Last night my husband and I went out on a spontaneous "date". Following a visit to the car repair shop, we found ourselves near the movie theater and popped in to see the movie, "Jack Reacher" with Tom Cruise. This is a real deal as these days we are much less spontaneous due to...well, you'll see. We knew we were in new territory as this was our first visit to a theater since the ALS diagnosis. (I use a cane to walk and cannot use the restroom on my own.) No problem, right?
Attitude adjustment for certain. First thing in the door we are gloriously assailed with the waft of hot popcorn...Yum! But off limits to me with my present swallowing issues. (The kernels collect at the back of my throat until I inhale them involuntarily and choke...Yikes!) We bypass the snack bar altogether to avoid temptation (and to conserve money).
Next, I look for a "family restroom" and find none. Yikes again.
We've already spent our money and I've got to go...urgently. I look at my husband beseechingly and cannot ask. "Nevermind, I'll be okay." He assures me that he will be right outside the doorway and in I go. My unsteady cane-assisted gait, made worse with urge incontinence, intensifies as I have to travel past several doors before actually locating the handicapped stall. (I need the grab bars to help diminishing leg muscles lift me up from a seated position.) I practically fall into the stall and struggle with the latch (I'm all fumble fingers as the muscles in my hands atrophy.) Victory! I am in! But now I realize I'm wearing jeans and jeans demand manual dexterity. I'm ready to scream and cry in frustration as I toss my cane aside and claw desperately at the top button and miraculously unclasp it. I hook a thumb and coax the zipper down as I "dance" about the stall. Finally, I rip down my jeans and plop down unceremoniously. Mission accomplished. Or is it?
Breathing a sigh of relief, I contemplate how I'm going to get myself back together and out to my husband without exposing myself to strangers. Did I mention that the ladies room is actually empty? And on a Friday night thus nobody to ask for help. I wiggle, grasp, tug and experience more frustration but I get the jeans up enough to cover my backside, strategically moving my purse to cover the fly area and duck walk to the doorway to ask for help. My husband steps heroically forward to save my modesty followed by a gaggle of girls. Yeah, now somebody shows up.
In the theater, we take note of the special handicap seating which affords a place for a wheelchair and a priority seat for a guest or caregiver. It is nice that this is available but the reserved spot is at ground level and to the far right. Definitely not a favored spot on my hit parade. On this visit I chose to slowly climb a few wide stairs and move to the center seats, a more preferable choice for me, personally, despite the energy expenditure. Once seated, we enjoyed the last preview of "The Twenty" and were riveted to the screen for an action-packed Tom Cruise flick.
I hope you weren't awaiting a movie review because I'm only willing to say that it was a perfect choice for my husband and I. We were entertained and I finally got to feel somewhat normal for the length of a feature film. Plus, I got to be with my husband on a date instead of feeling like a total burden for a caregiver.
Note to self: In the future, take a girlfriend to help in the restroom or choose a theater with a family restroom.
Attitude adjustment for certain. First thing in the door we are gloriously assailed with the waft of hot popcorn...Yum! But off limits to me with my present swallowing issues. (The kernels collect at the back of my throat until I inhale them involuntarily and choke...Yikes!) We bypass the snack bar altogether to avoid temptation (and to conserve money).
Next, I look for a "family restroom" and find none. Yikes again.
We've already spent our money and I've got to go...urgently. I look at my husband beseechingly and cannot ask. "Nevermind, I'll be okay." He assures me that he will be right outside the doorway and in I go. My unsteady cane-assisted gait, made worse with urge incontinence, intensifies as I have to travel past several doors before actually locating the handicapped stall. (I need the grab bars to help diminishing leg muscles lift me up from a seated position.) I practically fall into the stall and struggle with the latch (I'm all fumble fingers as the muscles in my hands atrophy.) Victory! I am in! But now I realize I'm wearing jeans and jeans demand manual dexterity. I'm ready to scream and cry in frustration as I toss my cane aside and claw desperately at the top button and miraculously unclasp it. I hook a thumb and coax the zipper down as I "dance" about the stall. Finally, I rip down my jeans and plop down unceremoniously. Mission accomplished. Or is it?
Breathing a sigh of relief, I contemplate how I'm going to get myself back together and out to my husband without exposing myself to strangers. Did I mention that the ladies room is actually empty? And on a Friday night thus nobody to ask for help. I wiggle, grasp, tug and experience more frustration but I get the jeans up enough to cover my backside, strategically moving my purse to cover the fly area and duck walk to the doorway to ask for help. My husband steps heroically forward to save my modesty followed by a gaggle of girls. Yeah, now somebody shows up.
In the theater, we take note of the special handicap seating which affords a place for a wheelchair and a priority seat for a guest or caregiver. It is nice that this is available but the reserved spot is at ground level and to the far right. Definitely not a favored spot on my hit parade. On this visit I chose to slowly climb a few wide stairs and move to the center seats, a more preferable choice for me, personally, despite the energy expenditure. Once seated, we enjoyed the last preview of "The Twenty" and were riveted to the screen for an action-packed Tom Cruise flick.
I hope you weren't awaiting a movie review because I'm only willing to say that it was a perfect choice for my husband and I. We were entertained and I finally got to feel somewhat normal for the length of a feature film. Plus, I got to be with my husband on a date instead of feeling like a total burden for a caregiver.
Note to self: In the future, take a girlfriend to help in the restroom or choose a theater with a family restroom.
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