It’s snowing—barely. It’s white in the air but not sticking. However, it’s predicted to snow more until the weekend—a white Christmas—and when there’s snow on the ground, my new outdoor lights will make the yard look fabulous!
I did a Zoom call using the chat feature. I talked with eight long-time friends from the theatre community. We’ve been doing it regularly through the pandemic. Then, last night, I sensed things worsening in my throat.
At one point, I almost hung up because everyone was talking, and the noise felt like a siren was going off in my head. It hurt to hear all the noise, so I muted the sound for a bit.
My friend, Patsy, who passed last year, had ALS. She progressively lost use of her muscles. I feel like I have a wasting disease in my throat. Two weeks ago, on Dec. 2nd, my speech suddenly changed for the worse, and now it seems like it’s happened again.
Here at home, alone, I can’t get even just a sound out if I try to speak. I can only speak, albeit poorly, to a person. So, soon I’ll know if things are worse. When I meet my friends to walk out dogs, I’ll see how I’m doing.
It’s different on the phone; it’s dreadful. I try not to use the phone. And it’s better on the trails. Being on the trails reminds me vividly of very good times in my youth. We lived in the side of a mountain where we kids could walk up and into the forest trails. Everyone said Hello in those days; everyone was friendly. That’s how it is here. By some miracle, I can say entire phrases to passersby on the trails. I can pass.
Later today, I’ll FaceTime Dwight. I’ll also have to try the phone. My voice works differently in different situations. I wish it weren’t like this. I must test myself in each form of oral communication to know where I’m at. It makes me worry, having two changes of capacity in two weeks.
I’m thinkin’ I won’t be going to the party on Friday night, for a Christmas gathering at Di’s. She’s one of my fellow dog walkers. Between the Omicron variant and my voice, it doesn’t seem sensible for me to go. I’m not at all comfortable being the odd person in the room.
These changes for the worse sometimes cause me to pause. I want to close my eyes and go limp on a bed in a silent room. I want time to pass, to know what’s temporary or permanent, and where I’m going on this FND journey.
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