Olympic Broadcasts & Classic Cars

I used to love watching the Olympic games but now the commentary is so stultifying I have to mute the TV. As with the news, factual reporting and intelligent conversation is trumped by supercilious trivialities.

I started to make a list of the ridiculous things said by the commentators, but I gave up. It was becoming too long. I was particularly offended by the presumption of some of them who felt inclined to tell us how the athletes were thinking and/or feeling.

The commentary is a positive festival of clichés; every time the speakers open their mouths they reveal a shocking dearth of originality. Sure, they’re under pressure, but it’s not a hugely demanding job. The sentimentality is lethal; the compensatory euphemisms offered to those who fail to win a medal are as offensive.

The medium is terrified of silence. The constant barrage of dialogue makes it challenging to develop your own original thoughts about all you see; it’s insulting.

But the visuals and the performances of the athletes are compelling. Everyone involved in the technical aspects of the broadcasting are delivering on a par with the athletes. Sometimes you feel like you are in the pool with them; you almost feel the puffs of dust that come from the calcium on the hands of the gymnasts.

On walks lately, I’ve seen several remarkable cars…..

This little collection of perfume bottles is on the dashboard
of the gold Porche pictured below. 

My Isolating Disability

It’s Sunday morning. I’ve tried already: absolutely no voice. Today is my third day in a row being a mute person.

I think of all I am going to do today. I plan to go for a walk and, at three pm, welcome my friends David and Bryan who are interested in the bicycle I am giving away. Next I think of the things I might have to say for each activity and I pre-load the sentences I may need into my speech app, Proloquo2go.

For my walk, I need my standard sentences:

1. Hello. I can’t speak. Please bear with me while I ask you a question.
2. Hi. Thanks for your concern but I am fine. I am having a seizure and just need to rest. Could you please remove my glasses and anything in my hands?
3. Could you please ask me that again in a way that allows me to answer “yes” or “no?”

When a need arises I stop and type my question into my app. For example: “Could you please tell me where I might find a washroom?” Then I approach an attendant, play the “Hello. I am unable to speak,” sentence and then the question.

As for the visit of my friends, I sent David and Bryan’s my “coming out” booklet that explains my diagnosis and I emailed them to warn them I can’t speak at all. They are interested in my bike. It was an expensive purchase but my medications preclude using it so I am keen to give it to Bryan. For them, I have written an essay about the bike and why I can’t use it any more. I’ve asked that in exchange for the bike, that they take me to a fine dining restaurant for dinner. I have also banked these sentences into Proloquo2go’s memory:

1. Would you a coffee or espresso or tea?
2. Would you like some of my homemade ice cream?
3. Would you like a strawberry or pistachio cupcake or a slice of orange ice cream cake?

I can neither answer nor stop asking myself these questions:

1. How long will I be unable to speak?
2. Why am I getting worse, not better?
3. What happens to your friendships when you can’t talk any more?

When I am outside:

• I feel jealous of speaking people.
• Angry at people “wasting” their speech ability on inane things. (Can’t help it.)
• I am frustrated. I cry sometimes.

Every once in a while, I can speak a whole sentence or two but then I am mute again.

Proloquo2go is an expensive app that works on my iPhone. When I look at my phone now, I actually feel love for it because it gives me a voice. It’s my prosthetic.

Yesterday I experienced moments of despair worrying that my imaginary but vital friend, God, was angry with me. I worried my muteness was His punishment. Today I know that I was wrong to have that fear and doubt because in spite of everything, I am not depressed.

When I smell the lemon in the lather of my soap, or Barbara Lowe’s sweet peas, or when I look at the faces of children or into the eyes of a dog I experience an ecstasy that than compensates for my isolating disability. They are messages from Him; we are okay.

Caught on Film

It finally happened!

My speech comes and goes; the episodic nature of its disappearance baffles both me and my friends. It makes some doubt the authenticity of my affliction. I asked a doubter why he thinks I would fake such an affliction and he said, "To get attention." Nice, eh?! ... Fucker.

This morning I felt great and so, to compensate for the disastrous speech I recorded here on Wednesday, I decided to record an example of how well I can speak periodically—when I am relaxed. But things went wrong.  As odd as it may seem, I am happy to have this record of how suddenly and dramatically I can lose my ability to speak.

You'll see me move my hand back and forth to my mouth with my fingers straight, but pinched together. It's what I do when I lose my speech. It's automatic; a habit I have developed to indicate that I am trying to pull words out of my mouth.

The more I do, the more people I see, the more this happens.

That Moment of Every Day

I smell the fresh air coming in the window. It’s my first impression as I succumb to the loud demands of my cat to get-the-fuck up, feed me and play. It’s still dark; it’s 4:45 am.

As I rise, I see from the streetlamps that the road is shiny but not wet; it’s going to be another indoor day. (Summer was two weeks long this year.) I open the window; the air is cool and damp. It smells like a September morning.

My morning routines end as light dawns. I sit down at my computer, by far my favourite place to be. I look out the wall of glass at an ocean the same colour as the clouds, a lighter tone of grey than the concrete towers.

I’ll cook this morning. I have friends coming for dinner on Friday and I have some prepping I can do. I’m glad to have something to do. This afternoon I go to my physiotherapist; the appointment plus walking there and back will kill two hours.

Tonight I’ve been invited to a dinner party at Burke and Sue’s. They don’t know about my PTSD and I haven’t forewarned them because they’ve also invited my friend Cathy who’s conversant with my symptoms.

I want to go. I’m looking forward to it but I’m also dreading the first ten-to-fifteen minutes.

The questions start: Should I take my medications? Should I send them a digital version of my What the Hell Happened to Chris booklet? Should I call and let one of them hear me?

It’s time. I rest my arms on my desk, lower my shoulders, bow my head and close my eyes. I take a few deep breaths and then I sit up straight, shoulders back, head erect. I clear my throat and ….

Living involves a constant risk assessment.

500,000 people saw the Fireworks Saturday night.

I went to Bruce’s to sit on his balcony to watch the Disney fireworks on Saturday night. I was taking in the event along with another 500,000 people. The crowds and the explosions of loud noise didn’t go well with me. My PTSD made the explosions and roar of the crowd hit me like a tornado.  

As did the parade: There were too many sirens and screaming, too much amplified music and far too many people in loud brazen party mode. I was really happy for all the celebrants but even eight floors above it, I had to retreat deep into Bruce’s apartment to bear the noise. Even that was ineffectual, so I took my medications and slept through the much of it. It’s a festival of extremes.

However, I did manage to see Prime Minister Trudeau and his family in the parade. It made me weep to see him so casually dressed and with his wife and children walking and waving. The sight of him so casually dressed and pushing a stroller with our handsome gay-friendly mayor at his side (in a muscle shirt) and my favourite federal ministers Jody Wilson-Raybould and Harjit Sajjan marching with them in my community’s parade—whereas once we were shunned.

It really moved me, as did seeing Pride posters and colours all over town. Pride is the biggest party in the city now and it began as a parade for outsiders who were vilified at the time. Olive Howe remembers being spat on in early Pride parades.

And now, our Prime Minister proudly leads a celebration of acceptance. The churches, that were once places where acceptance and tolerance are corruptions of their founding values so Pride has replaced them as a true environment of inclusion. God bless us.

And now it is Monday morning; we are in the penumbra of Pride. It is recovery day. Up at five-thirty am, I see the last of yesterday evening’s celebrants heading home in their glittery and scant costumes.

Today Steve will go home. I will be happy to have my home back to myself but I am going to miss him terribly. We met, fell in love instantly, lived together for fourteen years, separated honorably twenty-two yeas ago and remain brothers. We fit like ham and cheese.

It’s a drug, intimacy, and I want to be addicted. I have an intellectual/spiritual intimacy with Dwight that brings purpose and meaning to my life. And my friend Rob is a tender straight man whom I adore who often throws an arm around me as we watch music videos. It makes me uncomfortable but I hope he never stops.

But having Steve here so very comfortably living with me in my small condo has been the nicest time alive I have had since developing this crushing PTSD.

I crashed on April 9^th. In a week, I will have been living with acute PTSD symptoms for four months. In short form, this is what I have learned.

Home alone is best. Walking alone in the city is tolerable; walking alone in nature is sacred.

If a friend comes to visit or is I go to visit someone, for the first five minutes I am going to have difficulty speaking. Then I will be fine.

I can handle up to three people in a quiet place, and no more. Parties are anathema to me.

Movies are too loud; they are intolerable.

The medications I have are effective (but sleep-inducing).

Living with PTSD involves a constant risk assessment.