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Daily Prompt: Punch the Clock

Posted on by Mark Aldrich

The WordPress Daily Prompt for August 21 asks, “If money were out of the equation, would you still work? If yes, why, and how much? If not, what would you do with your free time?”
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I have my final pay stub somewhere around here, detached long ago from the check whose sum it explained. It dates from late June 2010 and I should bronze it like a baby’s shoes.

As it is for me with many other aspects of a common American—well, not just American, human—life, my relationship with work is, um, not uncomplicated. Off the top of my head, from age 15 till 40 I held 14 different clock-punching jobs from almost as many employers, with a couple employers that hired me more than once. Not included in the list is the newspaper reporter job I quit via fax machine the morning of day one, because I really am a terrible employee and I guess I wanted to prove it quickly, and the one time I was paid for an acting gig (onstage with a cardboard box on my head and a ukelele in my hands—it was a little avant garde, and getting paid five bucks made it even more so).

Life for me for the last four years has been nothing but free time, however—yet I have never been quite so productive. I am the person for whom this question was written.

I have not been another person’s employee since the summer of 2010, when I was asked to leave my last job, which I had not enjoyed very much for three years and nine months, because I had not enjoyed it very much for three years and nine months too many. The manager and I decided that I no longer needed to consider him my boss and he no longer needed to consider himself my boss. On that much we agreed, so we parted company and even deleted each other from one another’s Facebook. It was that serious a firing.

The symptoms of my diagnosis had been prominent for most of the three years; I started walking with a cane in 2007. When the symptoms of adult spinal muscular atrophy first showed, they came suddenly. Only recently have I learned that this is a common experience among people with neurodegenerative diseases. When walking becomes difficult—in my case because the nerves that had been sending (ever dimmer) signals to my legs (which had started to atrophy from receiving ever dimmer signals and thus were not being asked to work)—the end of normal walking comes as if everything had been just fine one day and the next day as if one’s shoes had been nailed to the ground or one’s co-workers had painted the floor with superglue. (I must not have liked the job very much, if I thought such a prank was possible!) It is sudden and scary when the progression of deterioration is undetected and even undetectable until the day it is completely not.

Since my last job was not a high-paying one and did not offer free or simply less expensive health insurance, I had none. So I neither spoke with anyone about my developing deterioration, nor did anyone suggest I do so. But being suddenly unemployed (so very unemployed my boss had unfriended me, please recall) meant I could get poor people’s health insurance, Medicaid. (This is before the Affordable Health Care Act, which also has in fact benefited me.)

With Medicaid came the, “Hey, doc, what gives with my legs?” conversation, and, eventually, the answer(s). With the answers came Social Security Disability, which is my sole income as of right now. If I had had insurance at an earlier date, perhaps I would have received the diagnosis and declaration of disability earlier and been able to leave my last employer on better terms. Entertaining such hypotheticals is a highly un-useful pastime, I find.

My barber asked me recently, “What do you do?” And I replied, “I am a retiree.” As I have written elsewhere, I am an alcoholic in recovery, sober several years, and I am living “Mark’s Life, Version 2.0.” The universe has afforded me a second life (not the online virtual community, a real second life), and the opportunity is not being wasted. I am writing, every day, on a schedule of my own fashioning, speaking with and sometimes counseling people.

There are three jobs every person in recovery thinks of pursuing, as I certainly did: becoming a counselor (but the hours of training are arduous), becoming a truck driver (perhaps because a desire to escape partly fueled the addiction and does not leave), and, after being told by enough people, “You oughta write a book about your stories,” a writer. Luckily, I already was a writer.

From Elvis Costello’s 1983 album, Punch the Clock, “Everyday I Write the Book”:

Daily Prompt: Ice Water in My Veins

Posted on by Mark Aldrich

Each one of us is a part of an interest group. This does not mean each of us must carry out the duties of being an official representative of said interest group, but, for example, I might be the only Jewish person you know. As such, I try to be a good guy and hope that this represents.

(I have been that one before, actually—when I lived in the Midwest—and had some fun with it. Not that there are not Jewish people in Iowa, but one couple that I got to know had not met one or claimed to have not. Which makes me a member of another special interest group: I may be the only Jewish person you know who was the first Jewish person someone met!)

I am male, middle aged, half-Jewish, half-Baptist, an alcoholic in recovery, tall, thin, and I have a disease that is disabling me. It might be Friedreich’s ataxia or it might be and probably is spinal muscular atrophy, type 4. Do any of these things merit me tapping on your shoulder and requesting attention from your charitable impulses? Or your attention at all?

The WordPress Daily Prompt for August 20 asks, “The internet has recently been swept up by the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge. Is there a cause—social, political, cultural, or other—you passionately believe in? Tell us how you got involved—or why you don’t get involved.” The Daily Post helpfully provided a link to the ALS web page, but I also linked to an article explaining the “ice bucket challenge.”

antiALS

I have seen this meme almost as frequently as I have seen videos of people dumping water on their heads. It is an old photo and is often repurposed to make fun of Americans.

This will be remembered as the summer of the “ice bucket challenge,” and after a few weeks of popularity, the backlash has begun. The plethora of videos of people, famous and not, giving a 15-second speech about amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, also known in the US as “Lou Gehrig’s Disease,” and then dumping a bucket of ice cubes and water on themselves “for charity” has led to memes attacking the popularity of the challenge, accusations of “slacktivism,” and some generalized online booing. When we look back at the ice bucket charity awareness campaign, in our heads we will hear someone say, “2014” and “I wonder whatever happened with that? Did they cure … what was it about again?”

Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS) is a rare disease. There are almost 7000 rare diseases, so approximately 30 million Americans, or 1 in 10, suffer from, cope with, accept, or fight against (sometimes all of these in a matter of an hour) a rare disease. A rare disease, as a concept, is not such a rare thing. If you know 10 people, you know a person with one. Multiple sclerosis and Alzheimer’s are also common rare diseases, a phrase I wish did not exist. And then there are the many, many forms of cancer, a disease that one can not wish—or work—hard enough to make it become rare.

It is not precisely known who started the ice bucket challenge or when, only that it started very recently, in 2014, and it was not about one particular health issue awareness charity. An early version, in New Zealand, was about cancer. (Because it is winter in New Zealand right now, the web site has a warning about doing the challenge outdoors.) A couple people in the United States adapted it to raise funds for ALS research and awareness. It took off from there.

Most of us are not medical researchers but most of us have known or do know someone with a illness or condition. Whether it is cancer, heart disease, or a rare disease, chronic or life-altering illness touches many of us and thus many of us know the powerless feeling that comes upon hearing such a diagnosis. We want to do something about it but we are not doctors. It is frustrating. I have seen the look in my mother’s eyes when talking about my disability. She hates the idea that I have something that she can do nothing about, like cook some chicken soup.

So we raise money for the charities that have been established to support the researchers who might possibly find the cure for the disease that affects your family member or friend. Almost every disease has a support community and researchers devoting time to study—at minimum—palliative care, or to even find cures. And that is where any controversy lies: How do I know that the dollar I donated is going towards a cure instead of merely buying lunch for the people who answer the phones and take the donations? The answer is, you don’t. As long as a charity makes its expenses public, I know that some of my donation may be buying lunch. I hope they are eating healthy. But I also know that some of my donation may be paying for the science-y stuff like test tubes, beakers, and a cure.

As with anything that has become popular suddenly, like a dance craze or a catch phrase, sometimes some part gets overlooked. Is everyone who is posting a video of themselves getting wet and icy explaining how to donate to the charity? Is every video participant in fact donating to the charity that they are raising awareness for? Some are not. Some have misinterpreted the whole thing as, “Get wet to not donate and challenge others to get wet, too.” That is “slacktivism,” but even slacktivism serves a public awareness purpose. There is no such thing as the social media police, even if I wish there was, so some people are simply showing off that they do not know what they are doing. The internet is good for that. The dollar that they do not spend on the charity they are not raising funds for is not a dollar that is making people sicker. They are merely getting wet.

ALS is a progressive, neurodegenerative disease that affects the nerve cells in the brain and spine. These cells deteriorate and die and stop sending messages to muscles anywhere and eventually everywhere in the body. The muscles atrophy and paralysis follows. It can strike at any age, and it can kill quickly.

Here is where my personal special interest group membership comes into play: The motor neurons in my spinal cord are deteriorating and dying and messages are no longer being sent or received in the muscles in my legs, which are slowly atrophying. I have a form of spinal muscle atrophy called “adult onset” or Type 4, and there are many links between SMA and ALS. They are siblings in the motor neuron disease family.

sma awarenessThe majority of SMA patients are infants and children, so the majority of SMA patients are voiceless. (Here is a great blog written by a passionate activist with SMA: “Living with Spinal Muscular Atrophy.”) SMA is the number one genetic killer of infants. Few of us are adults. Those of us who are adults owe it to the children born with this disease to help find a cure. Any progress made in finding a cure for SMA will most likely be applicable to also finding a cure for ALS, and vice versa. They are that close in their origin and symptoms.

So if and when someone on Facebook or Twitter challenges you to dump a bucket of ice water on your head for charity, and believe me, they will, take up the challenge, mention ALS and SMA in the same breath, include the websites you want to benefit (ALS and SMA), and dump the water. And then donate to one or to both. Don’t be a slacktivist. Chris Mosher, below, used the challenge to bring attention to both diseases:

Daily Prompt: Home

Posted on by Mark Aldrich

The WordPress Daily Prompt for August 19 asks, “You’ve been given the ability to build a magical tunnel that will quickly and secretly connect your home with the location of your choice—anywhere on Earth. Where’s the other end of your tunnel?”
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“Home, is where I want to be
But I guess I’m already there
I come home, she lifted up her wings
I guess that this must be the place

I can’t tell one from the other
I find you or you find me?
There was a time before we were born
If someone asks, this is where I’ll be, where I’ll be”
—”This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody),” Talking Heads

Give me a country or pop song about home or going home and my immediate reaction is often, “That’s right. That’s what I need.” I am a sucker for cliche. I am not someone who makes wherever I am at the moment into home. The myth of Home will always outweigh the fact of Residence in my psyche.

Conversely, whenever I hear a “road” song like Geoff Mack’s “I’ve Been Everywhere” (best enunciated by Johnny Cash), it becomes a to-do list in my heart. I have not been everywhere, far far from it, but I ran when I could. Not far and not often, but let no one make your journeys anyone’s cliche. My travels are unique to my eyes and ears.

Wherever I have resided, I have carried a deep, living nostalgia for my previous life. Not when I moved from one apartment to another across town (I moved myself on foot across town once, not because I owned so little, but because this is how small the town I lived in is), but certainly when I moved across state or country. My nostalgia for the previous places in my life really only amounted to a present-tense desire for a current someplace else in my life. My friends in Iowa learned much about the Hudson Valley in New York; my friends here in New York, well, they took no interest in the Midwest. My Facebook is full of feeds and updates from different towns and newspapers I have visited and lived in.

So given the offer of a magical tunnel that may carry me from my front door to a location of my choice, I remember that there have not been many homes, but many addresses, and I have a long list of yets: Few photos of me in front of this or that famous place or thing. I have set foot in 22 states and three foreign countries. The countries are Canada (one drunken night in Montreal), Germany, and the USSR (cue the CIA investigation). The states are depicted below, but I am breaking a personal rule of including the states whose air I have not breathed because I did not leave the airport terminal (Minnesota, Missouri).


Visited 22 states (44%)

To me, the question asks where I would like to visit, hassle-free. But the hassle is often the only part of the story that survives the trip. And the return home, with one’s self slightly changed by the experience and one’s home not changed at all but displaying the pronounced evidence of one’s extended absence (dishes still where you admit to yourself you left them all this time), that moment of dreamy sleep-walking from room to room, that experience has always made wherever I was living at the time feel more like home.

For most of my life, I have needed a magical tunnel that would lead me to exactly where my feet were anyway. I desired that sweet sensation of waking from a long deep dreamy sleep every darn sleep-walking day I ever spent here, just to get me to get to work on time. There are many places I desire seeing, and there is a long list of yets on my bucket list or in my bucket, but Home is where I want to be.