As a Multiple Sclerosis patient, it has become necessary for me to reinvent myself. I have ... and continue to ... refuse to lie down and die, or in this case, follow the normally prescribed drugs and treatments that do nothing to defeat my disease. I am not only surviving by pursuing alternatives, I am thriving. I do the things specialists told me I would never be able to do. I walk and hope to one day even run regularly. I retain my cognitive and creative abilities for the pleasure of my readers. Although you may never see me on my daily walk, you are welcome to read my novel(s) and in doing so, come to ask yourself, "How can the 'out of the box' protocol she has followed, help my loved one with an autoimmune disease like Multiple Sclerosis?"

"Park" --maybe

Southern Idaho 1960's
Byline: June Bridger (One of my many aliases)

We lived about 500 yards from the old church. From the first snow until late spring we drove to church. Seems a bit silly now with gas prices well over $3.00 a gallon but my parents had their reasons; a passel of children as in too many to put in seatbelts the youngest barely toddling, cold as in below freezing temps, and dirt roads that were muddy until well into May and then the spring showers came so well, we usually drove.
Of course as we girls approached our teen years we were notoriously late getting ready. It wasn't because of the boys at church; we were related to most of them, the nice looking ones anyway. Who knows why we were always late, the church had a restroom fit for a queen with a mirror covering one wall. I know, I used to wonder how it would break after breaking the one at home. {Cringe}
If you are a churchgoer out in the farming community the fact is that church is your one time each week which affords adults to relate to adults on an adult level without the notorious party-line. Lest you think the women have a corner on this verbal frat party, I share this, my first--very first driving lesson.
Picture a beautiful spring day. It hasn't rained for weeks so the roads are dry, thus most of the family has walked home, including Mom with the younger children. I approach Dad. He is deep in discussion as to how crops are doing without the crop needed rains.
"Dad, um…" I don't stutter, but I think I did that day. "Can we go now?"
Dad hands me the keys with, "You take the car home. I'll walk."
I'm not sure if he forgot which kid I was or maybe how old I was (at the time I was eleven.) Maybe he figured I was like my older brothers, who were both driving tractors since they could reach the pedals.
"Daaaad." You know that sing-song-y voice a kid uses to convey anything from begging to horror? That's the one I used and somehow it got lost in translation 'cause I clearly recall my white knuckles as I peered over the steering wheel, my heel, all inch and a half of it, caught under the gas pedal. I honestly don't remember the drive, just the screaming of tires as I pulled into the yard, and the slamming on the brakes with both shoeless feet in order to stop before I hit the 500 gallon gas tank. Not sure I even put it in "park."

 [s1]Good Old Days 6/18/14
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