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I didn’t invite MS into my life.

No meeting. No handshake. No warning.  It showed up. Sat down on my lap like a cheap dance from the strip club “Pumps”. Rearranged my ikea furniture. Then had the NERVE to act like it belonged!

Before all this, I had plans. Real ones.  Not the kind you say out loud and forget.

Puerto Rico.

A small bed and breakfast near the water. Music low. Drinks flowing. My wife in the kitchen.  Me pretending I knew how to bartend.  Meeting new families and all the while sharing a laugh or two. 

People would arrive heavy.  They’d leave lighter from visiting what I created in my mind years ago. 

That life felt close enough to touch once.

Then MS stepped in and said, “Let’s try something else.” This disease doesn’t knock you out in one shot.  It chips away.  I am talking about hooks to the guts and jabs to the face.  Saving the haymakers for another unannounced day.

Balance goes first. My legs start negotiating with gravity.

Bladder starts making executive decisions without you.  Don’t let that last sentence go over your head, you read correctly.  I piss myself every now and then.  

Your body turns into a group chat where nobody agrees. Now I move through life on wheels.  Not because I gave up.  Because I adapted.  

Big difference.

Let me say something most people I believe won’t admit to.  This kind of life will test your pride.  

HARD!

You go from being the guy who handles everything, to the guy calculating how far the bathroom is.  You start planning exits before you even sit down. You learn what floors matter.  You learn which buildings lie about accessibility.

You learn patience. Not the cute kind.  The kind that gets forced on you.

But here’s the part nobody tells you.  You don’t disappear.  You adjust.

I’m still a husband.

Still a father.

Still a friend. 

Still the same guy who laughs at the wrong moments. I am still that one person who will give truth even if nobody wants to hear it. 

My wife?  She didn’t flinch when I got diagnosed with MS. We’ve been together over two decades.

She signed up for me. Not the conditions.

She jokes. I joke.  We keep it light because the weight is already there.

Love doesn’t get softer in this life.

It gets sharper.

My kids watch all of this. Not the version I wish they saw. The real one. 

They see effort.

They see frustration.

They see the struggle. 

They see me get back up in ways that don’t involve legs.

That matters more than anything I could ever say to them.

Work didn’t stop either.

I still show up.

Still solve problems.

Still deal with vendors, buildings, broken systems, and people who swear something is “urgent” when it’s not.

The difference is I do it with a body that argues back.  Every. Single. Day.

There are moments though.

Quiet ones.

Where I sit there and think about who I used to be. The guy who moved fast. The guy who didn’t think twice about stairs. The guy who had a whole different ending in mind.

I miss him!  I won’t lie about that.

But I’m still here.

And this version of me?

He’s tougher.

Not in a motivational poster way.

In a “you don’t have a choice” way.

I’ve learned to slow down without stopping. To accept help without feeling small.To find peace in places I used to overlook.

MS took things from me. No debate here.  But it also forced something out of me I didn’t know was there.

Perspective.

The kind you don’t get from books or podcasts.  The kind you earn.

If you’re reading this and dealing with your own version of struggle, here’s the truth.  You don’t wait to become who you’re supposed to be.  You become that person right in the middle of the mess.

No perfect timing.

No clean version.

Right here.

I still think about that bed and breakfast.  That dream didn’t die.

It just changed form.  Now it lives in the way I show up. The way I love my family. The way I refuse to disappear.

MS lives with me.

But it doesn’t define the whole house.

I do.

That’s it.

No inspiration speech.

No dramatic ending.

Just me.

Still here

Tuesday Morning Madness: A Comedy of Errors… Or Just Another Day

It’s 9:10 AM, and I’ve already had a full day. And no, not the productive, fulfilling kind of full day…..more like the “I’ve been outside since 6:45 AM because I rely on Access A Ride, and now I’m talking to myself in the cold, wondering where I went wrong in life” kind of day. The type of day where you just wanna say f**k it!…and quit pretending. 

I thought this Tuesday would be a good one. I was wrong. But hey, if you’re a disabled New Yorker depending on paratransit, you probably already know where this is going. If not welcome to the game show I like to call:

“Hurry up and Wait”

It Started Like Any Other Ride…

As any seasoned Access A Ride user knows, you need to be outside early. Not “on time” early….like, “did the sun even rise yet?” early. If you’re not out there, visible and glowing like a neon sign, you’re marked as a no show. That’s right, even if the driver pulls up like a getaway car and takes off before you can wave.

Today, I was smart. Or so I thought. There was a garbage truck blocking my street, so I moved to the corner to make things easier. I saw a van and thought, “That must be my guy!” I hustled back to my building like a caffeinated NASCAR driver in a wheelchair, ready for pickup.

Spoiler alert: It wasn’t my guy. Or was he?

Even worse: My actual driver zipped right by without so much as a glance. I guess he was.

Did he stop? Nope.

Did he even look? Definitely not.

Did he tell dispatch I wasn’t there? You bet.

So now, according to Access A Ride, I’m marked as a “no show.” You don’t wanna accumulate to many NO SHOWS, because AARP will suspend your account. 

Calling the Powers That Be!

So I make the call. You know the one. The “please don’t punish me for someone else’s incompetence” call.

I get a lovely lady on the line (shoutout to her for trying), and I calmly explain my case. Calmly…ish.  

“Ma’am, I was outside, I followed the rules, and the driver didn’t even slow down. That’s not a no show. That’s a no effort.”

Her response? Call back after 8 AM. Try again. Maybe the universe will be more forgiving next time. 

I’m kidding she said no such thing. 

Access A Ride: The Lifeline We Can’t Always Rely On

Here’s the deal: Access A Ride is both a blessing and a burden.

It’s literally my only option some days and for people like me, that means everything.

But let’s keep it real: The service is wildly inconsistent.

Some drivers are cool as hell.

Some are new and trying their best.

Some have clearly been doing this too long and need a break.

And others? Well…

Let’s just say if Satan had a shuttle service, these guys would be doing overtime.

Language barriers? Fine. Everyone’s out here trying to earn a living.

Bad attitudes? Ok fine.

Zero effort? Not acceptable.

It’s not even about the ride sometimes it’s about being treated like a human being who deserves to be picked up, seen, and heard. Not ignored and dismissed

“Service” Should Mean Something

What bothers me most is that Access A Ride often doesn’t feel like a service. It feels like a program a cold, bureaucratic machine on autopilot. The drivers don’t always know how to be of service, and maybe they were never trained to be.

Let’s face it: they’re not hiring based on compassion or awareness. They’re hiring bodies to move other bodies.

But we’re not packages.

We’re people.

The Daily Battle: Good vs. Evil… And My Sanity

Every day with Access A Ride is a gamble.

Will I get the chill driver who’s easy to talk to?

Or the guy who gives off “I’m about to leave you” energy from two blocks away?

Sometimes I’m patient. Sometimes I want to scream.

But most days, I just laugh, because if I didn’t, I’d go nuts. I like to think I’m a professional at being patient… or at least just a few hours shy of certification.

Final Thoughts from the Sidewalk

I got left behind today.

Again.

All because I was standing 20 feet away from a driver who didn’t bother to look.

But I’m still here, writing this blog, doing what I can to shed light on what it’s really like relying on a system that feels rigged against you half the time.

So, to my fellow riders, I say:

Keep showing up.

Even when they don’t.

And to Access A Ride?

Do better.

Because showing up isn’t just our job it’s yours, too.

I took this photo and had AI clean it up for me.  I do that often, you know snapping quiet, random moments on my phone, almost like I’m eavesdropping on life as it unfolds.

I’m drawn to these candid scenes for reasons I can’t always explain. Later, when I scroll back through my camera roll, I like to see what I’ve actually captured. Recently I’ve started to believe the universe slips messages into frames when I’m not paying attention. I might miss them at first, but on the second or third look, something hidden begins to surface.

This one felt like a gentle pat on the back. A subtle wink from the cosmos.

It spoke to me.

And I know this is subjective, but the message was clear:

“You are not invisible. Even when you feel small.”

So let’ me explain what I see in this picture. The man in the photo is alone. Head down. Crossing the street.

That’s me when I move through this concrete jungle. Some days I feel like I’m just passing through unnoticed head lowered, watching every crack in the pavement just so I don’t trip and stumble to the floor. 

What captivates me most in this image is the light slicing between the buildings. It illuminates his path, and he doesn’t even realize it.

MS feels like the traffic….constant. Impatient. In the way.  It doesn’t care how your morning is going.

It honks. It blocks lanes. It reroutes plans without warning.

The city doesn’t stop at least not where I’m from.  Traffic keeps moving.

The sun rises whether you’re ready or not.

This disease moves the same way. No apologies. Always in motion.

I suppose my MS is a New Yorker too.

It never sleeps.

But like the man in this photograph, I am still crossing.

Still stepping forward.

Still here.

I don’t need the world to pause for me to matter.

I only need the next step. 

I promise to keep this post short.

Getting dressed used to take me three to five minutes. Now it takes twenty. What once felt automatic has become a slow ritual of stretching, balancing, and negotiating with my own body. Every morning feels like a long yoga session I never signed up for. I stretch for three minutes just to pull on one sock. Reaching for a shirt feels like holding a peaceful warrior pose that never quite ends.

It is only 7 days into the new year, and already I feel like quitting. Even writing that feels frightening. Am I serious about that thought. Maybe. But I am not ready to give up. I cannot. The cost would be too high for the people who depend on me. I have a beautiful wife, amazing two kids, and three cats who rely on me every day. Our life is not filled with glitz or glamour, but we make it work. Love is our currency, and we trade it for peace and small blessings wherever we can find them.

 woke up feeling different today, though I cannot say better. Nothing has been easy for a long time. I am trying to find an apartment with an elevator or a first floor place where access is simple. Stairs are one of my greatest enemies. Climbing and descending to the second floor is one of the hardest parts of my day.

There are three things that stop me in my tracks every single day.

• Stairs

• Showers

• Getting dressed

Getting into a car is just as hard. Getting into bed is its own challenge. And if something falls to the floor, it is gone. There is no kneeling down to retrieve it. No heroic effort. I just hope someone else will find it and place it in a lost and found, because that is the only way it comes back to me.

This is not a story about giving up. It is a plea to be seen. I am tired. I am scared. And I am doing everything I can to keep going, one slow painful movement at a time

I’ll end with saying I love you and I hope you love me too.

I love you, and I hope you love me too.

You know what it is if you’re here about to read and peek inside my mental and physical health.

I leave this window open.

Here we are at the end of 2025. Some of us are wondering what 2026 will unlock, what challenges might be waiting just around the corner. Maybe I’m not the only one who feels that quiet tension, the uncertainty. Maybe I am. That’s how anxiety works: it sneaks in and tries to get one last word before the year closes out. One last jab to remind me that in this ride called life, we’re both still here, my mind in the driver’s seat, my fears riding shotgun.

There are days I wake up and tell myself, “I can live without you, MS.” And for a moment, I believe it. I start to feel like I’ve got a handle on it. That I’m winning. But then, like a car out of nowhere, it sideswipes me. MS doesn’t knock. It crashes in.

I didn’t invite this disease.

I didn’t neglect my health.

I didn’t do anything to deserve this.

But here it is.

And here I am.

I had big plans. I was standing on the edge of the next chapter of my life, pen in hand, ready to write the story I’d been waiting for. But someone switched the book on me. The plot changed. And no one asked me if I was ready for this version.

I didn’t get to teach my son the way basketball once taught me, how to love a game so deeply it becomes part of your breath. I didn’t get to suit up for paintball with him, both of us a chaotic, deadly duo, the kind that would’ve given our opponents hell. That memory never got to happen.

I probably won’t get to have that father daughter dance when she gets married, the one you always imagine from the moment you first hold her.

Jet skis used to be part of my escape. Now, just the thought of the heat wears me down before I even leave the house. Vacations used to be adventure. Now they feel like recovery missions.

And yet…

I still crave newness.

I still want to level up, even if the level looks different now.

I still chase perspective, even if the view is from a different angle.

Yes, I can still do some of the things I love. But not in the same way. Life now is slower, quieter, and lower to the ground. The altitude has changed, but I haven’t stopped climbing.

That’s what this year has taught me.

MS interferes. It disrupts. It steals.

But it hasn’t stopped me.

I’m still trying.

I’m still pushing.

I’m still smiling, even when I’m running on empty.

If you’re reading this, maybe because you’re fighting your own battle, or maybe because you care enough to witness mine, I just want to say thank you. Thank you for standing beside me, for seeing me, for not looking away.

And to MS…

You may have rewritten parts of my story, but you’ll never own my voice.

You’ll never take my spirit.

I didn’t ask for you, but I’m still here.

And I’m still me.

Bring it on 2026!!!

Yesterday pulled me into a story I didn’t expect. A story that felt heroic and stupid at the same time. A story about bravery, bladder management, and surviving the New York holiday season with MS in a wheelchair.

I had my holiday Christmas party at work. Good people. Good food. Drinks flowing like they were trying to get us all fired. We even played white elephant. I don’t love the name. The whole thing screams “someone’s HR department approved this without thinking.” But whatever, not the point.

I planned ahead. I asked Access-A-Ride to pick me up early so I wouldn’t embarrass myself after a few social drinks. MS plus alcohol is a risky mix. My bladder reacts like it’s in a hostage situation. And I’ve seen enough movies to know company holiday parties end careers.

My ride came.

But I never got a call.

No two-minute warning.

Nothing. Radio silence.

So there I was, stranded in Rockefeller Center during peak tourist season. Streets closed. Police everywhere. Tourists swarming like pigeons with iPhones. The whole place felt like a blitz invasion. And I missed my damn ride.

I knew if I called Access-A-Ride for a rescue van, I’d be standing outside until 2037. So I opened Uber. It showed 135 dollars to get home to Brooklyn. My jaw tried to quit my face. I blinked, closed the app out of pure shock, reopened it, typed my address again… and the price jumped to 150.

I called my wife and said the words no wheelchair user says lightly:

“I think I’m going to take the train.”

My anxiety slapped me across the chest. My muscles locked. My leg refused to bend. But I rolled toward the subway anyway. I took the elevator down to the platform. The station still looked like it hasn’t been cleaned since the 70s. People stared like they were expecting me to perform a miracle.

The train pulled in.

And my wheelchair refused to get on.

Three tries.

Once back. Twice forward.

Total humiliation. Total stress. Total body lock.

Then I made it. I was on. On the damn train. My first time back since becoming a full-time wheelchair commuter. I didn’t care if I was blocking the doors. People could walk around. Consider it their holiday cardio.

My mind fixated on one fear:

“What if the elevator at my stop is broken?”

But the train kept moving. So did I.

When I rolled out at my station, everything felt unfamiliar. I felt like a visitor in my own neighborhood. I had no clue how to exit the station, even though it was accessible. I figured it out eventually, because survival is a skill MS forces you to learn.

Then came the finale.

I had to wheel myself almost a mile home.

In freezing rain.

Through Brooklyn.

With an MS body that already clocked out.

By the time I made it to my front door, I felt scared, vulnerable, exhausted, and proud all at once. I haven’t felt that mix in years. My body was humming with aches. My mind was done with humanity.

I got home around 6:30. Ate dinner. Showered. Stretched. Threw ice on my back. Grabbed my cat. Knocked out.

What a day.

Will I do it again?

Not anytime soon.

Maybe in a true emergency.

Or if Uber raises the price to 300 and I lose all sense of self-worth.

Yesterday showed me something. I can still push into uncertainty. Even when it sucks. Even when I’m scared. Even when my body fights me.

I survived the New York City holiday transit apocalypse.

With MS.

In a wheelchair.

In freezing rain.

That’s enough adventure for a while.

I’m not well. I am not just talking about today.

It’s hard being in this body. I move slow. Slower than anyone my age should.

My knees hurt. Every step sounds like bubble wrap under my feet.

I fight sleep all day, but if I gave in, I’d be out for the rest of my day.

I wake up weak. My body needs an hour before it works the way it should.

Using the bathroom is a race I lose too often.

Not making it on time crushes me.

I never expected this at 47.

My body does what it wants. Farts slip-out. My butt muscles can’t keep it in and together.

I hope it doesn’t smell. I’m usually in public when it happens. I have to walk away like I didn’t do it.

My weight got out of hand. I am close to diabetes.

I’m also one more lazy night away from gaming and probably getting a heart attack.

The physical stuff hits my mind.

I lost my drive to work out.

I don’t feel the point right now.

I forget things.

I leave the kitchen without what I came for.

I leave water behind even when I need it.

I go through this checklist:

Do you need water

Do you need medication

Are you looking for the cat

Were you hungry

MS spins me into confusion, doubt, and frustration.

You might expect an answer about how I rise above all of this.

I don’t have one. It hurts. It feels unfair.

I never pictured myself like this.

I used to be active. I used to chase things.

Now I sit more than I move.

I feel my world shrinking.

If you’re reading this, I’m okay. But not every day is easy.

I feel everything.

I deal with everything.

Some days hit harder than others.

Giving up sounds simple.

But I work for my kids.

I keep going for them.

Only when they’re set would quitting even cross my mind.

I don’t know what the future holds.

I don’t want to live off disability checks.

I don’t want to add more stress to my family.

I want better.

So I tell myself this:

I will heal.

I will get better.

I will see a different day.

Even when it feels far away, I still say it.

This one’s for everyone who’s done being polite to MS.

I write most of my thoughts between commutes and reality checks.

These aren’t quotes …..they’re survival notes.

You’re not your thoughts. You’re the one noticing them.

If you’re tired, angry, or numb, you’re not alone.

I love you for still showing up, and if you love me back, keep reading.

October 15th…

On my way to a job I like… that doesn’t always like me back.

When you’re dealing with a chronic disease it’s easy to give up.

My body’s running a comedy show my nerves didn’t approve.

I’m exhausted before I even move.

So yeah some days I say “F it.”

I hide under my cooling blanket and act like time doesn’t exist.

And that’s okay… until it’s not.

Because crawling out of that hole feels like trying to escape quicksand while holding bricks with your soul.

And guess what? You have to do it again tomorrow. Every morning, every day off, it’s just the same shit.

Positivity is a workout.

Smile. Breathe. Be grateful.

Meanwhile, your bladder’s planning a surprise attack and your legs are ghosting you.

When’s the right time to scream “F you, MS”?

Any damn time you want.

But don’t live there too long  you’ll catch a bad vibe.

And negativity spreads faster than my spasticity on a humid day.

I try to manifest healing.  Each and every single day. 

When I catch my breath, I remind myself:

“My spirit keeps showing up. And That’s enough.”

Stillness doesn’t mean stuckness, it means I’m tuning in.

Maybe it works. Maybe it doesn’t.

But it’s something to hold onto when faith feels like a rumor.

I picture a future where I’m better. Not cured. Just better.

Where my biggest complaint is arthritis and my weight.

Where I joke, “Remember when I had MS?”

If you’re living with a chronic illness, I see you.

You’ll want to give up, and that’s human.

But MS doesn’t get to write the ending unless you hand it the pen.

So no, I’m not done.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

Even on the days hope feels like a scam, I still show up.

Because at the end of it all…..MS, do you. I’m still doing me.

This life isn’t meant forever.

Once that sinks in, you move different.

Every step counts. Every choice becomes a pulse.

The struggle? That’s the lesson.

The heartbreaks, the burnout, the mornings your body says, “nah, not today.”

We chase comfort, success, a better version of the dream. And still, it’s never enough.

Some people find peace….I respect that.

But most of us are sprinting toward something we can’t even name. Sometimes doesn’t even love us back.

No matter how strong you are,

how fast you run,

how much you lift,

life will still slow you down.

But that doesn’t mean stop.

You take the hit, keep your grip on the wheel,

eyes forward,

hold on until it’s safe to breathe again.

There’s not a week I don’t want to quit.

Life has punched me in the chest so hard

I’ve lost the wind,

the will,

and the why.

But then I rise,

and I whisper gratitude.

I tell myself two things every morning:

I am a medical miracle.

I am leaving this apartment to find the cure for my disease.

That’s my mission briefing before I go 1-on-1

with the final boss….the staircase.

And when the sun sets,

I run the same level again

on hard mode.

See, life is a game.

A serious one.

You show up every day,

and it throws its worst at you

glitches, traps, side quests you never asked for.

You still play.

You still choose.

Your choices light your path,

or they leave you walking in shadow.

Either way, the journey’s yours.

You don’t lose by falling.

You lose by refusing to get back up.

My disease might never be cured.

I’ve made peace with that.

If I fall one day and don’t rise again,

so be itI know I played full-hearted,

no shortcuts, no cheats.

G.U.S.—God, Universe, Spirit—

isn’t somewhere out there.

It’s in here.

In me.

I don’t want to lose you.

But if you’ve got faith,

you already know—

God hands us what we can outlast,

outfight,

out-endure.

And that’s what this is.

Not a tragedy.

Not a trial.

A test of endurance.

And I’m still in the game.

I love you, and I hope you love me too.