Wednesday, July 16, 2025 – Day 337
Wednesday, July 16, 2025
Good morning.
Yesterday, I mentioned to Cindy that I find myself doing a kind of improvised country line dance when I walk—just without the music, rhythm, or control. It’s a lot of steps, a lot of corrections, and absolutely no two routines are the same. Every trip across the room is a new piece of choreography. The footwork is awkward, the balance is questionable, and the tempo is whatever gravity decides. I plant my feet with authority—as if I’m stepping to the beat—and move quickly to avoid doing the splits. If you happen to be nearby, you’ll instinctively put your hands up… not for applause, but to possibly catch me if I get lost in my footwork.
To complete the picture, think of Eric Church and the lyrics: “All you gotta do is put a drink in my hand.” I’m pretty sure you’d see me grinning from ear to ear. So next time you hear “Drink in My Hand,” pause and think of me—dancing in my own improvised way.
Then at night, it’s all about celestial white noise from the respirator. The machine hisses in rhythm while my feeding tube adds its own offbeat gurgles—or maybe that’s just my intestinal tract setting the beat. I have to say, it’s oddly soothing and usually lulls me to sleep… until the long hoses start to tangle around me like a surprise game of Twister. It’s too bad they don’t make these hoses “wireless.” Wouldn’t that be something?!?!
And then there’s my bladder. It sends out panic signals throughout the day and night with the urgency of a fire drill—except every time, it’s the real deal. When the signal arrives, I do a frantic little march to the bathroom like I’ve got ants in my pants, trying to keep my legs from doing two steps forward and three back. And if the zipper’s tucked away and out of reach for my thumbs? Well, as the Music Man would say: “We got trouble… right here in River City.” (A song from The Music Man, released in 1962 and, if memory serves, was a pretty good movie, though I haven’t seen it in 40 years.)
One frustrating change that sneaks into both day and night is my voice. It’s thinner now, higher-pitched, and shallow—like someone turned the bass all the way down and forgot to tell me. Talking takes effort, and being heard over background noise is nearly impossible. I find myself repeating things or giving up mid-sentence. And that’s hard—because I’ve always been a talker.
So yeah, I’ve got some changes going on… sort of like reverse puberty, now that I think about it: the high-pitched voice and the clumsiness of youth all rolled into one. But I’m still out here trying to make it all work—and excited about what life still has in store.
And just to be clear: I’m officially keeping my promise to Cindy and will never climb up on the roof again. That ship has sailed.
Have a great Wednesday.
Love you guys!❤️
Drink in my Hand, by Eric Church (hope the music link works)