Despite my disability, and to a certain extent because of it, Kim and I remain social animals. We love spending time with friends, in our home or occasionally out on the town. I’m sure I’m not the only wheelchair user who feels this way. However, due to our accessibility challenges and other health problems, socializing with wheelchair users (WUs) is tricky business. So that you do not become frustrated and avoid us altogether, I offer the following tips to help things go more smoothly when hanging out with WUs.

1. If the proposed venue is not obviously wheelchair accessible, let the WU be the judge. We will conduct an investigation and ask the questions necessary to be satisfied one way or the other.

2. Don’t forget that it is not only entrances and general gathering areas that must be accessible. WUs also need an accessible bathroom.

3. When you invite WUs out, we must take into account a variety of issues before deciding on a response. If we decline the invitation, don’t take it personally, and don’t be afraid to ask again next time. Also, if we accept and then decline at the last minute, again, don’t take offense. We may simply be having a bad day.

4. Disclaimer – this step requires an unusual degree of tact and finesse. When socializing, check in with the WU or his companion/caregiver on occasion to make sure that all is well. But don’t overdo this, or it becomes difficult for us to feel at ease with the group.

5. Remember, in a large group it is easier for you to rotate by once in a while and visit with the WU than it is for the WU to circulate and visit with you. I tend to stake out a corner of the room and remain stationary for long periods of time. Make a mental note to seek us out for conversation.

6. Don’t assume that because a WU can’t drink or eat like you that we are not enjoying ourselves. Oftentimes our disability simply doesn’t allow such indulgences. Encouraging us to consume more, although well intentioned, is not helpful.

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

7. Many WUs do not have the ability to raise themselves up to eye level with standing people (I am fortunate to have this feature on both of my wheelchairs). If you want to enjoy quality conversations with WUs, then please pull up a chair. Similarly, when you are in a standing conversation with a group of people, try not to physically exclude the WUs, blocking our line of sight to the rest of the group. You may think your backside is attractive, but in almost every case we would much rather look you in the eye. Open up the circle so the WUs can participate.

8. If the WU needs to leave early, it’s probably not because we didn’t enjoy your company, and there is probably nothing in particular wrong. Paralysis often comes with other health problems that prevent extended socializing. I am grateful for any amount of socializing that I’m able to do.

9. If our accessibility restrictions are simply not going to work with the activities and venues that you have planned, then please don’t invite us in the first place. That’s okay. We’ll catch you next time.

10. Reminisce. Tell jokes. Laugh out loud. We need that. Some of the allure of socializing for WUs is the ability to temporarily forget our troubles. And really, to a large extent isn’t that why everyone socializes?

Let me share with you two quick stories, the first one about a negative social experience and the second about a positive one.

A group of our friends invited Kim and I to go out with them in the downtown district – dinner followed by drinks at nearby establishments (note that my drinks these days are often of the Diet Coke variety). The dinner would be at a restaurant everyone knew to be accessible for me.

The meal was wonderful, but then things became progressively awkward. The organizer of this group is used to socializing in a fluid manner. When downtown, they may have dinner with a few people, and then mutually part ways and have drinks with other people. Maybe they’ll even meet up with the original group later. But on this night there were two couples in the group who we don’t see enough of, and Kim and I really wanted to stay with them for the evening. But the organizer kept pulling the group in a direction that was largely inaccessible for me. I felt that I had made my desires clear, but perhaps I hadn’t.

Eventually a subtle tension developed in the group regarding which type of establishment we would visit next, and this made me extremely uncomfortable. I felt the sudden urge to extract myself from the situation, so I announced to Kim, a little earlier than I otherwise would have, that I was tired and it was time for us to go home.

The above is an unfortunate example of poor communication at best and insensitivity at worst (but knowing the individuals involved I am certain there was no malice). If it seems like socializing with a wheelchair user is always “all about them”, I’m afraid that is largely the case. Believe me, I wish it wasn’t (there’s too much pressure).

Now, let’s consider at a different kind of story. Recently Kim and I were asked to spend a couple of days at a lake house in northern Maine, as I hinted in my previous post. I don’t travel lightly, but we packed up our minivan with all my disability equipment, and we headed north.

One evening, our hosts invited a dozen or so people over for an impromptu party. There were four stair steps between the main floor of the house and ground level, where there was a nice fire pit just a few feet from the water’s edge. After we all huddled in the house for a while to avoid a thunderstorm, the group reached consensus that it was time to build a campfire. I was completely sympathetic to that idea. This was the obvious, fun group activity available to us. Everyone was under the impression that my iBot wheelchair would afford me the ability to join them. Unfortunately, I no longer had enough battery charge to go down the steps, sit by the fire, and then climb back up the steps. I needed to stay in the house. That was unfortunate, because I love campfires. But even more importantly, the last thing I wanted to do was to ruin this group’s enjoyment by having them forego the campfire on my behalf. What to do?

I stayed quiet until a roaring fire had been built. Only then did I let a few folks know about my battery problem, and things just sort of took care of themselves. As if following some master schedule (but of course no such thing existed), everyone rotated through and visited with me in the house, a few at a time. It worked out wonderfully. This situation might have gone wrong in so many ways, not the least of which could have been my risking the stairs on low battery, and finding myself stranded halfway between the ground and the main floor! That would not have been good.

Wheelchair users are definitely high maintenance social companions. Nevertheless, I find that the vast majority of my group outings are highly successful and fulfilling, both for me and I believe for others. If you like, you can cut out my 10 tips above, laminate them, and carry them in your wallet. Or you can just remember this: spending time with wheelchair users requires that all parties exhibit a measure of candor, flexibility, and empathy. In the end, that’s really all you need to remember.

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Wheelchairs are scary. How do I know this? The mothers tell me. They tell me by the way that they pull their children close when they see me coming.

Okay, maybe that’s a bit melodramatic. These mothers may be, after all, protecting me from their snotty nosed little brats. Or they may not be scared of my appearance, but simply want to ensure that their children’s toes don’t get run over. But no matter the reason, I’m never able to pass by their watchful eyes unnoticed.

For most of the day I don’t think about my wheelchair, much like you don’t think about your legs. I usually don’t feel conspicuous when I am out in public. I carry on as if I blend into the landscape like every other person. But I don’t. I am reminded of this when I pass by a mirror or when I look at a photograph of myself in a wheelchair (or I approach a mother with children).

It’s not only from an aesthetic point of view that I temporarily forget I’m in a wheelchair; it’s also from a functional point of view. As I zoom down the aisle in a grocery store, for example, I am not riding in my chair. It is more like I am one with my chair. In fact, I would argue that in situations like this, my method of mobility is superior to yours. I glide as smoothly as a skater on ice, while you plod along in your awkward and primitive bipedal fashion.

Now, back to the issue of appearances…

I expect that when people see me coming, unless they are my close acquaintances, they either consciously or subconsciously take note of something unusual. Given that my wheelchairs are rather large and elaborate power chairs, not sleek manual ones, I stand out even more. Depending on someone’s ease and comfort with people in wheelchairs, they may experience any of a number of emotions ranging from pity to compassion to discomfort to indifference. But no matter how they feel, they almost certainly see a metal and plastic contraption coming towards them. If we don’t interact with one another, then that’s largely all they see.

I like to think, however, that if we make eye contact or especially if we speak to one another, then my leviathan transportation device fades to the background, and the essential person who I am emerges in the foreground. This remains the case for as long as we interact. As they watch me pull away, I wonder how long it takes them to be reminded of my differentness.

In fact, when Kim and I walk the neighborhood together and I’m in my Invacare wheelchair, before we leave the house I have her remove my headrest. I like the headrest because it allows me to fully recline in the wheelchair when I am at home. But I also understand that it makes me look that much more disabled when it is attached. Moving about without the headrest renders me ever so slightly less scary and more approachable.

Of course, the iBot is a whole ‘nother thing. Typically I am in balance mode when I’m out in public. I’m asking for attention; I’m pretty much begging for it. You can’t help but notice me. In fact, it’s amusing to see how hard people try not to stare. But Kim confirms for me that they gawk shamelessly after I pass by. My attitude when I’m in the iBot is that, yes, it’s a big scary contraption, but it’s almost certainly the most interesting thing you’ll see that day. The mothers hold their children (or cubs) especially close when I pass by in balance mode, but who can blame them.

I’m not finding fault with healthy people. I’m the same way. If I see someone who appears unusual for any number of reasons, I can’t help but take note of them, and I can’t help but at least entertain my various biases about their particular appearance.

It’s an extra burden that handicapped people must carry. We don’t blend in, and we can’t hide in the crowd. That’s all the more reason we should try to smile as much as possible and interact in a positive manner with the people around us – it facilitates the lowering of these artificial barriers.

The Earth resides in a Goldilocks zone – the temperature is just right. If our orbit was any further from the sun then all water on the planet would be in the form of ice, and life probably couldn’t exist. If our orbit was any closer to the sun then any water would be in vapor form, and life probably couldn’t exist.

Most people with MS expend considerable effort to seek out and occupy their own, personal Goldilocks zone. If the ambient temperature is too low in our homes or on our streets, certain problems like spasticity crop up. If the temperature is too high, all sorts of bodily functions can go on the fritz. I’ll explain how this plays out for me.

Before MS I welcomed the dramatic change of seasons that we experience in Maine. I had passionate outdoor interests geared for every month of the year, such as snowmobiling in the winter and golfing in the summer. You can read about my snowmobiling here and golfing here.  Obviously, for reasons that have nothing to do with temperature, I can’t enjoy these outdoor activities anymore. Not only that, but it’s difficult for me to even go outside at all in the winter. When my body temperature drops, my spasticity increases. The net effect is that instead of my feet staying nicely in the foot pedals of my wheelchair, my legs stick out semi-straight. I do go out in the winter, but only on the warmer days or when I am getting in the van to go to another climate controlled venue.

But the bigger issue for me, and for most people with MS, is my heat sensitivity. When we should be celebrating the arrival of spring, with its warm breezes, blossoming flowers, and green grass, we are instead fearful of temperatures rising above the mid-70s. We reluctantly huddle in our houses with the shades pulled or the air-conditioning cranked. I wrote about last summer’s distress here.

Each person’s reaction to high ambient temperatures is different. For me, I suffer from a general sluggishness. I get weak and tired and probably a little grumpy. I can endure the heat for short periods of time, but if I overdo things I am fairly useless for several hours.

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In the United States there are a wide variety of climates. Shouldn’t people with MS consider seeking out and then moving to that ideal climate – one where it never gets too hot in the summer or too cold in the winter? Theoretically, yes. However, the only place I’m aware of with comfortable temperatures year-round is the coast of California, but who can afford to move there? I live in coastal Maine, and I couldn’t imagine relocating anywhere south of here on the East Coast. I can barely deal with the summer temperatures that we have.

For years I suffered throughout the summer. The only air conditioner we had was a window unit in our bedroom. On the hottest, most humid days, I would retreat there with my computer and my television. This year, I could bear the indignity no longer. We parted with more money than we can afford in order to purchase a ductless central air-conditioning system. Our house is configured such that one of these units can do the job for both my living area and my bedroom. Each day this summer I have looked at the outside temperature and the inside temperature, and decided if it is an air-conditioning day. I don’t hesitate for a second to pull the trigger on my A/C’s remote control.

I asked for and received a letter from my doctor indicating that the purchase of this air conditioner was a medical necessity. That means the cost of the unit will qualify as a tax-deductible medical expense. Don’t get too excited, though. The rules for deducting medical expenses don’t always result in actual tax savings. A complete explanation of this tax code cluster-fuck will have to be the subject of a future blog post.

I resent the fact that I am as confined to the inside of my home during these mid-summer days as I am during the harsh winter months, but at least this year I’ll remain comfortable and relatively energetic for the duration of my house arrest.

I have created my own, personal Goldilocks zone.

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Here are some links to peruse for more information about MS and heat sensitivity:

http://www.nationalmssociety.org/about-multiple-sclerosis/what-we-know-about-ms/treatments/exacerbations/heattemperature-sensitivity/index.aspx
http://ms.about.com/od/signssymptoms/a/heat_intoleranc.htm
http://mssociety.ca/en/information/symptoms_mng_uhthoff.htm

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

One day last week during a transfer from the toilet seat to my wheelchair, I felt my body suddenly pitch forward, and I knew I was fucked.

It had been a couple of years since I had fallen. Back when I was a semi-walker, cane user, or scooter rider, I would fall more frequently because I was upright more frequently. Now that my only two positions in life are sitting or lying down, I rarely fall. It’s one of the paradoxical benefits of my creeping paralysis.

My most complicated transfer is that one from the toilet to my wheelchair. It is the long division of transfers, the Rubik’s Cube of disabled maneuvers. My movements are well practiced, however, and when properly executed this process goes off without a hitch. At this house, with this toilet, I enjoyed an unblemished record until last week.

The critical step in the process is when I reach with my left hand for the left armrest of my wheelchair. When that connection is made, all I need to do is pivot my body a little and drop backwards into the chair. Once, about six months ago, my hand slipped off the arm rest, but fortunately I fell right into the wheelchair. I wasn’t so lucky this time.

When my hand missed the armrest my entire body began nose-diving toward the hard bathroom floor. There was nothing for me to do except mentally brace for impact. I landed flat on my front side. I was somewhat shaken up from the fall and literally buzzing from the shot of adrenaline coursing through my veins. Nevertheless, I calmly began to solicit status reports from different parts of my body. I noted several areas of discomfort and irritation. Amazingly (if I was religious I might say miraculously), I didn’t sense any significant pain. Apparently, I had survived the fall very well.

As luck would have it my son Zach was home on his college break, and he responded to my request for assistance. The first thing I asked him do was pull up my pants so that my bare ass was no longer exposed. I’m not sure which of us was more relieved when that was taken care of. Next, I had him roll me over on my back and place a pillow behind my head. I reached in my shirt pocket, pulled out my cell phone, and called Kim at work. I knew that it would take two people and some ingenuity to get me back into my wheelchair.

The three of us brainstormed for configurations that might get me off the floor. Zach and Kim did some pulling and tugging on me, but it always resulted in pain in my shoulders or lower back. My body has become very stiff over the years, and any pressure applied in an unusual direction is not well received. Eventually I remembered that after my mother passed away five years ago we had taken possession of her portable Hoyer lift. My mother was a quadriplegic and used this device to transfer from her bed to her wheelchair and back again. I thought that someday I might need it for my own routine transfers. That day hasn’t arrived yet, but it was time to try out the Hoyer lift to solve this particular conundrum.

Kim and Zach rummaged through the attic and the shed, found all the parts, and assembled the unit. Kim rolled me on my side and laid the canvas sling under my butt. Ever so slowly Zach worked the lifting lever while Kim supported me. It wasn’t pretty – we didn’t really know what we were doing. But eventually I was high enough so that we could slide the wheelchair underneath me, and release the lift. We uttered a collective sigh of relief. Kim went back to work. Zachary went back to his video games. I went back to my beloved computer.

Perhaps a normal person would have been flustered, embarrassed, or disheartened by this experience. I’m glad that I’m emotionally stunted and not a normal person. As I’ve written before, I have a genetic predisposition toward emotional resilience. For example, at several points in the Hoya lifting process, much to Kim’s annoyance, I would call a time-out and have Zachary shoot a picture with my iPhone. Even in that stressful situation I was thinking ahead to this future blog post. In my mind, I imagined I would come off as outwardly composed and reasonably handsome throughout the whole episode. However, the photos instead revealed an old, fat guy who looked and felt like a beached whale. So I deleted them all. MS has taken so much from me, but a smidgeon of vanity remains.

So, how far have I fallen? An isolated event such as this one doesn’t necessarily signify new disease progression. In fact, given the complexity of this transfer, a fall was statistically overdue. I’ll simply try to be more careful during that critical part of the transfer, and maybe buy a couple more years before I fall again. If I’m wrong, and I am losing my ability to execute this transfer safely, then we’ll simply need to get creative. It won’t be the first time or the last time we’ve done that.

That’s the name of a blog I just found, thanks to my friend Alice. Dr. Rob Lambert, a primary care physician and the author of Musings of a Distractible Mind, lends us his unique perspective.

In most doctor-patient relationships, there exists an invisible wall. Although we generally admire our physicians, we often find them aloof, unapproachable, and hurried. It turns out that doctors are actual human beings, and they have fears and frustrations of their own. I don’t think the inherent problems with our medical/industrial complex lie with either doctors or patients. Dr. Lambert agrees, and in his most recent post, entitled “Doctor Scum Bag”, he lays the blame where it belongs.

…In our health care system we have a business where both ends of the transaction are miserably unhappy. 99% of doctors hate the health care system, and the 1% who like it are the ones to avoid. Patient dissatisfaction is nearly as high, skewed downward by people who have grown so used to the terrible system we have that they now see “terrible” as “average.” Is there any other business where both consumer and those providing the product are so unhappy? The reason for this is that someone else is shaping the system: the payers. 

I must admit, I am not sure how this can be fixed in any way other than a total disruption of the current system and replacement with one that is centered on people, not problems, on communication not documentation. Until we have a system that doesn’t reward sickness, sickness will be the reward we reap. I left the system because I didn’t think there was any way to continue practicing good care in it. While my new practice is far from perfect (consider the source), at least I am rewarded for taking time with people. 

To have any chance at building better relationships between doctors and patients, we need to face the painful reality that our system corrupts even those with the best intentions. So, I guess that would make it a “scum-care” or “health-scum” system? The sooner we face our ugly reality, the more the chance of bringing the focus back to where it should be: caring for patients… 

(click here to read the entire post)

In another post entitled “A Letter to Patients with Chronic Disease”, he writes:

Dear Patients: 

You have it very hard, much harder than most people understand. Having sat for 16 years listening to the stories, seeing the tiredness in your eyes, hearing you try to describe the indescribable, I have come to understand that I too can’t understand what your lives are like. How do you answer the question, “how do you feel?” when you’ve forgotten what “normal” feels like? How do you deal with all of the people who think you are exaggerating your pain, your emotions, your fatigue? How do you decide when to believe them or when to trust your own body? How do you cope with living a life that won’t let you forget about your frailty, your limits, your mortality? 

I can’t imagine. 

But I do bring something to the table that you may not know. I do have information that you can’t really understand because of your unique perspective, your battered world. There is something that you need to understand that, while it won’t undo your pain, make your fatigue go away, or lift your emotions, it will help you. It’s information without which you bring yourself more pain than you need suffer; it’s a truth that is a key to getting the help you need much easier than you have in the past. It may not seem important, but trust me, it is. 

You scare doctors… 

(Click here to read the rest of this post)

Good stuff! I expect that I’m going to enjoy the musings of Dr. Lambert for a long time.

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I don’t even know if disability retirement is the correct term, but that’s how I usually describe the fact that I no longer work. Actually, today is the four-year anniversary of my last day at the office. I believe this milestone gives me the right and perhaps the obligation to stand on my soapbox and editorialize for a moment.

The creeping paralysis that I’ve endured over the past 12 years has taken its toll. But no loss was more acute than being considered fully employed one day and completely and permanently disabled the next. Of course, that is not how chronic diseases really behave, but it is how disability policy does. My transition out of the workplace should have been a slow, gentle process. Maybe I’ll write about that in more detail later, but it’s not the primary objective of this blog post.

Other than its somewhat arbitrary date, my transition into disability retirement couldn’t have gone better. I had several things in my favor. First, I worked for a company which offered long-term disability insurance as part of their benefits package. Therefore, I now receive more income than people who rely solely on Social Security disability checks.

Second, Kim has a secure job with a good salary. This means that we still have enough combined income to maintain a comfortable lifestyle and enjoy a certain amount of financial security.

Third, Kim’s medical insurance policy covered me for the 2½ year waiting period between the time I stopped working and the time I qualified for Medicare. That’s right – when you become so sick that you can no longer work, and you subsequently lose your medical insurance which was provided by your employer, Medicare waits 2½ years before stepping in. That makes a lot of sense.

Fourth, the medical benefits I receive through Kim’s insurance will continue to supplement my Medicare policy until she retires. As anyone over 65 years old knows, Medicare falls short of complete coverage in many respects, not the least of which is prescription drug coverage.

I am, however, the exception to the rule. Most people who take disability retirement because of multiple sclerosis or similar chronic conditions are not as fortunate. Many such individuals find themselves without affordable medical coverage for the first 2½ years and without adequate income for the rest of their lives. And these hardships occur when things have never been worse, medically or financially. Their cost of living has skyrocketed because this is such an expensive disease to live with. It’s not only the costs of doctors, hospitals, and medicines. There are also the expenses associated with mobility devices such as canes, scooters, wheelchairs, and vans, not to mention home health care workers, roll-in showers, ramps, and grab bars, if not an entirely new house.

For a well written, first-hand account of what I describe above, please read my friend Muff’s blog post here.

No other developed nation treats their most disadvantaged citizens so callously. It’s no way for people to live in the 21st century, in the world’s richest country. We are better than this.

I believe that most people aren’t even aware of how weak our social safety net is for people with chronic diseases. I certainly wasn’t until I became well-versed in these issues out of necessity about four years ago.

In the current political environment, government austerity measures seem inevitable. We are only debating the severity of the cuts, and the new levels of acceptable misery. I would argue, however, that the question regarding benefits for disabled individuals shouldn’t be, “How much less can we get away with doing?” The question should be, “How can we do more?”

The photo to the left is from Mother’s Day, 1972. I’m the pink shirt guy.

My mother passed away in the autumn of 2008, so it’s been five years since our last Mother’s Day together. I’d like to share with you the video gift I gave her that year. It’s hard to know what to get an elderly, quadriplegic woman who is going blind from macular degeneration, but she seemed to enjoy what I threw together.

To learn just a little bit about how amazing my mother was, click here.

Re-watching the video below reminds me how fond I was of my old neighborhood, how hand-cycling used to make me feel so alive, and most of all, how much I miss my mother.

Click here for the YouTube version of this video.

It’s not as if I’m a prisoner all winter. Even in the cold months I manage to leave the house often, either in my minivan or by negotiating the neighborhood snowbanks in my wheelchair. But travel becomes purely utilitarian. It’s about getting from point A to point B in the least painful way.

Today, I set out with the intention of picking up a prescription at the pharmacy. My wheelchair was set in high gear so as to minimize time spent away from the house, and my mind was singularly focused on the task at hand. But only seconds before being engulfed by the sliding glass doors of the supermarket, I had an epiphany.

For the first time since, I don’t know, November, it was pleasant enough that I could stay outside simply for the sake of staying outside. I spontaneously morphed into summer mode, where it’s perfectly acceptable and generally advisable to take the scenic route. So I did just that, and it was cathartic. (I hope that my spontaneous metamorphosis did not frighten any bystanders.)

For the next six months or so, I shall endeavor to be aimless whenever possible.

Here are some pictures from today’s wandering:

One of several walking/biking paths near my house.

My view of Maine’s largest city, Portland, as seen from South Portland, near my home. Note how the buds are just now emerging on the trees.

And for the first time this year Kim drove her Vespa to work. I didn’t get a picture this morning, but here’s one from last year.

A couple of weeks ago I received an email from Lauri Wolf, whom I had never corresponded with before. She indicated that she had been reading my blog, and proceeded to quote me from a February post where I lamented the lack of attention given to PPMS in the literature.

“…there’s very little in print that gives more than a passing mention to my particular type of MS…Going forward, if you find any new and interesting books on MS, please let me know.”

In her email, Lauri indicated that indeed she did know of a new and interesting book on MS, because she had just published one on April 1. In her book she chronicles her experiences with PPMS, the particular variety of MS that she and I share. I immediately went to Amazon and purchased the Kindle version. When I finished reading the book I wrote this review at Amazon.com:

“Lauri Wolf has written the MS book that I’ve been waiting to read.

Like me, she has primary progressive multiple sclerosis (PPMS), a particularly disabling form of the disease. Unlike the more common form of MS, relapsing remitting multiple sclerosis, PPMS has seen no medical advancements. Ms. Wolf spent her career as a pharmacist, but is no longer able to work in that capacity. I believe she has found her true calling as a writer.

‘The BS of My MS’ chronicles her life challenges since being diagnosed some 14 years ago. Not only has she battled a creeping paralysis that has rendered her a quadriplegic, but she has dealt with other medical conditions, parenting challenges, marital struggles, and depression. But through it all she has emerged an emotionally and intellectually stronger person. Her secret? It’s all about attitude. For example:

‘Beyond intelligence and common sense, I think the most important survival trait is a good sense of humor. I don’t take myself too seriously and can laugh at myself. I allow myself some leeway, a margin of error, and make sure it’s okay to fumble. If I didn’t, I would be certain to disappoint myself often.’

Her writing is straightforward, brutally honest, and unembellished. It’s the style of writing that draws you into the narrative and ushers you through the pages as if by absorption rather than through the conscious act of reading. I recommend this book especially for those dealing with chronic diseases, but also for anyone interested in reading about the triumph of the human spirit. I’ve read a lot of MS books over the years, but this one is now at the top of my list.”

And I meant every word of it. To visit the book website click here. To order the book at Amazon click here.

Thanks, Lauri, for sharing your story with us. I know you’re already working on book number two, and I look forward to its release.

Life with paralysis is going to be better in the not so distant future. Thanks Stu for sharing this story. Click below.

** Stu’s Views & M.S. News **: Thought control of robotic arms using the BrainGat…: