Red Tape, Duct Tape & The Wheelchair Vortex

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When you’ve got a rare and complex disability like Spinal Muscular Atrophy, time can be a very precious commodity— like diamonds, Labradoodle puppies, or a really good Wi-Fi signal. Since many everyday tasks can take us longer to complete (like showering, eating, and getting dressed), we tend to budget the rest of our time wisely and carefully. It’s an important skill to cultivate when you have a disability— otherwise you’d never get that term paper done, never balance your checkbook, and never have time to buy laundry detergent at the store.

Along with these everyday tasks, life with a complex disability comes with a lot of hidden bureaucratic demands that take up time. Between filling out on-going forms for Social Security and state services, to coordinating between various caregivers, doctors and therapists, to following up on medications and equipment, it’s a vortex of bureaucracy that keeps our lives in motion.

The time it can take to attend to this red tape is daunting. You know the hours it can take to prep and cook an entire Thanksgiving dinner? That’s a LOT of time, right? Imagine having to do that several times a month— even when you’re tired, sick, or just want to lay in bed and watch people get decapitated on Game of Thrones. That’s what it is often like for us. Plus, we don’t even get any leftover turkey out of the deal (which is totally lame because I love leftovers!).

Recently, I’ve had an extra bundle of fun (can you sense my sarcasm?) added to my usual list of bureaucracy. This task is at the top of my list of The Most Dreaded Of All Tasks. In fact, I daresay it is the veritable Mount Everest of tasks a cripple like me must climb. And I don’t say this lightly because I literally can’t climb anything at all.

It’s the Trying-To-Get-A-New-Power-Wheelchair-Vortex-Of-Hell.

Sure, it might sound exciting to get a new custom power wheelchair— to get a bright shiny new model with fancy features and leather upholstery that smells like a pretentious Italian shoe. But, a new wheelchair ain’t a Prius (even though it can cost nearly as much). They are also not so interchangeable as to be simply a matter of budget, taste and style.

As I’ve written on this blog before, these wheelchairs are built to our specific measurements and our medical need. They are designed to maximize independence and health. They are the very tool of life. And, when you have a complex disability like SMA, a small change in a wheelchair design or an error in a measurement for the seating can mean the difference between sitting comfortably to having a pressure sore on your buttocks. It can mean the difference between being able to drink a glass of water independently to not being able to reach the table at all. So, a lot can ride on these devices and making sure they are fit appropriately.

That’s a lot of stress— and a lot to add to our already-busy plate. So, it’s not surprising that we’re often not eager to get a new wheelchair when we’ve still got one that works well. But, as time goes on, it can become difficult to get parts and do repairs. Plus, I can’t speak for every disabled person, but I’d rather not go too long with a decrepit wheelchair that’s only held together by loose wiring, duct tape, and human stubbornness. (I think we’ve got enough of that in the White House).

So, every 7 or 8 years, I begin this process anew. Given the price tags on these custom wheelchairs, insurance companies don’t make it easy to qualify for coverage. There are many hoops that a person must jump through to get a power wheelchair. This is ironic because most of us that need these devices literally can’t jump at all.

First, my doctor must reestablish my need for a power wheelchair and reverify my disability. This is despite the fact that I’ve been this way for 37 years. It’s as if they fear that my genetic condition is going to suddenly disappear into thin air— like Lori Loughlin’s career.

Second, I must be seen by a special neuro physical therapist that will do a head-to-toe functional assessment— which must corroborate my doctor’s findings and include an analysis of whether my mental state is good enough to operate a wheelchair without driving myself off a cliff.

(Even though this process makes that very, very tempting.)

After that, my doctor has to verify the special neuro-physical therapist’s evaluation and that it’s in full agreement with his recommendations. He then sends it all to the DME company, which is in charge of fitting me for the new wheelchair and making sure it’s functional.

I’m fortunate that I have a long and positive relationship with my local DME (durable medical equipment) provider, Alan. He has been very accommodating and helpful to me over the years. He’s put up with my tears of frustration, my harassing phone calls, and my complaints about how ugly all their wheelchair paint color options actually are.

Insurance companies don’t make this process easy for DME providers, either. To be frank, they make it a giant pain in the ass, which has driven many DME companies out of business, which in turn makes it hard for disabled folks like me to get our rickety wheelchairs repaired or replaced.

It’s the red tape nightmare that just keeps on giving— like a bad case of shingles.

Anyway, Alan came over a few days ago and we came up with an initial plan for my new wheelchair. This plan basically consisted of me pleading desperately:

“Alan, make the new chair exactly the same as this chair. Seriously. Like not even a centimeter difference. Okay? You know the old fable, ‘The Princess & The Pea?’ I am the Princess. Trust me, I will know if there’s a pea under the mattress…..Umm, why are you laughing? I’m not kidding. I am the Princess. There will be no PEA in this WHEELCHAIR!

Realizing I sounded slightly deranged, I coughed, and added:

“By the way, would you like a cup of coffee? Perhaps you might need it now.”

And that’s basically how that initial consult went.

It’s now up to Alan and his team to gather all his notes, the paperwork from my doctor, the assessment from physical therapist, and to combine it all together to submit for insurance approval. Every “T” must be crossed, and every “i” must be dotted. If it isn’t, I will have to begin the process again— the idea of which makes me want to cry.

Here’s hoping the duct tape will hold out until then, though.

Wish me luck — And stay tuned for updates!

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Icebergs, Firefights & Winning #9

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Getting sick when you have SMA is not a fun experience, as I’ve discussed previously on numerous occasions. The tiniest cold can turn our lungs into a swamp of mucus, and recovering from, even such a minor illness, can take longer than a steamship voyage across the Atlantic. And that’s assuming there are no icebergs lurking in the water that could sink the ship— or, worse, yet, send us to the hospital for IV antibiotics. It’s a dangerous ocean out there, even without German U-Boat torpedoes.

So, it’s easy to imagine that if the illness is more than a cold— things can become serious very quickly. Recently, I was threatened with such an iceberg. A Titanic-sinking hunk of Influenza— the most dreaded of respiratory viruses. The little bastard that attacks during the night, overwhelms your defenses, and turns Leonardo DiCaprio into a blue icicle.

As soon as it hit, I knew exactly what it was— and the danger it posed to me. I had prepared for this moment, and didn’t take it lightly. Keeping my lungs clear was my top priority. I would sacrifice sleep and rest (the two things most needed when you are ill), just to keep those airways pliable and open. I would do anything to get the mucus out. Literally anything.

So, I leapt into action. I pulled out all my respiratory devices. CoughAssist. BiPAP. Nebulizer. And I started my emergency influenza protocols. Tamiflu. Zithromax. Prednisone. Albuterol. I had trained well for this moment. I was like those Paris firefighters that protected the Notre-Dame Cathedral. I was not going to let the whole structure fall apart.  Sure, I knew my roof was made of really old wood covered in medieval pigeon shit. That just meant I was going to have to work extra hard to save the good bits of the building. But, it was definitely worth saving. If cranky French revolutionaries couldn’t defeat me in 1789, I wasn’t going to let a fire do it. Mon Dieu!

The following days passed in an exhausting whirlwind of respiratory care. Given the complexity of SMA, we can most often receive better care at home than in the hospital. You might find this surprising, but most local medical professionals have little to zero experience with a patient with a rare neuromuscular disability, like SMA. So, hospitals can be very dangerous for us. We have learned this the hard way. So, we have to become our own advocates and our own resources. And our doctors become our partners and colleagues… we teach them sometimes more than they can teach us.

It wasn’t long before my bedroom began to resemble a respiratory care unit. And I personally resembled the little green Mucinex monster from the commercials on TV. I was green, gross and contagious. Frankly, I was my own worst nightmare.

And, I was exhausted. Coughing and keeping my lungs clear became a full-time job. The kind of job with lots of overtime and no weekends off. The really, really sucky kind. In fact, I was so exhausted that I took to blending my food so that I wouldn’t have to waste energy eating and chewing. Every ounce of my strength was devoted to respiratory care and I needed to maintain the nutrition and calories to do it. Yes, I really was that committed. And, yes, blended food actually tastes exactly the same as non-blended food. For example, a blended Chile Relleno still tastes exactly like a non-blended Chile Relleno. (Unfortunately, it does look like baby poop, though.)

As my efforts slowly yielded positive results, this didn’t stop the mental toll from weighing heavily on me. The anguishing rotating schedule of BiPAP, CoughAssist and Nebulizer— in between drinking my meals and trying to rest— was relentless. There wasn’t even much time for Netflix, which says a lot because I can always find time for Netflix.

Emotionally, I struggled. I cried, even (which wasn’t wise because it made me even more snotty and gross). I had nightmares about really scary things. Like going to the hospital… being put on a breathing tracheotomy that took away my ability to speak… and, worst of all, Donald Trump tweeting even more than he already does.

After two weeks, I began to see the light. I could go stretches of time without coughing. My doctor noted that my lungs were improving. I was eating solid food again. I stopped dreaming that Robert Mueller was kidnapped by Boris and Natasha.

Things were looking up.

And then, last week, I made it to Stanford to receive my 9th injection of Spinraza. It was just the boost that I needed. A physical boost, but perhaps even more importantly, an emotional win.

In the days since, I feel my strength slowly returning. It will take time for me to get back to my pre-iceberg self, but I just need to be patient.

Wish me luck!

(PS: If you need to find me, I’ll probably be watching Netflix.)

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Inclusion & Integration — Everyone Wins

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(This piece originally appeared today in The Patterson Irrigator.)

Recently, this newspaper chronicled the story of Owen Tyler— a seventh grade student with Down syndrome that is an active and valued member of the Creekside Middle School wrestling team. A video from one of his matches went viral online, highlighting the story of his inclusion in school and community activities. When I saw the video myself, it made me smile. After all, where there is inclusion, all humanity thrives and flourishes.

I would like it if we lived in a world where stories like Owen’s became commonplace. That inclusion became the rule, not the exception. That videos like the one from his wrestling match became so ordinary that there would be no need for it to be on television news.

As a disabled adult, I can attest to the importance of inclusion. I spent my youth mainstreamed in school classes and welcomed in extracurricular activities. This allowed me to grow and shaped the adult I would become. Further, I learned that each diverse voice counts, and that includes disabled voices like mine. Like Owen’s.

We must remember that inclusion of disability doesn’t end in childhood— it must continue on into our later years, too. After all, we spend much more of our lives as adults than we do as children. So, as a society, we must commit to this principle. We must value these life experiences and the importance they bring to society at-large.

The disability community is the only community of which anyone (regardless of age, race, gender, and income) can suddenly find themselves a member. An illness, an accident, the effects of age, can all lead someone to become disabled. At any time. This is why valuing inclusion is so important. Because there’s a good chance that it could affect you, or someone you love dearly, at some moment in life.

There is a bipartisan bill sitting in Congress right now called The Disability Integration Act (S.117, H.R. 555). It seeks to secure the Constitutional right to liberty for disabled people and seniors who want inclusive lives in the community. It wants to help aging seniors and the disabled stay in their homes. It seeks to save millions of federal and state dollars by avoiding expensive institutionalization, which is far costlier and less-effective than home- and community-based services. But, most of all, it seeks to make the spirit of inclusion part of the law.

This bill needs public support to help it move forward. So, I urge you to learn more about The Disability Integration Act. Talk to your elected representatives. It could make a big difference to you and the future of your loved ones— whether you realize it now, or not.

After all, where there is inclusion, all humanity thrives and flourishes. Just ask Owen.

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Assessments, Zombies & The Cost of a Life

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Every few months, as part of my Spinraza journey, I go to Stanford Neuroscience for a full day of physical and respiratory assessment tests to measure my progress— and my overall health. These tests are important for research purposes and to learn more about Spinal Muscular Atrophy and how it may respond to these revolutionary new treatments, like Spinraza. I’m fortunate to have an outstanding medical team at Stanford and they are really “writing the book” on SMA treatment protocols for adults. In the past, there wasn’t much that could be done to help the underlining medical cause of SMA, but science is currently progressing more than I’d ever thought I’d witness in my lifetime. So, it’s an exciting time to have an obscure condition that’s caused by a few fucked-up genes.

People finally seem to have the know-how to address the complicated science behind it. And it’s not theoretical. It’s not science fiction. It’s real— unlike many of the things that we spend so much time worrying about these days. Fake things. Like a zombie apocalypse… Alien abductions… Donald Trump’s tan.

Despite all of these advancements in science, and my excitement to be a part of it all, this doesn’t mean that I don’t get tired of being a cog in the large medical machine. That I don’t secretly (or not so secretly) dread these periodic assessments I must endure. Because I do. I dread it a great deal. Just like I dread how my ass will feel when I’ve eaten too many tacos.

As I’ve shared on this blog, I always get stressed and anxious before these tests. Even though I know much of this pressure is self-inflicted, there’s still the very-real fact that my results, compiled with the results of others, will impact the ability of other SMA adults in this country, and around the world, to have continued access to Spinraza, and future treatments that are coming down the pipeline.

I worry about that. A lot. Because I know that as a result of the high cost of these “orphan drugs,” payers and insurance companies are looking for any reason to limit who gets access to the treatments. Even though the pool of those of us with SMA is already so small, they’d still like to make that tiny pool even smaller. When scientific advancement meets economics, economics wins every time.

Insurance and pharmaceutical companies are already in negotiations about the next batch of SMA treatments and their potential costs. They are calculating the cost of an SMA life. The value of an SMA life. They are using terms in their reports like “quality-adjusted-life-year.” And “value-to-healthcare-systems.” And “how-to-keep-saying-these-mercenary-things-without-sounding-like-assholes.

Access to these treatments is being evaluated on cost, not on who may benefit. Not on the value of the life itself. The looming pressure of this is very real. And, it cuts to the very heart of one central question: What is a disabled life worth—like mine?

Because, in most common societal measures, a disabled life is not worth as much as an able-bodied one. Society reinforces this view every day. And it has for many, many years. It’s been done in subtle ways. Like government policies, lack of community inclusion and accessibility, and in forms of everyday discrimination (which is called ableism). Unfortunately, some of these reminders are actually not-so-subtle.

In fact, sometimes, they slap you in the face.

It wasn’t long after I began writing about my Spinraza journey on this blog, that I received a comment from an anonymous reader. This gentleman lashed out at me for having the audacity and selfishness to think that my life was worth the cost of my treatment. That, because I’m disabled, my life isn’t worth it. That my contributions aren’t worth the added cost.

His ramblings took a nonsensical turn as the message progressed, so I was able to dismiss it and not internalize it as others may have done. But, his overt message spoke to the “unspoken” belief that many have about disability. He said the thing that many may believe, but don’t have the guts to say. After all, this idea is deeply woven in society. It’s why ableism is one of the most common, yet least talked about, forms of discrimination.

All of these thoughts weigh on me with each assessment that I endure. Each weight that I lift. Each paper that I tear. And each measurement that is taken.

In those moments, it suddenly becomes the time for me to “prove my worth.”

My Stanford team has kindly attempted to dissuade me from these anxieties before my assessments. They’ve urged me to not put this pressure on myself. Part of me completely agrees with them. It’s ridiculous to carry such a burden. Just like it’s ridiculous to believe it’s possible to die in a zombie apocalypse.

Yet, despite these assurances, given the society we live in, with its “quality-adjusted life years” being used to measure the cost of my life, and all the outside forces attempting to devalue lives like mine, how could I feel any differently?

It’s really hard not to do so. But, damn it, anyway, I have to try to shed that burden. To push it off my back. Dismiss it. You know, the way a dictator ignores human rights laws? (I’ll let you decide which dictator I’m talking about. There are so many to chose from.)

So, it was with all this in mind, that I rolled into the Neuroscience building yesterday. It was dark and dreary outside, and as the rain threatened to fall, I felt some of the wind come out of my sails. I would just do the best I could. And that’s it. I just needed to keep reminding myself of that.

Four hours later, I was feeling exhausted and ready to head home. I was spent. I had been measured, and then measured again. I was able to lift a small weight and move it in a way I hadn’t been able to do before. I couldn’t tear the paper, though, because unfortunately it was done near the end of the assessment when I had begun to tire. Normally, this would have really annoyed me, but I managed to contain myself. I listened to that new voice in the back of my head that said, “Drop the burden, girl. Just do your best.”

And so I did.

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Further Adventures in Physical Therapy

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A few months ago, I reentered the world of physical therapy after a 20+ year hiatus. Sure, I’ve had the occasional physical therapy assessment during the course of my Spinraza treatments for my Spinal Muscular Atrophy the last couple years. But, nothing on a regular basis since childhood. Over twenty years ago. I know this hiatus was long. Like really long. The kind of hiatus you usually only find in the careers of really famous people. Like Barbra Streisand. Or Betty White. Or, Roseanne Barr before she dumped her career in the toilet again.

I admit, of course, that I brought a lot of emotional baggage with me to my return to physical therapy. I had a lot of painful ghosts in my closet that I didn’t enjoy examining again. (Just as I don’t like remembering all the baggy printed sweatshirts I wore in 1993.) But, I suppose that despite all of that, the important thing is that I returned to physical therapy in the first place. Even if it took a long time. (There’s no forgiving those ugly sweatshirts, though.)

Since the autumn, I’ve been going to sessions with a local PT once a week. Given my eccentric crippliness, I’ve been an academic challenge for my physical therapist, Robbie. Spinal Muscular Atrophy is not a run-of-the-mill knee replacement. Or a case of whiplash. Or a strained shoulder. It’s an all-over-the-body kind of weirdness. It’s like trying to teach music to a kid that can only reach 12 of the 88 keys on the piano. Coming up with a song to play under that kind of limitation takes some skill and imagination. It goes without saying that Mozart definitely won’t be in my repertoire. But, I’d settle for a little… Do Re Mi, maybe?

Luckily, my PT has risen to the occasion. He did some research. He thought outside the box. And, he developed a therapy program that is as eccentric and odd as I am. It features a random assortment of objects and tasks— seemingly like some shit he just grabbed from his junk drawer at home on his way to work. After all, everyone has a drawer like this at home. The kind with paper clips, dried pens, rusty green pennies, and silly putty from 1987.

From the look of my therapy table that first day, though, Robbie’s junk drawer had a different collection of crap. Wooden clothespins. A small cloth Easter basket with a yellow chick on it. A rubber tube that resembles a giant Twizzler. And a travel coffee mug. Junk, nonetheless, but higher-quality junk than I tend to find in my drawer.

Anyway, each session he lines up the clothespins on the edge of the Easter basket and has me pull them off one-by-one. This may sound easy, but I’d like to say for the record that it is not. A surprising number of muscles have to work together to pinch a clothespin, remove it from a rim, and then place it inside a basket. So many tiny muscles that don’t always want to work in unison. It’s hard. I have dreams about these clothespins and that damn Easter basket. The perky baby chick taunts me when I fail. It’s very annoying.

Luckily, the other tasks aren’t so aggravating. We do range-of-motion stretches and exercises to strengthen my torso and neck. Then, we do bicep curls with the giant rubber Twizzler. At the end of the session, I practice lifting the travel coffee mug to my mouth to simulate taking a sip. Robbie puts water in the mug beforehand— but he doesn’t tell me how much so I get challenged by the weight.

Some folks may lift hefty barbells… but, it seems like I can lift an $11 dishwasher-safe container.

The other day, though, my PT had an addition to our session. To work on my neck and torso muscles further, he rigged a red laser pen light on the bill of a baseball cap. He put the cap on my head and then put a bullseye target on the wall. Keeping my posture as straight as possible, I aim the laser onto the target, and work to keep it there as long as I can. It’s way more challenging than you’d think. Imagine a low-tech version of Nintendo’s Duck Hunt. Yet, it’s just as satisfying. Plus, there’s no pixelated dog on the screen to smirk when you lose.

I look forward to seeing what else is in store in the coming weeks. This overall experience has been more fun than I expected at the outset… and not just the moments when I threaten to blind Robbie with the laser. It’s also been challenging, but in a good way… a competitive way. Like when I read War & Peace by Leo Tolstoy a few years ago. It was long and massive, but when I finished it, I was proud of myself. I gave a cry of triumph, “I MAY NOT BE STRONG ENOUGH TO LIFT THIS DAMN BOOK… BUT, I READ IT, ANYWAY. HA!”

If all this wasn’t enough to recommend this experience, though, I’d also like to report that my physical therapist has noticed some subtle improvements as I’ve progressed through the last few months— which is really encouraging. My arms stretch higher. My neck muscles hold longer. And I can lift a whole lot of water in that mug. So, stay tuned for more updates in the coming weeks…

Until then, watch out for my red laser!

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Farewell Pizza Plus

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(Originally printed in today’s Patterson Irrigator newspaper.)

Do you hear the sound of muffled sobs? Yeah, that’s me. It’s the kind of emotion I only feel in very specific circumstances. Like when my childhood hero turned out to be a pervert. (Yes, I’m talking about Bill Cosby.)

It was also when I heard a rumor in middle school that Bonne Bell was going to stop making Dr. Pepper Lip Smackers. This led me to rush to the old Patterson Drug to buy all the tubes left on the shelf. Okay, I admit that this example might be too specific. But, if you’ll notice, there’s a theme to my experiences and the emotional memories of many of us. They are tightly woven to our childhoods.

The recent closing of Pizza Plus, a long-time local business, has been the subject of press in this newspaper. Our estimable publisher emeritus, Ron Swift, added his thoughts in a recent column and he encouraged me to offer my opinions on this subject.

It’s well-known that I’ve often lamented the proliferation of pizza establishments in Patterson in recent years. After all, they’ve popped up with such frequency that my jokes about them just seemed to write themselves. (Unfortunately, the same thing happens to me with Mr. Trump. My sarcasm seems to leak out before I even notice. Like a burp.)

But, that said, my concerns about our town’s collective pizza consumption faded away when I heard the news about Pizza Plus. I felt an instant sadness, which was surprising considering how my stomach feels when I eat too many refined carbohydrates.

Nonetheless, a slideshow of memories flashed in my mind. When Pizza Plus was located in the old theater building (yes, we once had a movie theater in Patterson!), my friends and I would meet there during school vacations. There was a party room in the back that had a large TV and a VCR— you know, the thing that people used before the internet? Anyway, we’d rent a movie from the video store across the street to watch while eating a combination pizza with extra ranch dressing. We’d split the bill using the crumpled bills and ragged change in our pockets. The only hiccup was the glass window that opened the room to the rest of the restaurant— allowing anyone to see exactly what you were watching on the big TV.

It’s important to note that a big screen TV in 1998 meant only a 32-inch square of viewing space. Nonetheless, this was still large enough that if we had a video that was rated more than PG-13, my friends stood up in front of the glass window partition to block people in the restaurant from seeing us watch Brad Pitt take off his clothes.

These memories were joyful, simple and sweet— so, to me, the closing of Pizza Plus feels like saying goodbye to an old friend. It’s important to note that Pizza Plus did a lot for our local community through the years, too— by supporting school activities and club fundraisers, and being the first employer of dozens of eager teenagers. Small businesses like these support a community in a way that corporations and franchises simply cannot.

The loss of Pizza Plus leaves a void. So, I’d like to call upon the other 612 pizza establishments in town to step up their game. What can you do to make Patterson a stronger community? What role can you play to help our schools? After all, we need more from you than just cheesy breadsticks.

So long, Pizza Plus. Thanks for the memories.

2018: The Year in Review

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The year 2018 was a year of contrasts— both here at home, and the world over. Amazing heights of joy and emotion were seen— followed by lows of discord and weirdness. You don’t have to look far to see these contrasts in action. For example, after much international pressure, in June, Saudi Arabia finally granted women the right to drive a car. Unfortunately, any ‘brownie points’ this move earned the Saudi government were quickly squashed four months later when they murdered a Washington Post journalist. While the Saudis have denied this, everyone knows that they are lying. Just like everyone knows that the one person that denies farting at the dinner table is always the one that did it.

Here in Patterson, we are not immune to the odd dichotomy seen in 2018, either. Both our amazing PHS varsity and junior varsity softball teams won conference titles with undefeated regular seasons. This is badass. Unfortunately, it was also announced this year that we are getting yet another pizza establishment in Patterson— to go along with the 95 places that we already have. So, while the girls’ championships bring much joy to our hearts, the advent of more refined carbohydrates isn’t good news for our colons.

In the international sphere, though, 2018 was a very successful year for dictatorships. Kim Jong-un burst onto the stage with meetings with Donald Trump and also by crossing the border into South Korea— where he quickly discovered that Dennis Rodman is far less famous than he thought.

China’s leader, Xi Jinping, strengthened his control over the nation by getting term limits abolished so that he can serve as “President for Life”— a position that comes with a really good dental plan. Forbes Magazine ranked Xi Jinping as 2018’s most powerful person in the world, a position previous held by Vladimir Putin.

Speaking of Putin, in March, he was reelected to a fourth term as Tsar— err, I mean President of Russia. In this hotly contested race, his only competitor was a Muppet.

In the world of sports, 2018 saw the Winter Olympics held in the mountains of PyeongChang, South Korea. It featured many dangerous and icy sports that no one understands. Norway won all the metals because most of their athletes descend from the Abominable Snowman. Meanwhile, back in the United States, disgruntled NFL football fans decided that ‘having principles’ meant they would set their own shoes on fire.

In further national news, the Dow Jones Industrial Average, often used as a measure of the strength of the US economy, bounced around this year, from awesome highs, to terrible lows as 2018 drew to a close. This pattern oddly matched the demand for romaine lettuce and the popularity of Rosanne Barr. I don’t think these things are related, though.

Finally, in digital news, the most popular video game of the year was Fortnite. I suppose it’s better than the Pokémon Go craze of a few years ago. At least no one’s falling off cliffs or getting hit by cars while playing the game. But, Fortnite still has its shortcomings. Thousands of addicted kids are secretly gaming in the classroom on smartphones that they aren’t even supposed to have in school. And if that wasn’t enough, it’s also teaching an entire generation how to incorrectly spell the word ‘fortnight.’ This might be the most upsetting problem of all.

So, I’d like to take this opportunity to remind everyone that the word ‘fortnight’ is actually what you call a two-week period of time. Let’s say your child gets in trouble at school for punching a teacher in the face that’s trying to take away their smartphone. An apt punishment for this behavior would be deactivating their Fortnite account for at least a fortnight.

Lastly, I dearly hope that 2019 brings a little more stability for all of us— and a little less uncertainty. And if we’ve got to eat so much pizza in Patterson, for the sake of our colons, I sure hope we can have some romaine lettuce to go along with it.

After all, 2019 is less than a fortnight away…

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