Extra! Extra! Speeding woman crashes into bystanding car!

           I fell again the other day, this time in a most spectacular manner. It wasn't just a fall, it was a man-bites-dog incident that had me pitching headfirst into the bumper of our parked car.

            My husband and I had been out running errands. He parked in our garage, got me out of the car, and asked if I needed help getting up the two steps to the door. "No," I said, "I can get it." And I sure did: first step okay, second step okay, reach for the doorknob and whoops! All sense of balance left me in a flash, and I toppled backwards down the stairs.

            I could have slid down slowly, landing on my well-padded fanny. I could have gone down slightly sideways, alighting on the ledge beside the stairs. But no, not me. I had to go down like a felled tree, slamming the back of my head into the bumper of the car.

            Let's erase any suspense: I am fine. I have a monster goose egg, and my body aches as if I had been danced upon by cloggers. I never lost consciousness, and I remained lucid throughout. I did suffer a concussion, but no broken bones or long-lasting damage – although it did take a long-lasting adventure to find that out.

            Because my landing was ferocious, loud, and on my head, Scott called 911. Our paramedic neighbor appeared within minutes, followed shortly by the fire department paramedic van, a community security patrol car, a private ambulance, a fire truck, another ambulance, and a police car. I was asked countless times by countless paramedics what happened, how many fingers I see, what year is it, and etc. etc. For safety's sake I was put into a neck support and strapped in and in and onto a backboard, then loaded into an ambulance for transport to the local hospital ER.

            And that was the worst part. There is absolutely no cushioning on a backboard, little to no suspension on an ambulance, and terrible, terrible roads between our house and the hospital. Every bump, every rut bounced my head against the backboard – right on the spot that already hurt like hell. The aches I hadn't felt immediately after the fall were starting to appear, and were made worse by the hard backboard and confining straps.

            The ambulance EMT was very kind and loosened the straps on my legs so I could get into a slightly more comfortable position – bless him. My ER nurse helped me out of my panic attack by raising the head of my gurney so that I could breathe. (Between my AL S-generated excessive phlegm and crying from the pain, both my nose and throat filled up, making it so difficult to get a breath: I tried to call for help, and neither nurse in the room would respond; the nurse who eventually did come told me I would just have to wait as I was for the doctor, and, "Ma'am, don't yell at me! You just have to wait. Yes, I do know all about ALS, but you still have to wait for the doctor.")

            Well, the nice nurse helped me, the doctor did come, I was liberated from the backboard, the x-rays were taken and read, and eventually I did get to go home – to ice packs, a comfy bed, and three realizations.

            One: no more trying the stairs without assistance, never, never again. Two: my balance is getting worse, and so are the falls; it's time for a wheelchair and ramps. And three: if I were 30 years younger I would have been in hog heaven being attended to by all those paramedics – there hasn't been such an abundance of hard-bodied male pulchritude in this house in I don't know how long. Very yummy, but not, I repeat not worth falling again!

New Year's Resolutions – in October?

            As I commemorate the start of a new year, it seems a good time to look at the past year and launch some resolutions.

            A new year? Resolutions? Really?

            Really. For me, anyway. Today is my birthday, and I celebrate making it through a difficult year, one full of the challenges and problems of ALS: I have lost dexterity and abilities and independence; I have felt nearly unbearable depression; I have railed at the unfairness of it all; I have put a heavy burden of care onto my husband’s shoulders. But I have made it through, and have found elusive but very real cause for celebration: the knowledge that I can face dire challenges and adapt and overcome; the wonderful, invaluable support of husband and family and true friends; the companionship and understanding of other pALS; the hedonistic luxury of having someone wash my hair every day.

            The coming year, I'm afraid, may bring fewer reasons to celebrate and more reasons to rail. There are, after all, reasons why ALS is called "degenerative" and "progressive." But there are also reasons to look for the best while acknowledging the possibility of the worst. That is pretty much, I think, what New Year’s resolutions are for – and why my resolutions are taking form as an examination and re-evaluation of my Bucket List. The bucket is still pretty full, but it's time to apply some ruthless practicality to the contents.

            1 – See all my grandchildren. Two vacations, one to New York and one to Minnesota, fulfilled this wish. I was able to spend invaluable time (too little, but invaluable) with all the wonderful grands. I discussed college plans with the oldest. I watched the first wobbly venture on skates of the youngest. I chatted and read and played games and looked at pictures and took pictures with all of them. And I wept bitter buckets, knowing I will not get to see them grow up. I hope they will remember me, and know that I always, always love them.

            2 – Travel. This item on my bucket list needs lots of editing, but it still is a resolution.

                        2 A – Europe and points beyond. I would love to visit London, to see Paris. I have wanted, for years and years, to spend time in Italy. Turkey, India, New Zealand… So many places call me – and I won't go. Long-distance travel has become just too difficult and too tiring, both for me and for Scott. So we cross this off the list, and watch lots of Rick Steves on PBS.

                        2B – See an Alaska glacier. Another no-go, I'm afraid, for reasons mentioned above. Oh, I know that lots of large luxury liners have excellent handicapped accommodations – but a large liner is not what I want. I want a small ship cruise that gets up close and personal with the land, the animals, the people… and the glaciers. But small ship cruises, both the ship and the activities, are far too adventurous for a couple of old gimps. Good-bye, glaciers.

                        2C – Local trips and mini-vacations. I know that any kind of travel is hard for Scott, even a day trip to the City. But I am so terribly loath to give up the wonders and beauty of in-your-own-back-yard visits. I want to see the wildflowers at Anza Borrego. I want to eat oysters at Tomales Bay. I want to spend Christmas somewhere that isn't home and doesn't carry so many memories. I think we can do this – at least on occasion.

            3 – Get my tomato book published. The book is done, the submission material is written, and one try has already been made – and I have the rejection letter to prove it. Now what I need is better research, tighter formatting, and lots of big envelopes. Get off your duff, Peggy, and do it!

            4 – Have an art show of my ALS paintings. As with the tomato book, this is a project partially done and left hanging. I have researched Bay Area galleries and obtained submission guidelines, I've taken photographs and written descriptions,  I've written my proposal letter and artsy CV. It's now time – or past time – to stop planning and start doing. (I really want to do this show as an ALS fundraiser, donating part of my share of sales – and hopefully part of the gallery's, too – to research organizations and the ALSA. If anyone out there knows an extremely altruistic gallery owner in the San Francisco area, please tell me!)

            5 – Volunteer. I would love to do something productive to help the local chapter of the ALSA. I have offered my assistance a few times, with no response. I guess it's time to get a little more emphatic.

            6 – Go to events. I'm not ready to be completely housebound, not quite yet. A baseball game. A football game. The opera. A play. Museums. Parks. Hokey little local festivals. Who is up to going with me? Scott? Debra? Anyone?

            7 – Adapt to my limitations. This is going to be a biggie, in more ways than one.

            It's going to take a big change of attitude. I'm going to need a wheelchair, probably sooner rather than later. And not just a little fold up portable model, but a big Momma super deluxe SUV of a wheelchair with all the bells and whistles that a person with ALS needs. Admitting that need is going to be difficult, making the adjustment, physical and psychological, from walking to wheelchair-bound will be hard. Wheelchair-using friends say a power chair is liberating and gives you great independence… But I just can't see it that way, not yet.

             It's going to be big financially: while Medicare will probably cover the expense of the wheelchair, it's up to us to pay for the bathroom remodel, the bedroom remodel, the ramps, the handicap van – and everything else that will come up.

            It's going to make a big impact on our personal lives. I will need more and more help from Scott, and, as things get worse, from a professional home health aide. I will eventually need a full-time caregiver, so there goes our privacy. There, too, goes a lot of our money. And there go a lot of items on this resolution/bucket list: if I haven't done them but the time I get to this point, they ain't gonna get done.

            8 – Make my final plans. The will is done, so we can check that off. My end care decisions are all written out and understood by my doctors, husband and family – and, I think, by me. I know what I want done after I'm gone, and so does Scott. All I have left to do is write my own obituaries and worry, ceaselessly and ardently, about my wonderful husband and what he will do when I die.

            9 – Live and die on my own terms, as much as is humanly possible. I will keep running until the final tackle.

            10 – Realize that I am not alone. I will accept, with gratitude, help and support from any quarter. I will try to give support whenever and however I can. I will remember that these resolutions are not only mine, but belong too to my family and friends and, most of all, my husband, whose wishes , needs, limits and aspirations are as close to me as my own.