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BALANCE 5/4/2013 6:53:33 AM
One night last month I fell down for the fourth time. It appears that erratic balance is one of the major, if you will, pitfalls of Primary Lateral Sclerosis. At last, I know precisely what they mean by, I have fallen down and I cannot get up!
Were it not for my stalwart, gracious and care-giving good wife, I would remain, to this day, where I landed on the living room carpet, a midst the overturned upholstered chair, the disheveled end table, and the clothing that was in disarray on my worthless body. Although I outweigh her by seven stone, she was able, after twenty minutes, to get me upright and sensibly seated.
I did not report this incident to the Hospice people as I had been told to do, because, despite my natural frustrations, I was uninjured, except for a couple of minor brush burns on my right knee. My good wife applied a balm and a bandage, and I was as good as new. No phone call was necessary.
We had been watching the BBC original adaptation of Michael Dobbs’s magnificent novel HOUSE OF CARDS; and although we know little about Parliamentarian government, we can certainly appreciate the performance of Richardson (no kin to Sir Ralph) as opposed to that of Kevin Spacey in the later, 13 hour darker American version on Netflix TV (author Michael Dobbs is now Baron Dobbs of Wylye).
Ian Richardson was the sort of Shakespearean British actor whose very speech defies your inattention. (King George V appointed Ian a Commander of the Order of the British Empire; however. he cannot be addressed Sir, as his elevation was not in the first two categories of CBE. Richardson died at age 72 in 2007.)
Dobbs, who was executive producer of Spacey’s costly adaptation, calls it West Wing for werewolves; it will cause many Americans sleepless nights. Do not miss either version — especially if you are an aficionado of good writing and great acting.
Of course, you might think that . . . but I could not possibly comment on it.
The volume was turned way up because we had expected the resident mother-in-law (who is almost 95) to be watching as well — but she was in my office talking on her cell phone. She declared, upon re-entering the living room, Anyway, I do not like that story, admitting that she not only was unaware I had suffered a misstep, but she understood Richardson’s ambition to be Prime Minister less than we did. She made ready for bed.
We watched the TV until the abrupt cliffhanger ended Chapter Three. Too sleepy to view another episode, I took my rug-burned and bandaged knee upstairs (by way of the automatic chair-lift) and made ready for bed myself. I left my trousers in a heap on the bedroom floor.
Sometime during the night my good wife came in and picked up the hastily abandoned clothes — but the trousers, minus the right-hand front suspender brace, were turned inside out when she laid them on the bed; I was unable to put them back on in the morning, notwithstanding my socks, shirt and shorts came on easily, though time was consumed inappropriately.
When I finally came downstairs — an hour later — I discovered there was no milk of any kind (the ancient mother-in-law, as is her wont, drinks only a lactose-free liquid that I sometimes ingest when I am out of skim). But this day all was gone, and the Frig was bare.
Sans breakfast, I began the day, like all others the past five years, at my computer seeking, first off, Comcast Infinity to check my email. There were four or five letters congratulating me on my last column; normally I
get a couple berating me for my liberal views, but not this time. Although I had blasted the federal government quite openly, my responders agreed with me. Say wot, as Ian (CBE) might utter!
Of course, you might think that . . . but I could not possibly comment on it.
My long-suffering, good wife, having helped me get dressed, came down a short while later. I complained bitterly that there was no milk, and she ignored me, muttering, Sorry about that.
I grimaced. Goddamn it, I protested, I have had no breakfast!
She promptly took the dog out. I later heard the car start and leave the garage, perhaps to get milk. Or take the dog for a ride. Or just get away from me, ingrate and bad fellow that I am. What would I do without her?
There you have it, anyway. The intense saga of a typical night and morning in the life of a victim of PLS.
