begin.

A week or so before Christmas dad would load us all in the old ’39 Ford and we would go out to the backroads in search of the perfect tree. It was always a cedar and that is the smell I most associate with Christmas. The cedars grew wild around the creek and dad knew every back road in the county. We would stop several times to check out the stands of cedars we passed, usually finding something wrong with them all in the beginning. After a while we were feeling the effects of an overpacked car and weren’t so critical. Mom always had the last word on them but we all piled out to stretch and give opinions. Dad would cut the winner down and tie it on top of the old car and we piled in again. we each had our own place with T. up front between Mom and Dad, I would be lying in the recessed area where the back window met the trunk, and the rest were elbowing each other for more space in the back seat.

Back at home the tree was taken down and carried into the enclosed back porch to be put in the tree stand we had used from the beginning of time, a large pan would be filled with water and the tree placed carefully into that pan to drink it’s fill. Mother would already have the ornaments and tinsel out *{we called them icicles}. Dad would then check the lights to see which ones needed replacing before stringing them on the tree. It was always the same, the lights first, then the ornaments placed carefully on appropriate branches, then always be moved to different areas by Mother who had strict rules about trimming a tree. Small ornaments on the flimsy top and heavier ones at the bottom. Then each icicle was separated from the rest and carefully put in their places until the tree was just about perfect. Cedars, not being very large here drooped if too much heavy stuff was at the top and since we all had our favorites.= in place. The icicles, used each year until they were too old to care about, had been taken off the year before, one at a time of course, and carefully draped across a piece of cardboard mother had salvaged and it was a simple matter to place them on the tree separately. It paid off in the rippling effect on our windows.

The lights always looked enormous to me with a glow radiating out of each one until they ran together in their beauty. For me they ran together a little bit more each year. I don’t know how old I was when my vision began blurring but it seemed so natural that none of us ever really noticed it. One of my teacher finally realized something was wrong when she would write test questions out on the blackboard and we would copy the questions and then answer them on our paper. She told Mother that I was getting the answers right, but I was not getting the questions she wrote on the board correct. I did get credit for the answers, but I also got an appointment with the optometrist. He told Mother he was surprised I hadn’t been hit by a bus because I couldn’t see the tip of my nose clearly. So just before Christmas when I was in 8th grade I got my first pair of glasses. It made a huge difference, but the lights on the tree just weren’t as pretty. So, to this day I remove my glasses when I am looking at the lights and marvel at how beautiful they are, all those radiant globes with the rays running together.

But I digress. After the tree was trimmed we had eggnog and cookies before being sent to bed. Of course as we got older our bedtimes were later and sometimes we even helped Santa place the gifts under the tree. None of them were wrapped in those days, but each child had a mound of items of our own. And we always got an orange, an apple and a banana, things that weren’t on our menu very often.

As we got older we would go to Midnight Mass, something I always loved to do. I sang in the choir and usually one or more of my brothers would be the servers. Mass in those days was in Latin, and I think we all learned the English translation of the comforting old prayers. Home from Mass we were each treated to a small glass of wine. Mogan David wine to be exact. It was a long time before I discovered that there were much better wines in this world, but not being much of a wine drinker I didn’t get the same thrill from sampling new and different vintages the rest of the grown family enjoyed. To me Champaign tastes like stale beer..

Morning came early when the younger children woke us all (okay, so for a few years I was one of them), and we would then gather in the living room to see what Santa left for us.

Dinner would be in the oven, usually a fat hen from our henhouse, and Mother’s dressing, made from biscuits we baked for breakfast that morning. She knew just how to season it and it is still one of my favorite things. I learned how to make dumplings a few years later and would always make a huge bowl of them, huge in spite of the fact that all of the boys were vying for first in line as official taste testers. Mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, peas, cranberry sauce, fruit salad and the brown and serve rolls Mom made only for special occasions rounded out the meal with jam cake for dessert in the beginning, then the applesauce cake I had found a recipe for, and finally the orange slice cake mother got a recipe from someone for.\

And now that I have done the menu I’m beginning to want something to eat! So, even though it’s late at night I’m about to raid the fridge and then hit the sack! And here in my part of Kentucky, it is 11:30 p.m. so in half an hour it will officially be Christmas in Owensboro and surrounding areas.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Christmas on Highway 81

In the past few days of this strange year we are living in I’ve been thinking back to better days. The days we grew up, the days of Highway 81 and the many Christmas seasons we enjoyed.

There was never much money in those days but I don’t think any of us noticed. My mother was a thrifty woman and my dad was a hard working man so Christmas was always exciting, with the house smelling so warm and wonderful from the normal holiday baking and candy making. In October we would all go out to the old walnut tree at the back of our five acres and gather the fallen walnuts. That tree was our climbing and dreaming tree in summer months, perfect for getting away from noisy siblings and dreaming or reading books about places we had never seen and probably never would. But in October, after the first frost it dropped the walnuts that would be in our Christmas baking. Huge black walnuts that a lot of people have never tried. I will always love the taste but they were too strong for Steve, especially after he grew up and went out into the world of gourmets and other cultures.

But at that time we seldom had pecans, they aren’t as plentiful in this area as the black walnut. Each one wrapped in a bright green outer shell that had to be eliminated to get to the hard shell inside, we loaded them in grass sacks and toted them up to the driveway where they were dumped out in the traffic area . Driving the cars over them would release them from that outer shell without staining our hands brown. Lovely shade of brown but it was kinda permanent so we really did try to avoid it, at least most of the time. We were, after all, kids and those walnuts made great “balls” to lob at each other until mother came out and made us leave them behind.

Usually by mid November the outer shells were off the nuts and ground into the driveway and the nuts had dried out enough to begin bringing them inside and cracking them. We all took turns with the hammer and bricks used for opening the nuts, and this time we all ended up with walnut stained hands, but then came the good part — using the nut picker to extract those delicious pieces of walnut meat. Mother tried to watch us so we wouldn’t eat every piece we picked out but with six of us all busy at the same time we all had our moments to pop it in our mouth rather than add it to the bowl that slowly filled up while arms and hands cramped from the constant repetition.

After that they were stored in the freezer so they could be taken out all winter for baking. I guess most of us lost one of our baby teeth trying to bite into a frozen walnut. In mid December the candy making and cookie baking began in earnest. Our favorite candy, and still to this day my favorite, was the caramel candy from a recipe mother got from a neighbor and made only at Christmas. It calls for real cream and real butter — no substitution at all on these, and cooked until a bit dropped in cold water was just the right consistency. Too soft and it had to be eaten with a spoon, not that any of us minded that at all, too hard and you needed a hammer and chisel to cut it apart. That still made a good piece of candy that just took longer to eat, from a grownup point of view that’s not a bad thing either.. It lasted longer that way. Mom seldom had a bad batch though, much to our disappointment. Each batch made about five pounds of candy, poured into 15 X 12 inch baking sheets to cool. She always cut them, using the pecans she bought just for the caramels on top of each candy! And then came the cutting, also done by mom in our younger days and pulling off just the right amount of waxed paper to wrap each individual and presumably on her part placed in containers to be wrapped as gifts to the Sisters who taught us. The sisters all looked forward to having one of us in their class because those caramels were the one gift they deeply appreciated.

A couple of days ago I received a package from my daughter in the mail. I knew by the weight that I would really love this one, and when I opened the package and took out the cannister of caramels I knew I was right. Still made the old way except for the milking of the cow and churning the butter, they are rich and creamy, not to mention fattening! Back on Hwy. 81 I never had to worry about calories but time changes everything. Now each bite adds fifty pounds. So my caramels are residing in the freezer so they will last longer and my grandson is now learning the fine art of caramel making! The fourth generation to use this eighty year old recipe and turn out the best candy ever.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll tell you about the divinity!

JSG, USAF, ret

He had my heart from the first time

That first day, He had my heart

Just a child myself, but I was his big sister.

Didn’t know what that meant, only that he had my heart.

Years went by , goals were made and kept or tossed by the wayside,

And through them all, he had my heart.

My road kept me here, the little brown wren singing her song alone

While his road took him far and wide to places I could only dream of

But with him he carried my heart.

Yesterday my heart stopped briefly when his heart ceased to beat.

He flies with angels now, and still he has my heart.

RIP00

Good Morning my Anonoumous Friend

And how are you this Sunday morning? All is as usual here, rain, gloomy skies, damp seeping into even my hair roots!

I think I’ve mentioned the wind tunnel effect we have here all the time, even when the wind isn’t blowing anywhere else. It frequently blows the door open with a crash and has blown one tiny woman down, only laughable after the fact since she could have been injured under some circumstances. As it was she took a couple of stumbling steps before losing her footing completely and ending up on the ground.

A few days ago the wind did a number on one of our doors, blowing it open with so much force it broke off and the glass shattered into what looks like a million tiny pieces. That door is now shut off from use, kinda taped to some upended tables that are heavy enough to get the attention of people who normally ignore signs. I’ve wondered many times how a door like that stay in one piece and now have the answer — they don’t!

We have a lot of glass in the ground floor of the building. Personally I keep the shades closed when it’s blowing because I’ve always been worried about the glass blowing out when the 60 – 70 mph wind hits the building with a sound that can only be described as like howling wolves. So far none have been blown out since the tornado in January of 2000, but it sounds like a tornado at times when I’m sitting here in the dark. Those are the times when I hunker down and try to fall asleep under as many quilts as I can pile on myself. I suppose I should go into the bathroom where there are no windows as the weather service usually suggests during bad storm weather conditions but since I can’t exactly pick my recliner up and take that in with me I prefer the comfort of the moment to the safety of the “might happen”. My way of living on the edge lately.

Thursday will be Thanksgiving Day, and this year it will be so different from all other ones in our lifetimes. Under normal conditions I would make the traditional dinner with turkey and all the trimmings, but this year I’ll heat up a TV dinner and eat in front of the TV. After all, these dinners were invented back in the ’50’s for that very purpose. No one enjoyed leaving Jack Benny or George Burns and Gracie Allen to sit at the dinner table and have a conversation that always drowned out the sound of the dialog in the living room. My grandmother introduced them to me early in the game. I usually would run across the pasture to her house after we had lunch at home and spend the afternoon with her. She had a TV several years before we got ours, and I would help her with the lunch dishes and we would then go into the living room and watch the original soap operas, with the soap commercials that gave them that title.

I’ve enjoyed this little visit, but the time is near to tune in to my brother’s Mass. Later, my friend. I’ll see you later!

Letter To A Friend

Hello my Anon Friend,

Thanks for the suggestion to do it this way. And I found my classic form again, thanks to you. The original of this will go out as a regular email because I’m not smart enough to copy it here. Too much space between the cut and paste areas maybe, and maybe I just need some practice.

I got caught up in some home grown drama a couple of days ago, but it could have been much worse. I had to go down to the office to pick up a package so went to the elevators that open into the lobby. I knew one of them was out of order and had been for a few weeks, but was hoping for te other one to come before the day was over. It arrived about half an hour after I hit the call button but there was someone on there with a large grocery cart and my power chair was too big to fit in the space she was leaving. She also informed me she wsa getting off on the second floor, so I told her to go ahead and I would take the next one. My good nature paid off this time because after a few seconds I could hear the distress alarm ringing from that elevator and knew she was stuck on it. But I also knew it meant we only had one elevator left — the freight one.

I left the now stuck main elevators and went back to the freight one. With the social distancing mandate only four people are supposed to be on that one and I made number 4. Fate stepped in at that moment and we went up instead of down, the doors opened and two more people got on. Down a few floors and stopped, this time one more got on, next stop two more. I know how sardines feel now stuck in those little cans. Finally made it to the ground floor and found the area full of people who really didn’t want to part so we could get off. Finally enough had the sense to realize we would be there the rest of the day if they didn’t move away from the door and people began exiting the elevator. I was in the back of the place and after the overcrowding let up a bit was able to turn around and leave, the last one off and the last one to use it that day. When I got off the floor of the elevator rose about 4 to 6 inches, making it impossible for anyone to get on again. One building with seventeen floors of people living here and all elevators out of commission at the same time! Shades of renovation when they shut them all down!

It normally takes about ten minutes to pick up a package and retrieve my mail so there was no need to bring any money, coat, shoes or my Kindle so I could continue reading the book I had begun earlier. No need for water or snacks. No need for a sweater because I wouldn’t be there long enough to notice. New lesson learned — never leave home without water, a couple of cherry colas, some chocolate bars and chips in the bag on the back of my chair! And now I take the Kindle, a coat and some sweaters with me as well. If I could fit in a hot plate and small refrigerator they would go with me as well. It could be a profitable venture, since we were stuck there past dinner time,

After what seemed like a month the repair people had one that they could make work to begin getting us home. I was within hearing distance and when I heard that I got to the door in seconds and was second on the one going up! I would have kissed the floor of my apartment if I had thought I would be able to get back up, but it would have required the aid of the Fire Department and the Marine Corps to get me back up, so I just began piling on blankets to help me thaw out from the frigid main floor and fell asleep in my lift chair.

Now when I go down I’m wearing mu heavy coat, fur lined boots and flannel lined jeans, and have drinks, snacks and my Kindle in the bag on te back of my chair! My mama didn’t raise no dummies!

You take care now and have a good weekend.

Angela

1

Time: a matter of mind over?

I don’t know if anyone else is noticing how fast time is passing lately. One would think that being self quarantined because of people around me not observing precautions for getting rid of this CV-19 pandemic that time would be standing still, never moving, stagnant. I could probably think of more descriptions but it would involve using a brain that has long been dead. My mouth just hasn’t caught on yet and it keeps yacking away even while I’m alone. I talk to everything around me and grab at the phone each time it rings hoping there will be a real person on the other end. Not much luck so far with each call marked “potential spam” by the little person who lives inside the phone and decides which calls I should answer and which ones to ignore.

But back to the subject, I wake up each morning determined to phone family and friends to see of they are surviving but since it is always too early to wake them I make the decision to wait a couple of hours because I want them to still like me after the phone is answered. Get started doing something (quilting). making doll clothes, crocheting, reading a d/or binge watching movies, and what seems like an hour later I look at the clock and realize the day is gone, midnight has arrived and waking someone to tell them I was thinking about them is no way to keep a friend. I did that to my mom once several years ago, fell asleep in a room with dark curtains, looked at my watch when my “nap” was over and saw that it was two o’clock. Unfortunately, with the darkening shades I couldn’t see outside and thought it was two p.m. I only realized my mistake when she answered the phone with “do you know what time it is?” My nap had lasted about twelve hours longer than I thought.

So now, sitting here not getting as bored as I did when I was younger the day goes by so fast that I am far behind on my Christmas gift list. since I try to make as many gifts as possible I just assumed that there would be a lot of time on my hands and even though keeping busy I haven’t stuck to as many projects as I should. I did have some histrionics early this morning to break up the monotony. Took a blanket and another load of clothes down to the laundry room at 3:00 a.m. (best time to get a machine without having to wait) (8 machines in a building of about 200 people just doesn’t do the job when we are limited to three people in the room at a time). Okay, got the blanket out of the dryer and folded it while the second load was drying (only 7 dryers and some of them out of order) and when I went over to take the second load out I noticed a very big, HUGE roach climbing up my pant leg. Fortunately no one was around to witness my reaction as the roach noticed how displeased I was and jumped to the floor and disappeared on the run while I was spraying it with fabric softener and feeling creepy crawlies all over my body. didn’t even fold the second load of clothes, just threw them in the hamper and turned my power chair to “outdoor fast” mode and sped out of there for home. As soon as I entered my apartment I grabbed a spray bottle of something and began soaking everything on the chair and everything in the hamper before heading for the shower to scald anything and everything that might have hitched a ride home on me. About an hour later I tried to sleep but still felt creepy crawlies invading my personal space and headed back to the shower for a second run. At times like that I almost hate to get out just in case something dropped off and was lying in wait outside the door to jump on me again. After the second one though I didn’t feel any of the beasts so decided it was all now in my mind and took a short nap

Now that I’m thinking about naps, it’s dark outside and I’m beginning to feel the lack of sleep last night. Now if I can manipulate this new WP format forced on me I’ll see if this will publish or join 15 other drafts that haven’t done anything when I try to post them. I wonder if I can get a photo on this one? Hmmm, we shall see. If you get to see this one you will see if the photo came thru and if you don’t get to see it you’ll never know I tried, just as you won’t know about the other ones.

Maybe I’m getting smarter, not sure, but I just found my photos. Most of them taken by me, include the quilt I’m working on at present, my little Max a year before he passed away, my bitmoji image, one of the few trees left down at the river, some of the dolls wearing clothes I’ve made for them, and a slogan I found on Pinterest that seems to describe me well. How ’bout that? Now to see if it will publish.

The Sorry Saga Of A Small Remote

I first posted this story a couple of years ago when my remote was MIA. Since this seems to be an ongoing problem for me, now trying to keep up with 4 remotes to operate one TV, I thought it only appropriate to post it again on a day when I’ve been searching fruitlessly for two of them. If I only knew where the on/off button on the TV was located I could shut it off manually, but I think that particular button is located somewhere on the bottom of the set. Not easy for a klutzy person to find when I would have to pull the TV out and upend it to find the button to begin with. So, while I search a while longer for the remotes, enjoy this little tale again, or for the first time if you haven’t read it before.

A small TV remote lived all his life in the pocket of Mama’s lift chair.  One day Mama got a new futon chair, and that night she put little remote on the table next to futon while she slept on that new chair bed.  The next morning as she woke, she accidentally knocked poor little remote off into a trash container that was too close to the table and then added some trash to the container before tying the bag up and tossing it carelessly down the garbage chute.  Poor little remote!  He was sure Mean Old Mama had done this on purpose!  Such cruel old Mama, tossing him away like that!  Well, he would show her.  He climbed out of the bag, inch by painstaking inch.  Huff, puff, rest for a long, long time.  Try again–puff, puff, closer, closer, almost there, puff, puff, huff, puff — daylight!  Success!

Oh!  Not quite yet.  Out of the dumpster, but not back at home yet.  Not even inside the building!  And white stuff coming out of that wide area  above him!  Everything is sooooo cold!  How could Mean Old Mama do this to him?  Wait,  a human!  Follow it thru that opening —- hurry it’s about to close.  Whew!  Good thing I don’t have a tail.  It would have been clipped off!  Oh no,  another opening but closing fast!  Ah!  made it.  Aiee–around a corner?  another opening and that one is closing too.  Nothing stays open!  Two things closing this time – they almost snapped at me.  Yikes, it’s moving!  Stopped!  I’m outta here.  I saw that guy at Mean Old Mama’s once so I’ll just hike down this way and see if I can find my home.  Maybe I can sneak back to my home and hide.

She didn’t even see me sneak under her feet.  Just kinda did a trippy dance like she does before she falls.  She’s never gonna find me way down in here now.  Oh, this is so funny.  She used a light to look in here for me and I was just all hunched down and so quiet she didn’t see.  What’s that funny sound?  Furniture is moving.  My chair is moving.  Mama’s moving it herself!  She’s not supposed to do that.  I heard the doctor tell her not to do that.  And she’s praying to so many saints to help her find me.  What have I done?  She’s gonna look in here again next.  Oh no.  More furniture moving but across the room.  Every place but here.  She just sat down so maybe—.  Sigh, no.  More praying, TV turned off and sad music playing, Mama singing sad songs.  What have I done?  I’ll try to get up from down here.  Oh, she put a book on top of me.

I’ve been here so long.  I can hear Mama still praying but she is so depressed she almost cries.  So many bad things are happening.  Oh, another voice, Mama laughing, dancing, good, I’ll start trying to get up again.  Ohhhh, there’s Mama’s hand—I can see it–coming closer, closer, fingers touch***SHE FOUND ME!  Mama has me again and she’s laughing and crying and saying prayers of thanksgiving and calling people to tell them and I can see the sunshine and she is  programming her DVD with me and now we are watching a movie and she has me in her lap like she will never put me down and now I live on the computer table where she can see me and, whew, we both need a breath!  

And so, my peeps, goes the tale of how my missing TV remote found it’s way back where it belonged.  Now that’s my story and I’m sticking to it!

Having Fun With MS and other sob sories