Jane Russell's Men Preferred a Brunette

Pin-up girl and Bombshell, Jane Russell dead at 89. She made many soldiers happy. What a dame!

The Oscar Night Was a Dose of Ambien

Kirk Douglas STOLE the Academy Awards show last night. While the producers decided to choose younger, hip, hosts (who were boring as watching a road kill possum), the older fellow was a real show of inspirational strength (he appears to be doing great after his last stroke) and he showed he can still ACT, his comedic timing (something host, Franco is devoid of) was pitch perfect. I hope the producers "get a clue."

Yawns until the documentary, "Inside Job" won and the director's acceptance speech started with, " ...pointing out that 3 years after a financial crisis caused by massive fraud, not a single financial executive has gone to jail."

A sweet gay, married couple kiss after a win was a first. The first of many, I hope. However, it was very white in the auditorium, just looked strange. Well, I guess we must be happy that some win and some lose.

The best song and score will not be remembered in a year, in fact, I can't remember them now. Luckily, and sadly so, songs and scores from years past were played by a wonderful orchestra.

If you stayed awake to the end, then you got a treat as a kid's choir rocked the house with Somewhere Over the Rainbow. But, interesting moments, most of the wins long ago figured out by almost everyone, were few and too far between.

Mom Turns 83. Alzheimer's is Full of Surprises.

Today is my mom's birthday. She is 83. I never would have DREAMED she could live to 83.

Her mother died in her early 50s from cancer. Her sister was in 70's with cancer when she died.
Her oldest brother did live into his late 90s; but he was a farmer, hunter, and very active.

My mother took a walk around the block...once in awhile. She ate greasy, fatty foods and pastries every day. Breakfast always had bacon and she smoked for over 40 years. She was diagnosed with Diabetes in her late 60s.

Mom had no friends and no social life. Her husband and only love of her life left her high and dry after 10 years of marriage at age 29.

Now Mom is in a nursing home for Alzheimer's. I called her yesterday.

"Hello?"
"MOTHER! It's your daughter, Diane." (She is in Indiana. I am living with progressive MS in Seattle.)
She laughs, that familiar laugh I love to hear. She sounds happy.
"I KNOW," she says a bit insulted, "The nurse told me. I was surprised."
"I called to wish you a happy birthday. You will be 83 on Sunday."
"That's old." (We laugh.)
"Did you get the candy I sent?"
"Candy? No."
"WEll, you will and a surprise is coming soon." (Dozen roses to match her name.)
"What is it?"
"I can't tell you! Then it wouldn't be a surprise!" (We laugh.)
"Well thanks for calling," (that is her cue to me to hang up) "what is coming tomorrow?"
I laugh. "Oh, you are sneaky. It is a surprise I'll call again tomorrow."
"Ok, I sure am surprised."
"What?" (That's right, she started off with that...)
"That I have a daughter." (Ouch.)
"I get that a lot. I love you, Mom." (We never say "I love you." She finds it distasteful.)
"Okay. Bye."
"Bye."
CLICK

Sailng to Byzantium in the Moment of Singularity

In "Sailing to Byzantium," W.B Yeats writes of human beings as a soul fastened to a dying animal. When will we consider unfastening it and inserting our soul house (the brain's weight of experience) into a robot that will house us forever?

Ray Kurzweil is a futurist from M.I.T., holds 39 patents , has 19 honorary doctorates, holds the National Medal of Technology, and Bill Gates (a genius in his own right) calls him, "the best person I know at predicting the future of artificial intelligence." Kurzweil has published, 'The Singularity is Near."

Singularity: "The moment when technological change becomes so rapid and profound, it represents a rupture in the fabric of human history." By 2023 a computer will surpass the brain power of humans. By 2045 computers will surpass the brain power of all human brains COMBINED.

Human history may no longer be as simple as, one damn thing after another, such is life, you are born, live and die. I can feel the speed of a different track all around me. Just a few years ago DVDs were IT, now they will be obsolete soon. Many new technologies are being tossed to the wayside faster than Lady Gaga at a Baptist Revival. I certainly can't keep pace. I still own pens and lined paper--but why?

While I suppose the world needs a futurist, all the cells in my brain say they are more complex than any circuits can ever become. Am I to believe that humanity rests on metals and numbers? Or is there a componet of life no exponential growth of technology can touch?

The Disease is NOT "Just in Your Mind." CFS is Real

Following in the footsteps of Gulf War Syndrome, Post Traumatic Stress, Fibromyalgia, and yes, even multiple sclerosis, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome has finally been proven to be REAL.

That's right, it is not "all in your head," nor, "everybody gets tired." The tests are in.

Maybe one day doctors will realise NOBODY WANTS TO BE SICK.

And having a doctor brush you off is cruel and ignorant on their part. Just because they went to medical school, not knowing WHY someone is unwell does NOT mean they are well.

MS and Teeth Fillings, Why Can't We Make Teeth Stronger?

Some years ago, one of the many never ending ideas as to the cause of MS was mercury tooth fillings. People with MS went wild over the idea and pushed for their fillings to be removed, replaced with resin. Dentists gathered their ultra-power political power and counter with many experts saying "just not true." Many people with MS still had their fillings redone.

When it was time for me to have a cavity filled, I asked for non-mercury. My dentist just laughed at the notion, saying, "All my children have silver fillings! Do you think I would do that if it was dangerous?!" Well, Doc, your children don't have MS, I wanted to say.

The thing is I didn't believe the MS connection since my MS had begin years before, already had DX, and I was already using a manual wheelchair. So I acquiesced.

Two years ago a new dentist I was checking out told me I needed to replace my silver filling, adding, "They leak."

"Leak?" I says, "Leak mercury?"

"Oh, yes," she says, "no dentists uses that anymore.

Well shut my mouth.

So...this year I plan to have my mercury leaking filling removed. The FDA did an about face on those nasty fillings in 2008, but only addressed children and pregnant women. I do not recall every getting a special letter from any MS Society that warned me about this or told me to replace any fillings. Must have missed me.

Now surely, I will walk again after the mercury (and I have had several tests for toxic metals in my system over the years--no mercury or any other metal problem) is removed. (I hear you, "Don't call me Shirley." sorry)

What I want to know is why, in the year 2011, teeth can't be fortified in some way to prevent cavities. It couldn't be because dentists would go out of business? Our teeth are so important to a healthy and long life and repairing them is painful and mostly barbaric. WHY can't teeth be made to last 100 years when they are attempting to make everything else on us last that long?

$$$$$$$

Donating Brain for MS? Football Players Fight Encephalopathy

A former NFL football player, Dave Duerson committed suicide last Thursday at age 50.

He believed he had CTE, Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy, caused by repeated concussions, such as football can claim fame for. He saw many players who applied for disability due the condition. He started seeing the symptoms in himself.

Duerson shot himself in the heart and donated his brain to be studied for the future health of football players.

Would you do that? Would you donate your brain for MS research?

My body is going to the local university, unless I get a better offer.

Permanent Scars from MS Drugs

That lump under my arm pit was large and hard...oh, swell, uterine tumor, multiple sclerosis, ovarian cancer, now THIS? Off to the DR. I went, he was clueless, suggested mammogram first.

It turned out to be a Copazone injection site lump. After a month it went away. All the lumps Copaxone caused went away, but the indentions have remained. 15 years later, they remain. My upper arm looks like that of a 100 year olds, all deep wrinkly look to it. No amount of weight lifting changes it.

Like a scar, MS medicine has scarred me for life. If it had cured me, no problem. I wear my ovarian cancer scar with pride, but these indentions will always remind me of a yet to be unproven mistake.

Oh well. Wasn't my first, won't be my last.

Christianity Explained

Doctors are Only Here to Amuse Us.

One of my neighbors at the assisted living home I reside in went to the doctor.

He goes to the VA Medical Center and his Dr. told him this: "We are only here to amuse you. Your body heals itself."

My neighbor was not too happy.

Can you imagine an oncologist saying that? Has a breast cancer survivor ever wished they had been told the chemo treatments were there just to amuse? I'm guessing Big Pharma is no friend of this doctor.

While our bodies can do remarkable healing on their own, sometimes we need some help.

In my dreams, a doctor I pay hundreds of dollars to will say that to me one day. I shall retort, "Well, you did your job well, because your years in medical school turned out nothing more than a clown."

Miley Cyrus Takes Lindsay Lohan's Place? SALVIA

It was many years before I knew that Hanna Montana and Miley Cyrus were the same person and yes, you are right, I don't have kids. But apparently the goody-two shoes Hanna Montana is now grown-up daughter of Country Western singer Billy Ray Cyrus, and she has been captured on video using a bong. (Oh, I found out what a bong was about 10 years ago---don't judge.)

The bong, according to CBS News, was filled with salvia. Uh-huh, no typo, not saliva, salvia--legal in California and when (what? bonged?) bonged (don't judge) it cause LSD like experiences, or at least something pretty funny, per her laughter on the video.

People often say, "Hey! Everyone experiments." Uh, no, everyone doesn't. Heck, I've laughed that hard emailing and commenting on blogs (blogs, not bongs) and HOLD IT---I get high on life! I really do.

Image is a selling point in Hollywood and Nashville alike. Let's hope Miley doesn't continue down Lindsay's path. Life is so fantastic. Why are people so miserable or feel so needy for "something more?"

Seattle Citizens Fed Up with Police Excessive Force

Today the downtown Seattle streets were filled again with protesters. A police officer on tape shouted racial slurs at an innocent man (he was Mexican), a police officer on tape slammed her boot on a man's hand as he lay on the ground--he had no weapons and was not involved in any illegal activity (also Mexican). A police officer threw a young woman (she was black) across his car and onto the ground, because she dared to "talk back" while trying to pull the officer away from her sister, again---caught on tape.

In Seattle we kept watching these horror scenes replayed again and again as each officer was found to be in the right. We cried to ourselves, "How can this be happening again...here?"

Then the final straw: a Native American woodcarver, who often roamed Seattle for a spot to sit and carve his intricate totem poles that he then sold to a famous curiosity shop here (well-liked by tourists) was walking down the sidewalk, just outside a large office building (and many more surrounded the area, with a window eye-view), when a police dashboard camera captured the police officer swagger after him, saying, "Put down the knife!" Then within seconds, four shots ring out and John T Williams lay dead, shot in the back.

Witnesses, whom local TV reporters raced to interview, said the carver was just calmly walking away. Mr. William's family said he had a hearing problem. The knife was found closed on the ground.

I was watching TV when "Breaking News" showed on my screen. I unmuted the TV and knew the area very well. I saw the many police cars, all the yellow tape and when I heard: 1. A police officer shot and killed a man. 2. The area roped off was large (Why? The suspect was dead and alone. It was clear the police were in "CYOA" mode. Officers were just standing around, not looking for anyone, who were they protecting?) 3. Those office workers interviewed all told the same story---they were shocked to see the cop shoot a man who was just walking down the sidewalk. They saw NO knife.

The officer had a hearing, he would not be charged since he said he felt threatened and that is the only reason a police officer seems to need to take such action. I hope no officers are afraid of clowns or threatened by my power chair.

The victim's family was outraged and spoke with dignity about the loss of their family member and the needless death. FOUR times? They were only 10 feet apart, was the cop that bad of a shooter or that incredibly afraid of a 3-inch knife?

And so Seattle citizens are protesting, shouting down the mayor, gathering en mass at the police station, and today the police brought out the tear gas, batons, and horses. The police chief finally spoke up and said the officer used excessive force and within hours that officer resigned--no pension. But is this justice? The protests will continue tomorrow because Seattle citizens have seen enough. The Feds are looking into our police dept. too. For that I breathe a sigh of relief as all decent cops in Seattle must also be breathing.

The tear gas from the 1999 WTO riots and all the stench of police brutality that infested my front yard still brings tears to my eyes. Our politicians swore then that it would never happen again in Seattle. This is not over.

Liver Biopsy Good Enough to Eat

My new job in Seattle was going great! I was alone, staffing the phones, talking to citizens about all things electric power related. Then the co-worker sitting next to me said, "What's wrong with your arm?"

The usually busy left side of my body had stopped. How did I not notice?

My Dept. manager was sure I was having a stroke. Being new to Seattle (and loathing doctors), I was driven to a McCheck Medical dive. They took blood (after TWELVE tries, hey, I had never had blood drawn before, I thought it was normal.) and my live function test was not good.

For the next couple of years we kept repeating the test, since the reason I first went into the medical joint was a half-gone body, which was A-OK by time I left the McClinic. The results were worse each time. Obviously, "...she denies alcoholism..." (uh, yeah, like I NEVER drank booze) a liver biopsy was in order.

"Isn't that the most beautiful liver you ever saw? Looks good enough to eat," said the doctor as he dangled a slice of my bright red liver in from of me. (And this was before The Silence of the Lambs.) I had no comment.

The biopsy was out-patient, the needle was Bozo-the-Clown-HUGE, all I felt was pressure after they numbed the area with a local. It took seconds. The results took almost a week.

"While I am pleased to report patient has a very healthy liver, it is bothersome that her enzyme levels continue to climb." In other words, they had no idea what was wrong.

Within another year, during a pap smear, "It's HUGE!" Not words you want to hear screaming out of your doctor's mouth. I sat straight up, "What!?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. You can get dressed and come see me in my office."
Uh-O-kayeee. What, Doc? You got Tourette's or something?

The "football-sized" fibroid uterine tumor was removed, along with my uterus, three days later.
(The previous week I had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis---which had nothing to do with the liver or the tumor) My liver blood work returned to normal after the hysterectomy. I was 33.

How many people can say they have seen their own liver? Over the months after the biopsy, people scoffed at such a piece large enough to "dangle" would be removed; so I asked the surgeon. He said he was as shocked as anybody that such a large piece came out and he had never seen such a healthy liver before. Bon Appetit! Seriously, do doctors think before they speak as often as they should?

IBM Watson Wins While MS in Jeopardy

When I first heard about Watson, the IBM computer that would "face" off against Jeopardy game show contestants, I could only laugh. There is just no way that a human's brain could process information as fast as a computer. I just read on line that Watson won--woo hoo.

Here is what I wish: Would all the brilliant minds that put Watson together, please input all the scientific data collected about multiple sclerosis and find a cure for us? When Bill Gates first touted his computer super highway, I imagined a fast track to many cures.

MS research (and I will gladly remove all the drug company 'drug search') data is extensive, but it is swirling around the world---it needs to join forces. Why can't a program be designed for researchers to input their data and that data be available to a computer that combines all we learn?

"What is low blood flow from ___ and___ caused by trauma or ___ to the central nervous system, beginning in the ___area of the brain which leads to ___and can be repaired by___ or prevent by ___?" WE HAVE A WINNER!

Playing with a Photo

What do you see?

Taking My Brain Back from Multiple Sclerosis

In my new life at the assisted living/retirement community I had to move to (TWO YEARS AGO! WHERE DID THE TIME GO?), there rages within me the desire to build some new brain cells and paths up there. Many firsts and "never tried before"s have taken place. I hope my brain is growing a bit.

When we are babies, EVERY day is packed full of "never tried before"s, then with each passing year we try less and less, just a fact of being human. So, while I know I'll never catch up with that growth during my earliest years, I will do as much as I can.

Never ate peppers before. Never played Bridge. Never met so many people. Never wrote so much. Never read so much. Never typed so much. Never ate oatmeal, grits, Gouda cheese, asparagus, beef jerky, my stomach must be going crazy. Never spoke Swahili. Never learned so much about the Bible or Beverly Hills. (I thought Palm Springs was in Florida--all knowledge from Blogs I've followed.) Never used skin cream. Well, just never have done so many new things since I was a baby. And you know what? I think it is working. My brain says it is having a blast.

"You never___?!!" Yeah, I get that a lot. I'm 53 and doing it now.

Last week I played a great hand of Bridge. Got the cards and played them well. Nine diamonds, partner opened a spade, I countered a diamond, then back with 3NT. (Spade lead might have sunk me.) My dummy had 2 aces and west lead went low right to her! She also had two diamonds. Perfect. Yes, after over a year, I am beginning to be able to play Bridge.

Now, a game like this covers it all---being social with live people (not that any of you are dead, but we don't have to use as much of our brain with facebook friends or when reading a comment/blog, we basically rely on previous brain paths to decide if the words are sarcastic or serious or neither or both) forces the brain to interpret many body gestures and verbal cues. Shuffling the deck of cards (which I could not do at ALL 2 years ago, but now do it with a passing C), dealing them (again, took over a year) and holding 13 cards, all digging those brain paths.

Taking my brain back from multiple sclerosis is my new destiny. I didn't chose MS, but I can chose this. I am putting action behind the words, "Fight MS," because we really are at war here. When I read those who post "Fight MS" (in blogs and Face Book), they too often are charging straight into drugs or surgery, both which have yet to be without a doubt proven to help MS AT ALL! (That's right, I said it, again, some YouTube videos and people in an early stage, RRMS, or complete undocumented by the medical establishment/scientists stories of great turn-arounds, are not cutting it with me, *I* could have made those videos and told of such success myself after my diagnosis in 1990---and the only culprit was the natural and proven course of MS doing its thing, being healed by my own body in ways no, NO, medical researcher knows.)

"Pass." "One club." "One spade." "Pass." "Two no trump." Taking back my brain one card at a time.

Words Hurt as Lady with Walker Tries her Best

As many of you know, I reside in an assisted living/retirement community. I am the youngest person her and feel younger every day. There is a couple here who are very snooty. I imagine that once they had many rich, snooty friends and lived in a rich snooty house, just a guess.

They really gave my power chair and moi dagger eyes whenever they looked at me. Then one day the Mrs. fell and had to be in a wheelchair. Now Mr. pushes her around. The first week she became so non-snooty, go figure; but, now she is back to her old self.

They rushed to the elevator on way to dinner. I stood (look, "stood" I'm sure Have Myelin "hears" me on this one) back, but another lady working hard to make it with her walker got to the elevator in time. "Hurry up!" Mrs. Snoot shouts. (Seriously? You are THAT rude again?)

Well, Walker-Lady was having none of it and she stopped dead still and shouted back, "I'm going as fast as I can!" (YEA! It's ON!)

Mrs. Snooty says again with dagger breath, "Well, get in then. You're holding the door! Your wheel is on the edge."

"I SAID I'm going as fast as I can!" Unbelievable, I wished I was on that elevator and in fact I am ready to let Mr. and Mrs. know what I think of their immature and unkind behavior. Karma will get them for sure, but I have seen enough AND Walker-Lady was still very upset about it in the dining room where a man there and I gave her some TLC about how great she is doing and don't think any more about them. (Which, of course is easier said than done.)

How can people who have lived so long be so short-sighted and plain cruel? What small people they are.

Ruth the Runner, Female Buzz Cut, Writer's Work

Ask and ye shall receive. Pic of my short hair cut, pic of Ruth, pic of the court documents that I am writing into my book. What d'ya think of my hair? (and product placement) My book papers? Ruth?

Cousins are a Welcome Village

Two of my favorite cousins in the cemetery. Yeah, we all like our cemetery, family tradition and all. Cousins are so important. They are close to your age (usually, though I have some near 80) (even when I was in my 40s) and can fill the lonely holes that wayward siblings can leave.

Photo is my beloved cousin, Rich and his wife Deb. When I first spoke/met (they live 2500 miles from me now) Deb, I felt as though I'd know her all my life, that connection, ya know? I hadn't spoken to Rich in over 30 years, but I heard that same voice I knew when we were teenagers and "Let's cop a pizza."

Rich grew up close to where I did. He was one of my youngest cousins then, and that means he had to be the ball hiker (center for those in the know), the basketball chaser and so on---fate of the smallest. His older brother picked on him as only older brothers can, but Rich always held his own. (And could he fight! I still am amazed that either of them were able to have children! They attacked each other's family jewels more than Lindsay Lohan at Tiffany's! Ha!)

Rich and I got into all kinds of fun as we got older---drive in movies watched free from grave yard across the road, calling of spirits (One almost chased us out of the house--moved our table across the room, freaked us both out, but now that I see how strong a psychic gift he has, I understand.), driving around late at night just looking for trouble, luckily we stayed in the clear, but we both had some fight in us then and anger. I think we have mellowed. HA!

Whenever nobody else was around to be with, late, lonely evenings, Rich was a phone call away. He was there for me in a big way. Cousins can do that.

I am forever grateful they are in my life now. Both totally understand my MS limitations, accept that I am gay, enjoy just having me in their life---how cool is that?!

Really, life has given me many great cousins. Incredible ones. It takes a village at 5 and 55 and to infinity, to be raised up.

Is it OK to Ask if You Have Cancer?

Apparently I cut my hair so short that a woman asked me, "Are you having chemotherapy?" as she nodded her head 'yes.'

Why is it okay for a man to cut his hair short, real short, but not a woman? Why does short, real short hair on a woman scream "CANCER!"

And do you just walk up to a stranger or even a neighbor and ask about their health in such a personal way? Now, I am a talker. (Really? Yeah, surprise! Doh!) I not only don't mind talking about my health issues, I enjoy it. The body fascinates me almost as much as the mind.

That said, I would NEVER ask someone if they had cancer or chemo. Maybe a person who first told me they HAD cancer, but that is it. Was it the wheelchair/buzz cut combo?

Off I go, spreading more awareness.

Running with MS and an 85 Year Old Woman

When I first started meeting 80ish-year old Ruth, I had not had MS for too long, I didn't even need a cane. I showed up one day, in front of the French bakery at our usual table, with my cane.



Ruth thought it was just great. How courageous I was and so on. After a few years I showed up in a scooter and the response was very different. Her face said it all, but the words unspoken were deafening. Ruth had beaten her alcoholism by running and she never stopped. Even when, at 3AM, she was beaten (she had no money so nothing more was done), even when she twisted her ankle, even if she had a cold, nothing would stop her. I admired her so, and she reminded me of my pre-MS self. We would talk of running together. Once she stopped me on the street and said, "Come run with me! You can do it!"



Although I said right off, "I can't, Ruth," inside I was twisted with the barbed wire of humiliation and defeat. In fact, it bothered me so much that I asked my neurologist if I could try running and I told him about Ruth. I told him she used to admire "my courage" and now she only sees a coward. "She is almost 85 and runs up the hills of Seattle everyday!"

He said, "But, Diane, she doesn't have MS."

"What if I took really little steps?"

" I don't recommend it. You might fall."

He was right and I knew it. I could still wall walk very well around my apt., and I remembered reading research the year I was diagnosed that showed how much a patient begins going downhill after a fall. From that point on I was determined not to fall, and I wouldn't until almost 15 years later. My decision was the only right one, who was I kidding to think I could suddenly run?



Ruth had her opinion of those with canes or in wheelchairs, and it was not a good one. "He has problems with his sex life." or "She has unresolved childhood fears." Ruth had never suffered any real illness or broken bone a day in her life. She was much like my pushing-90, great aunt Vi in that respect. People who don't have much disease or disability in their lives JUST DON'T GET IT. With them, unless it is Cancer, then it is "all in their head." That was Ruth. I gritted my teeth when she worked passersby in her own special, judging way, and now it was me.



While I knew how Ruth was, and while it never was right, it bothered my self-esteem. She made me feel smaller and more of a failure each day. It got to the point where I didn't enjoy being with her anymore. Those years were hard because my MS was taking me from walking okay to needing a cane and finally a scooter, and the many neighborhood people who saw me for brief periods each day over those years were having difficulty understanding what was going on. After all: "You look so good." To them, I was just giving in.



My mornings in the Broadway Market became mornings sitting alone, away from Ruth and joining a new group of people---5 gay guys and a rocker barista. We had a great time! We laughed, gossiped, shared dating disasters (the gay guys always were in some crisis situation, as I suppose most young, single people are---it was very Sex and the City. Good times.), and discussed the latest news. My scooter meant nothing to any of them. They had seen AIDs, multiple sclerosis was easily understood by all of them. It was a non-issue. I was older than they were, in a stable relationship, they looked up to me and my self-esteem was restored.



Until Ruth started dogging me. She asked if she could join me and I said, "No." I went on to explain that she was judging me and there was nothing wrong with me using a scooter. I could not run and if I could I'd call her first, but right now, I am tired hearing about how disappointing I am. "No, no, I know. Some people just can't do it. You must go through primal therapy, then you could run again." Wrong answer, Ruth. "Ruth, I want to be alone, ok?"



And so she would sit at THAT coffee shop instead of the French bakery, staring at me. I took that about 4 months until I primal-screamed, "YOU F------ B---- STOP LOOKING AT ME!"

Now, before you think that was too cold, you need to know that not a day went by without Ruth dropping many F-bombs and calling people the B word. I loved that about her. But, it did make me feel bad to say it to her. She just turned her head and kept drinking her coffee. This was a woman I had loved. I sent her a dozen red roses, which she told me came from Scott. (Her 20-something GAY boyfriend.) By the way, I spoke with Scott one day about Ruth. I told him that she really thinks he is in love with her and the little prick laughed at her, made fun of her, said he knew but "...isn't it funny! She is so ridiculous." I wanted to slap him and say, "No, YOU are ridiculous to stay in the closet and act like you love her. The two of you could be good friends." (Though one thing he said was, "I can't stand her. When I don't send her a card, she never lets up." and "I'm leaving Seattle for good in a few weeks and not telling her," followed by arrogant youthful laughter. Oh, I guess that was two things, well, he said too much.)

After that I rarely sat at the Market and rarely saw Ruth. Finally I asked someone if they knew where she was hanging out, and they said she had started drinking again, fell, hit her head and her daughter put her in a nursing home. That stung me. Ruth and I had many conversations about horrible nursing homes, holding up my aunt as an example of hope for Ruth---if Aunt Violet stayed home, so would Ruth.

It hung over me like a crouched cougar, I KNEW how miserable Ruth had to be. I even decided I would try to spring her out and had my 'hood peeps find out which home she was at...but it was too late, Ruth died. There was no obituary in the paper and no one had any details.

Ruth used to say that she just wanted a tree planted when she died, no funeral. I told her I would plant one. I never did, not yet anyway. MS really stops up a lot of plans, doesn't it?

Once I asked Ruth to run with my spirit when she goes out. She said she would. I felt her carry me in the early hours. I'm not proud of how it ended with me and Ruth, but I did what I felt I had to do.

One thing is for sure, I'll never forget her.

The 80 Year-Old Runner and The Fashion Model

Before I lived where I live now (my grasp of language is failing me tonight, must be the MS) I lived (oh, just getting worse) in a mixed retail (mixed with residential units) complex that took up an entire city block. The building was split down the middle, retail on one side, apts. on other.



Most people never even knew there was an entire side of apts. In the retail side was a Gold's Gym, 6-plex cinema, Starbuck's, book store, The Gap, Urban Outfitters, a Video Store, Shoe Store, Fred Meyers, Ticket Master, Yogurt, Chinese, hair Salon (you get the idea, a BIG place) and it was always crowded. But in the early hours of the day, the place was all mine, well, mine and one barista plus one French bakery cashier.



There were three levels to the place and my spot was at the top, end table, perched where I could drink my mocha and relax. These first hours before the stores all officially opened were wonderful! So peaceful, sip, think, breath, until one day a woman caught my eye.



She looked to be maybe 65-70, beautiful white short-cut hair, and shorts, always in shorts with running shoes. She would sit at the French bakery on a stool and order coffee, engaging in conversation with the young fellow behind the counter. I wanted in. Old lady in running shoes and shorts!? Are you kidding!? MY kind of people, oh, did I mention it was about 40' outside?



For months I watched her from my perch, too shy to intrude. The young cashier always seemed so interested in her words. Then one day I went for my mocha at the Starbuck's across the street (that's right, one in my building and one on the corner across street, HEY, this IS Seattle) and there she was sitting at the counter, so I sat next to her and she began talking to me.

After that day we met every Saturday and Sunday in "The Market" and chatted from 6am--noon. She had been a famous model in LA and her wealthy husband shot himself in the head, right in front of her. She thinks he had some business problem. Then she became a drunk, her in-laws took away her daughter, she had no money and was living in low-income housing a block away. She spoke of her life, her art work, her famous art friends and the originals they painted for her. Her philosophy was Primal Screamish, and she knew everybody in the 'hood. She sized them up, their psychological or sexual problems and she said one day after she hit bottom she went outside and started running, miles, until she collapsed--then she ran every day since, rain or shine, night or day, snow or wind, Ruth ran.

I would learn that everyone in the 'hood knew Ruth by description. They all had seen the old lady running in the early hours of the day. Mostly I listened and Ruth talked. Did I believe all her fanciful stories? I did and I didn't. I mean, I knew she ran at all hours and she was 85. The rest? It didn't matter to me if they were true, imagined, or magnified---they were good stories.

She felt she had found a soul mate in me because I didn't disagree with anything she said. What I agreed with was, well, most of her beliefs, and the Primal Scream was her belief, and many others, the fact that I was an Agnostic about it (Unfortunately she misread that.) didn't seem to matter to me. She had a strong belief that we are electricity. I tend to agree, though I might add that we are that plus more. She loved to hear about my Aunt Vi, a woman after her heart. A drinking (though never to excess like Ruth), cussing, (though not in public like Ruth,) Ruth was a die-hard and Jesus/God got plenty of her wrath.

One day Ruth invited me to her home to see "the painting of me my boyfriend did." Now, her "boyfriend" was a gay man about 22. He would hug her at The Market, but, not to my eye, show her any special attention. She seemed in love with him and said he traveled a lot, always sending her postcards from around the world. (Right.)

The low-income, brick building that Ruth lived in had been around for years. It got so dilapidated, that the Housing Authority bought it on the cheap for poor seniors, disabled, drug users, AIDs patients. Blood stained needles were dropped on the grounds nearby like fallen leaves. Human feces and vomit left stains and obstacles for those on foot. I buzzed her intercom.

Ruth let me in and her apt. was down a long, dirty hall. My friends suggested I not go alone, but I did most things alone--that's how I rolled, ha-ha, when I still walked.

Her apt. was one room with a bathroom. It had two windows that looked out onto a beautiful tree. She had one chair, a small table, a lamp, sink and small stove. It was fantastic. The entire apt. was covered with paintings, beautiful unframed canvas art, and there it was---the one of her. It was perfection, caught her essence and black, round, glasses to a T. There were many old, dried roses about. "Want to see my clippings?"

I spent several hours there, looking at old newspapers and magazines, Ruth as a model, Ruth in minks, Ruth with her famous friends. She also had a box of postcards from around the world, from Scott, just like she had said, and he always ended with kisses and "can't wait to be with you, I LOVE you, Scott." She had patches of material from some of the dresses she had worn, "Feel this," she said as she then told me all about the fabric, the designer, and the night she wore it.

I read the obituary of her husband's death, the police report, she kept records just like Aunt Vi did. 1930s and up. Not a word she had spoken was untrue. It was magical.

It was a magical 5 years, me and Ruth. Until...

The Artist and The Biology Teacher, Characters I Have Known

Wayne lived in a big house with a big yard. Paint, if it was ever there, and of course it had to have been since remnants remained if one looked closely, was not coating the wood of the run-down structure. The roof had missing shingles, well, not exact;y missing as they were besmirched across the big yard, probably victims of some Fort Wayne, Indiana, yearly Spring tornado. They did make good toys for the many children who lived in the house, all siblings of Wayne.

The clothes the children wore were usually, no, always, dirty and holey with ill-fitting holey shoes. The big yard was more dirt than grass and more weeds than grass. The sound from the property was that of laughing and screaming childing, screaming from loud talking as children are implored to do in the outdoors. There was a dog, or two, looked much like the scrawny, unnoticeable brown skinned hound mix that appears on the TV show, The Simpsons.

Wayne was the oldest, as I recall. It was the early 1960's and young boys did not wear long hair--crew cuts were acceptable for school. Wayne had long hair, past his shirt collar long. He kept to himself, but as far as I ever saw, he was never teased nor bullied for his brazen dissension from the norm, in fact I think we children admired him.

Wayne was not what you would call a good student, grade-wise. He never had the right answer when the teacher called on him and he wasn't much of a reader. He was thin, but not bony, his hair a plain brown. His hair got him expelled several times, which didn't bother Wayne or his parent. I think only his mother was around, but who knows? Wayne kept to himself.

Today, the picture I painted with my words of Wayne, such a boy would be undesirable, but I don't know any child who spoke poorly of him. You see, Wayne was gifted in a way the rest of us, including his teachers, could only dream of ever being so. He could draw.

Now, I am not talking about elementary school, 'put up on the fridge' drawings, no, Wayne spent as much time as he could each day drawing complex works of art. All were from his own imagination and all were pictures you felt compelled to stare at, either in awe or in wonder. So detailed, yet abstract, rich, yet simple to grasp no matter your educational level.

No one had to ask Wayne what he wanted to be when he grew up. Wayne was an artist and he was always drawing or thinking of drawing. I liked him a lot, but I don't think we ever spoke two sentences to each other in over 10 years of school classes together. He "hung" with no one.

What follows is the best story I have of Wayne and it endeared him to all the rich-side of town kids, jocks, you know the in-crowd that consumed us regular kids during middle school, like a pack of hungry lions. It happened during a biology class with Mr. Crum. (Yes, these are real names)

Mr. Crum always wore a white, short-sleeved shirt with his white under short showing just a smidgen, along with a tie. He had his hair so short that his head looked almost bald. His dark pants matched his dark shoes and they all matched his dark rimmed glasses. He was probably about 26, though he seemed much older then. His voice was monotone with just a touch of squeak to it. He was all business, loved biology, and paced as he spoke, back and forth across the small room, staring down with a piece of chalk in his hand.

On this memorable day, we were to dissect a frog, but I for one outright refused. (Funny, I would LOVE to do it today.) My refusal did not go over well with Mr. Crum; in fact, it made him start sweating with anger. Wayne walked over to be my lab partner. He sat there for what seemed like only a few minutes, and drew a dissected frog, guts hanging out, labeled appropriately, with the frogs mouth wide open, screaming, "SAVE YOURSELF!"

Mr. Crum saw this strange action, my sudden broad smile, a few others around who saw were trying not to laugh, and he walked his long stride, bent over, chalk holding self over to us. He took a fast look at the picture and the sweat grew so much that he had to push up his slipping glasses, again and again, as he walked back to the front of the class. From there Mr. Crum began angrily lecturing us. "You think this is all a joke? Fine. Life is OUT THERE (he points dramatically towards the windows) There are no short cuts when you are adult! Things won't be easy. " etc., etc. He proceeded for an ETERNITY (at least 10 minutes), getting louder, squeakier, and more self-assured of his command of the class than we had ever seen. He was really mad, almost scary mad. We all sat in somber silence through every word. He ended with a loud, angry, "ANY QUESTIONS!?"

Was that a feather that dropped? No, we would have heard THAT. Time pretty much stopped. Mr. Crum turned toward the chalk board when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Then the whole class saw it and like the football game audience wave, a breeze of silent gasping flowed straight up to Mr. Crum's ears. He turned around. Wayne had his hand held high in the air. I didn't move my head, just my eyes, toward Wayne.

"You have a question, Wayne?" Mr. Crum asked in a now controlled voice. Heads turned to look at Wayne then immediately back at Mr. Crum.

Wayne spoke in the slow drawl he always used, "Why then, do you wear a clip-on tie?"

In all my years, I have never seen a face turn redder than Mr. Crum's, at that moment. Muffled giggles filled the room. I was DYING with laughter underneath my stoic countenance and I tilted my head just enough to show that I too wondered about that contradiction to all he just preached to us.

Mr. Crum stood frozen for awhile then said any of us who didn't want to dissect the frog could leave and get an F. Wayne, myself, and a few others walked out. My mother was bemused when she heard the story. Aunt Vi laughed hysterically. I was a straight-A student up until that day, and I never looked back. There would be many more Fs in my future, many more skipped classes, many schools dropped out of. Wayne empowered me in a way that would never end. And I like me better. Thanks, Wayne.

I often wonder what became of Wayne.

Hospitals Leave Patients at Curb

Our local TV channel reported, that a guy in Seattle finished a brain surgery check-up and was left in a wheel chair for a taxi. He didn't know where he lived and ended up in part of town somewhere (or another city, not sure, I was focusing on his cut-up skull), this was done by the University of Washington hospital, rated oh so super-duper around here.

Another highly rated hospital in Seattle, Swedish Hospital, left my partner (this was late last year) in nothing but a gown and hospital socks, sitting in a wheel chair in their ER lobby. She had been rushed there, worked over, released, called me, I called the Mgr. here and he drove, hunting her (several exits and all), until he found her. It was cold as all get out, snowing lightly, luckily I had sent a bag of clothes/shoes for her, but it happened fast and he just brought her home.

When I heard how she had been LEFT in that ER lobby, wearing practically nothing, so drugged she could barely speak...yeah, good thing for that hospital that I am in a wheelchair.

If this stuff happens at such "respected" hospitals---what goes on in small/rural places? Probably much better care, that's what!

Peers to the Rescue? Say It Ain't So

First off, my loyal readers, that lady in the post about the missing caregiver was only 92. (No wonder she looked so young.) And piggy-backing on my post about stupid questions of people in wheel chairs, yesterday that 92 year old was asked, "Can't you walk at all?"

That question seems to always be thrown at an angry, accusing, pitch. The old wheel chair must really bug them. After a few "What's?" the 92 year old replied, " I could but I would fall."

Okayee, in my book that is a "No."

My new table mate asked why I can't stand, why I can't work, basically the question on most of my neighbor's minds---"Why the H are you here?! You are too young and should be working. Humpmpf."

My good friend and peer, Mary gets a complete pass because her Huntington's is visible to the gang here. Even after I tell my complete story (I am SOOO sick of myself.) again, the whole "legs/arms/fingers/thinking affected" thing, doesn't register. I can't shuffle the deck of cards. They don't get it. I can't pour my own water. They don't get it.

Of course this is all compounded by my partner NOT being able to different things than I. They expect what one can/can't do, then it must be true for both. We have had to deal with that all our life together. Sometimes we want to scream, "WE ARE TWO DIFFERENT PEOPLE!!"
Even just making friends when we were young, if she liked something then I must to and vice versa. I don't think (tell me of I'm wrong) that str8 couples have that issue.

Perhaps it is the "gay woman, how great, both so understanding and flowery and sweet smelling thingy," um, may be that is true for some but NOT ALL lesbians. I know, I know, hang in there, Diane, soon your peers will join you. AARRGGHH NOOOOOOO

I have NEVER enjoyed my peers as much as older people. Kindergarten. UGH
The water is rippling in my glass...the Boomers are coming and they are full of drug concoctions unknown to any generation before---HELP!

Stopping, Restarting a MS Heart

One day in 2008, I felt sick to my stomach. No big deal, right? Then I vomited what looked like blood. Ugh, and I NEVER vomit, in fact I had just posted on this blog about how I never vomit. (JA-INX!!)
Tried calling my MS doc since for two days I had been unable to take my spasticity meds and my fingers were curled tighter than Oprah's girdle, making transfers, holding water bottle, etc., impossible; but, she was "unavailable." (AS she was during the entire affair. Thanks, Doc.)
Called my ship's (ie body's) Captain, my GP (General, oh, I guess he would be my General, Practitioner) who said: Get ye to the ER. (Emergency Room, do I really need to keep doing this?)
So, an ambulance was called during the first day of what would be one Seattle's worst snow storms. I would spend 5 days in the ICU (here we go, say it with me: Intensive Care Unit), ending with no decisive diagnosis and a WILD ride home over ice bumps and snow-heavy fallen trees. (A ride my insurance refused to pay for, even with a letter from my Dr. saying it was indeed medically necessary. $600, and let's just say in some states the UCU stay cost could have bought a VERY nice house!.
Many stories I can tell about those 5 days, but the beginning in the ER is where I want to locate.
My heart had been racing for several days, it felt like it might burst out of my chest. Partner took my rate, said it was ok (her degree is in Fine Arts, uh-hem) and "I get that all the time," yes, Dear, but YOU have a cardiologist and a lousy ticker. (Just thought it, didn't say it. What did *I* know? I was baffled.)
The ER doctor in charge was most concerned about my heart. It was racing over 180. He stopped, then re-started it twice, before I knew what hit me. That didn't help matters much. But, now, after two years, I believe he re-booted my system. I believe I am better all 'round.

When I was still in the hospital, I noticed I was doing things I hadn't been able to do in decades, certain thinking, limb movements, vision acuity and so on. My heart beats also changed. I had a caregiver tell me in 2006 that I had a murmur and my GP agreed---no more.

When an Occupational therapist visited me I described some of the weird new things my body was doing and she said, "I'm not surprised. I have heard this before from people who had their hearts stop and restarted." She continued to describe some examples even stranger than MINE! Some people's personality changed. I wondered, had mine?

At any rate, something major changed in me that day. It had a positive effect on my MS. "Hi, Doc, my name is Diane and could you stop my heart for a sec? I'd like a re-boot."
Hmmm

Multiple Sclerosis Scam Protection

Have you experienced any scams due to someones knowledge of your MS? Now that FaceBook will be collecting data and selling it big-time, and since your friendly drug companies ask you to complete surveys, I mean, your MS state of affairs is everywhere. Think about it---how many people know you have MS? Your calculator can't count that high if you are a member of any social networking site or have ordered an MS book on line.

On my blog I get "comments" that are ads. If the comment looks suspicious or is from a new reader, I always check them out first. Some companies look interesting, but if I feel "funny" about ordering from them, then I am not about to offer them to my blog readers. My goal is to order first and if I think they are a good company, THEN I will let you know. (As I have done in the past.) But, they found me, I'm busted.

Surprisingly, I have not felt much scamming, maybe partially due to the fact of my rants against most drug companies, MS associations, etc. (I can dream.) But, ads aimed at the elderly are running rampant on TV, and their tactics leave much to be desired. I am around many older generation folks and I see/hear their fears firsthand. While most of them are not surfing the WWW as much as the next generation, they are starting to. Scammers know this.

Before I deal with a company on line, I look for their contact information. Phone number? I call it. Address? Email? I test them. A little prevention might save you a lot of hassles.

Ask for references. Any reputable company will be happy to provide these. (This is true for doctors too--REALLY!) Try calling the National Fraud Hotline at 1-800-876-7060 (But, good luck, all I got was a fast busy signal all morning,) or check out these sites, here and here.)

Look for a guarantee that you can get a refund for return of product or shabby service, get it in writing. I pay by credit card so that I can reverse the charges through my card company immediately. Don't be pressured, don't be hasty, never, ever, not into making ANY decision. (Even if he is on one knee and you are blinded by the light of the diamond!)

Yes, just old-fashioned common sense in a world that has become neither old or fashioned. Scammers are out there and they know our age and our health issues.

Confusionist say: Scam me once, shame on you. Scam me twice, egg face on me.

Dear Diary, Today I Dined

Is this blog a diary? Blog: Web Log. "Log" that is a word from 14th century! (And once again a nautical term to measure a ship's speed through the water, well, ships were THE way to go back then.) Mix it with Web (derived from the spider like attaching of many Internet systems and World Wide Web was penned in the 1980s), viola'---so, I haven't exactly answered my own question, blogs can be very unique to the writer, AND I have digressed horribly from what I wanted to tell you, er, Diary. OK, I'll try it.

Dear Diary,
Hello. It's me, Diane. I know I haven't written to you since I was 21, but better late than never, right? Miss me? Hahahaha, uh-hem.

Yesterday was the greatest! I went to dinner in the dining room for the first time since I moved in two years ago. I wanted to wait until I could stand better, use the nearby loo if need be, transfer on my own, but two years, ya know? It was time.
My table is just as you enter and my power chair, Jazz, fits up just right. It was so cool to eat at a regular table again. I have a view of the entire room, well, most of it. Only one other woman sits there and they say she doesn't come much. Cool.

People were somewhat shocked to see me, but each reacted just as I expected, I know them all pretty well. I like "knowing"people. I should have gone for that psychology degree.
The entire 30 minutes I was there was just great fun. Reminded me of the old days at my previous apt. bldg at the Broadway Market--people watching, a mocha from Starbucks, newspaper---life was good. Always meant to write about that, "The Market Chronicles," but now I have a whole new world to write about, enough characters for a series of books. KK thinks I should make it a murder mystery series: "Murder at the Retirement Home" I'm thinking about it, but my sexual harassment book comes first. 82,000 word outline is done. Not bad for a one finger typist. Ha, kids don't know what typing is. "KEYING" and I heard they want to do away with cursive writing. Gads! But, it makes sense. I'll start collecting pencils and pens NOW for Ebay. Ha ha

So, back to dinner. The table in front of me has a 103 year old woman there. They say she can't hear or see. She looks 75 to me. Her skin is pretty and pure, her hair is nice, her weight is perfect and she yells out at any movement, "Hi! How are you?" or "Good Morning." "Beautiful blouse you have on." People will pat her and she makes you smile. Well, not everyone. I heard her yelling at a caregiver in the elevator, racist slurs, angry about something. The caregiver from Kenya was visibly angry and trying hard to ignore her. I saw that caregiver later and apologized for what I heard, telling her to not take it personally and different generations...I don't think the caregiver understood my English too well.

At dinner Ester's caregiver sat next to her, as they do, and a new resident is sitting across from Ester. After a few minutes the caregiver left. Ester cried out, "Don't leave! Where are you going?" (by now, Diary, the caregiver was gone) and finally, "Don't be gone long."

The woman across from her can't hear too well, but Ester must have seen her body outline because she started talking to her, "Nice sweater?" "WHAT?!" "What?" "WHAT?!" (LOL, I thought, you know, funny, but not.) Then they starting talking to each other. I mean really talking! About weather, news, bank accounts, health, their opinions of this home. I was amazed. And they were speaking in normal voices too! It was soooo cool.

Then I left and when I passed the library, there laying on a couch was that caregiver! Just laying there, very hidden. Sigh, a "What Would You Do?" TV show moment. I like that show, but I never doubt what I would do.
"Hey. Are you supposed to be with Ester?" (Did I mention, Diary, that at one point Ester reached for water or juice and couldn't see any, just kept reaching, her table mate could see no better, nor had strength to reach about. AND as I was leaving, haven eaten, seeing other tables cleared and dessert served, the table mate of Ester said, "Have you eaten yet?" I was just turning to jet off, and stopped to look, HAD she eaten? She couldn't remember and neither could I---good grief NEITHER of them had been served yet!! Just then a server heard them, I think, and he brought their plates!)
"Yes, no, uh..." the young caregiver began sitting up since the stranger in the Jazzy was not going away. "She wants to be alone. I'm here if she needs me she waves her hand."
I gave her a look that said, "Interesting, since you were close to asleep or texting or at LEAST completely out of her view and in no way watching her...you would see that signal, HOW?"
"Oh, I see. You are giving her her independence. Well, isn't that thoughtful."
"She likes it that way."
"Oh, well good for her."
(Since I know this is not true and to be sure I asked another of her 24/7 caregivers about it today just to double check---BUSTED.)
Sigh, Dear Diary, why do such things follow me? I just wanted a nice, quiet dinner. Now I will have to report this. Ugh.
And it is only day 1.
BUT! It was such fun. Watching all the interpersonal dynamics. Heaven.

Final Answer? Brain Cells Just Repaired? Encore?

Did I mention that some of the best neurologists in the country finally answered my question about what happened to the huge brain plaque which led to my MS diagnosis? A group of experts met for a teleconference supported by the National MS Society, and took calls. The question came up and the answer is that the brain cells repaired the damage! How cool is that?
It certainly explains why my MS was so bad during those first years right before and after DX, then got and stayed better. (Not "went away," but improved dramatically.)

Now tell me what caused it in first place and can I expect a return in the future? It is going on 20+ years since that huge brain damage...

"Oh, the places we will go..."

Social Courage and Twitter Join Forces Again

The unrest in Egypt is something that fascinates me, not just the politics and human courage, but the way social networking played a part. Maybe it DOES have value, great value.