Party Animals

by Dean Kramer
January, 2004

During the recent holiday season Twink and I were invited to several parties. Twink is small, delicately built, graceful and light on her feet. I was small at one time but am gradually expanding in girth and, by virtue of my having MS, spastic, clumsy, and far from graceful. Almost all gatherings these days are buffet style and require that you simultaneously walk, talk, and chew while carrying your drink, utensils, and a plate of food. On my best able-bodied days I used to be able to do one or two of those things with minimal embarrassment. Now I try to find a chair and stay there for the duration.

Chairs are often in out-of-the-way locations at these parties, and I often find myself alone in a secluded “conversation” corner. There I park myself hoping that Twink will not get so caught up in the social whirl that she forgets me. If Twink disappears I try to catch the eyes of those who stand around munching and chatting (rather than conversing) with one another. When I am successful I transfix them with what I pray is an appealingly hungry gaze. I’ve perfected this expression by observing my hosts’ pets as they sit patiently at the feet of party-goers begging for handouts. Cripples, like dogs and cats, often operate below the eye-level of standing humans and, again like dogs and cats (only more so) are often invisible. I’ve watched dogs follow platter-bearing people around waiting for the inevitable crumb to fall, though, and if I ever get a powerchair I may try that approach, myself.

Though over our three holiday seasons together I have become more direct as to my wishes and she has become more attentive, Twink and I are still shaking down our “feed the needy” routine. At this point in our partnership she usually offers to serve me before taking off on her own. “What would you like?” she asks me. Because I haven’t seen the buffet table, I can’t tell her. I suppose I could enter the home of a host, stagger immediately to the buffet table, load the names of its contents onto my PDA so I’d be able to remember it all, and then go find a chair. But I was taught, as a child, not to be too eager or greedy. I wasn’t taught the etiquette for future disability. So, there I am, telling her that I’ll take “anything” she cares to bring me. If Twink is too lost in conversation to aid me I will sometimes ask someone else to bring me “anything.”

I have been served many concoctions I’d never have chosen on my own. The host’s pets and I often become quite chummy because I am closer to the floor, less able to avoid eye contact with them and have things I do not want to eat but cannot, without their help, dispose of. Consequently I find that I have become way more familiar with a variety of hosts’ variety of animals than I am with most humans at parties. This is not a bad thing at all. I used to work with companion animals professionally and have missed the contact since MS forced me to redirect myself. Now I am out among people, aware of the conversation going on over my head, so to speak, but I am interacting with wonderfully accepting, very attentive dogs and cats—beings for whom my MS is neither a source of discomfort nor or curiosity. I enjoy myself immensely, perhaps more than I did when I was up there amongst the able-bodied.

On the way home Twink may share with me interesting bits of her evening . She may tell me about so-and-so’s impending divorce. She may share a couple’s difficulties with their children. In return I may tell her of Binkie’s soft fur and halitosis or of Fluffy’s little hairball incident under the coffee table. In our own ways, we have each had a very enjoyable evening.