This won’t be edited until Wednesday morning.
Does anybody remember laughter? No? Well, that’s understandable in light of recent events.* But perhaps you recall the single-drawer cart I assembled in the basement back in November, when I wrote:
I worked on it for a few hours while listening to a library audiobook about Bernie Madoff, taking breaks now and then so my hands (and brain) could rest. Stubbornness made me bristle at the PT’s advice, shared at our first appointment, to stop barreling through physically taxing work and break it into smaller pieces as necessary. But it paid off today and I avoided the stupid mistakes I’m now more prone to when distracted or aggravated.
That’s a lesson I resisted yesterday and my obstinance resulted in six hours of wasted time as I bumbled my way through the assembly of another cart, the same model as before but in slate gray. I’d picked up another two of these carts during a big year-end sale by stacking coupons. One was earmarked for organizing our power stations, cords, and accessories (with a small fire extinguisher thrown in for good measure), which will make it easy for Crankenstein to haul it all out on her own if I’m absent when she needs it. The other will either store hobby gear in my office or tools and auto supplies in the garage.
Yesterday’s assembly should’ve been a breeze: the carts are small, there aren’t many parts, and I had experience under my belt. My self-confidence was overinflated enough that I didn’t bother rewatching the videos that helped me the first time around, nor did I heed the PT’s advice to break tougher challenges into smaller chunks. Giving up early or often would’ve injured my pride, so I kept going and damn near murdered it instead. Part of the problem was the usual disharmony between my right and left limbs — and between my limbs and brain.
The other, more unnerving part was my diminished ability to think methodically or spatially reason. These skills aren’t gone completely, but they’re less accessible now; it’s like the brain I’m used to has become a radio station with spotty reception. Is it a good or bad thing that I’m acutely aware of this? In my most self-pitying moments, I fear a Still Alice scenario in which I see where this is headed and want to avoid it but can’t. How on earth can it take me six hours to do something as simple as this? Afterward, in a release of frustration, I shared some of my newer dementia concerns with Crankenstein.
“I’m not just confusing words now, something strange is happening with names,” I grumbled. “Almost calling Muriel ‘Bailey’ or ‘Bob'” — the names of my previous cats, the former of whom I adopted in seventh grade and had until my late twenties. Muriel doesn’t look or act like either of them. “Almost calling you [by Ex’s name]. Granted, your names are similar, but she preferred silly nicknames. And we’ve been together a long time now, I’ve said your name a million times a day for twice as long as that relationship lasted. You don’t remind me of her and I don’t confuse you with her, other than the name. It makes no sense.”
We went over another odd observation unrelated to paraphasic errors and Crankenstein looked thoughtful, her thumbs flying as she typed something into her phone, probably investigating a neurological hunch she kept to herself.** Then she went back to her work and I went back to my cart and we turned on Mare of Easttown, which we’ve finally gotten around to streaming four years after it captivated critics. Depleted and discouraged following my trolley troubles, I considered not posting here before relenting (due to the usual fears that deviation from this routine might disrupt it), my knuckle still aching — one more annoyance in a day filled with many.
Today, I figured, I’d vindicate myself by doing everything right with the orange cart and rehashing the turgid but ultimately triumphant saga here. Clocking in at 1:39 pm (after unboxing and unwrapping the parts), I made good time in securing the casters to the bottom shelf. It was the top drawer section, and connecting legs to the shelves, that again twisted my head in knots and exposed my left arm’s limitations in strength and dexterity. My fatal mistake this time was one I wouldn’t have made in the past: forgetting to remove the large plastic bin wedged between the top and bottom shelves (to hold up the top) before tightening the screws. The fit was so exact that there was no way to extract the bin without removing the screws and lifting the drawer and top shelf, which I did with a sigh and a few profanities.
By the time I’d corrected the error and reconnected the cart it was 3:48 pm, a fantastic showing compared to yesterday but twice as long as I’d hoped it would take.^ Will this teach me once and for all to slow down, accept my current circumstances, and stop getting in my own way? Probably not.
* It was hard to choose just one example, but of all the catastrophically stupid and contemptible games this administration’s currently playing, cozying up to Russia is the worst and most dangerous.
** Not to give these concerns short shrift, but we don’t know whether any of this is meaningful. As long as my diagnosis remains YOPD, the memory expert said it was possible my cognitive impairments could improve, and even if it’s permanent it might not worsen.
^ Yes, that’s a microwave in the corner of the living room, opposite Muriel’s toy bin; no, we don’t warm Hot Pockets there. (It recently died and is awaiting pickup by a neighbor who recycles scrap metal for beer money.)