A guy on my sarcoidosis board posted this and its too funny not to share! I think most of you are familiar with the traditional spoon theory......
I say its only fair to give the other perspective on this site. And I find beer more interesting than spoons...:)
From one of my more favorite sites....A guys perspective you the Spoon theory....
The Beer Theory
My best friend Benny and I were in the bar drinking. As usual, it was
very late and we were seated at a booth by the pool table. Like normal
guys our age, we spent a lot of time in the bar while in college, and
most of the time we spent drinking pitchers of cheap beer and watching
girls while keeping one eye on the big-screen TV in the back. We never
got serious about anything in particular and spent most of our time
drinking and hitting on the waitresses.
As I returned from the bar with a fresh pitcher of beer, he watched me
this time with a kind of stare instead of keeping his attention on that
new little red-headed waitress. He then asked me out of the blue what
it was like to have Multiple Sclerosis. I was shocked not only that he
asked the random question, but also because I had assumed that, this
late at night and so many beers down, he would be totally incapable of
speech, let alone able to frame a coherent question. I mean, it's not
as if he'd paid the slightest bit of attention to my MS before. Ever
since we were roommates in college I knew Benny had mastered the art of
ignoring what he didn't want to know. "Yeah, man," he said, "I've been
reading through MultipleSclerosisSucks.com like you asked." Then he
looked at me with that face that every drinking buddy knows well, let
out a huge belch, and relaxed. "What's it REALLY like," he said.
As I tried to regain my composure and catch the eye of that redheaded
waitress, I glanced around the bar for guidance, or at least to stall
for time while my beer-soaked brain searched for the right words and
indeed, for the capacity of speech. I gave up, cracked a joke like I
normally do, and changed the subject.
"Hey Benny, did you hear the joke about the blind man in the bar?" I
asked him. He thought for a long, confused moment, then answered in the
negative. I continued.
"This blind man asks the bartender 'Do you want to hear a blond joke?'
The bartender answers 'I'm 6 foot 2, 180 pounds, and I used to be a pro
linebacker. I'm blond. The guy on your left is 6 foot 4, weighs 200
pounds, and is a professional wrestler. He's blond. The guy on your
right is 6 foot 7, weighs 220 pounds, has black belts in three martial
arts and bench presses 350 pounds. He's blond too. Now tell me, do you
still want to tell your blond joke?'"
Benny looks at me expectantly.
I say, "The blind man says 'Hell no, I don't want to have to explain it three times.'"
Benny, who is blond, says "Say what?" and screws up his face. The
little red-headed waitress, who has been listening in, explodes in
laughter. She catches my eye and smiles. I see teeth. Maybe I'm in
there with a chance.
At that moment, I remembered reading an article about the Spoon Theory.
It was simple enough, maybe Benny would understand that. In the
article, Christine Miserandino uses spoons as a metaphor for units of
energy, gives her friend a dozen spoons each of which can be used for
one activity, and asks her to plan her day.
I made a move to grab every spoon on the table just like in the
article, and barely avoided knocking over my beer. There were no
spoons, only a few dirty coasters. No spoons on the next table either.
"Hey honey," I called to the red-headed waitress, "got any spoons?"
"No," she replied with that smile, "but I got these little stirring sticks for the Irish coffee, want one of those?"
Somehow the Stirring Stick Theory just didn't seem to cut it. I covered
my disappointment by making a play for the redhead's phone number. She
wasn't ready to give it yet, but I could tell she was interested.
I started to explain to Benny about the Spoon Theory, but I could tell
that without visual aids, I just wasn't going to be able to keep his
attention. His eyes kept drifting back to the big-screen TV as I
talked. I told him about how the Spoon Theory explains that the
difference in being sick and being healthy is having to make choices,
or to consciously think about things when the rest of the world doesn’t
have to. The healthy have the luxury of choice, a gift most people take
for granted.
Not even a flicker of the eyelids. I could tell that the big-screen TV
was winning. So I went back to the bar and got three pitchers of beer
and a dozen glasses. "Expecting a party?" asked the little redhead.
"Only if you're there, honey," I responded. She rolled her eyes and
turned away, but I could tell she was playing hard to get.
I put the pitchers on the table in front of Benny and poured a dozen
glasses of beer. Benny immediately became more interested. I explained
how each beer represented energy - "Well, duh!" was Benny's response -
and explained how I wanted to show that if I was in control of taking
away the beers, then he would know what it feels like to have someone
or something else, in this case MS, being in control.
Benny slid the beers to his side of the table with excitement. He
didn't understand what I was doing, but he is always up for a good
time. "If you so much as touch my beers," he said, "I'm going to break
both your legs.
I asked Benny to count the beers. He asked why, and I explained that
when you are healthy, you expect to have a never-ending supply of beer.
But when you start your day, it helps to know how much beer you have on
tap. Benny nodded. He counted, with difficulty, 13 beers. I told him
no, it was supposed to be 12. He counted again and got 11. He laughed
and said he wanted more. I said no, what did he think I was, made of
money? He looked disappointed. I've wanted more beers for years, and
haven't found a way to get more, why should he? He almost knocked the
table over getting up to go to the bathroom, and I told him not to be
such a klutz and not to spill any of them or else I'd kick his ass so
hard he'd turn inside out and have to be fed through a straw. "Welcome
to my life," I said.
When he got back from the bathroom, I asked him to list his tasks for
the day, including the most simple. As he rattled off his daily chores
- feed the dog, put oil in the truck - I explained how each one would
take a beer. He nodded. "I feel the same way about chores myself," he
said. When he jumped right into getting ready for work, I cut him off
and took away a beer. I practically jumped down his throat. I said "No!
You don't just get up. You crack open your eyes, then realize you're
still drunk. You're late for work. You didn't get home until after
three. You crawl out of bed, and barely make it to the bathroom before
you throw up. Next you have to make breakfast, because if you don't
you're not going to be able to get sober enough for work, and if you
don't show up today you won't get your paycheck, then no more beer." I
quickly chugged the beer while he wasn't looking. He realized that he
hadn't even gotten dressed yet. Showering cost him a beer, and he
didn't even wash his hair. Getting dressed was worth another beer, even
if he put on the same clothes he had on the night before. I explained
how you cannot simply just put on any clothes when you are drunk. I
explained that buttons may be totally out of the question.
I think he was starting to understand that he theoretically didn't even
get to work yet, and all he had left was 6 beers. I then explained that
he needed to choose the rest of his day wisely, since when your beers
are gone, they're gone.
"Amen to that, brother," he said.
After a few moments thought he said "Wait, I think you got another
six-pack in the back of the truck." I explained about how we were
saving those for the weekend. Sometimes you can borrow against
tomorrow's beer, but think how hard tomorrow will be with less beer,
seeing how the stores all close early. I also needed to explain how a
person with MS lives with the looming thought that tomorrow may be the
day that a relapse comes, or a fever, or any number of things that
could be dangerous. So you do not want to run low on beer, because you
never know when you will truly need it.
"Amen to that, brother," he said. "I can totally relate to that."
We went through the rest of the day, and he slowly learned that
skipping lunch would cost him a beer ("To keep my strength up," he
assured me fuzzily), as well as standing on a train, or even working on
his truck for too long.
"Well, how am I going to get to work if I can't get my truck running?" he asked in an accusing tone of voice.
Hypothetically, he had to choose not to run errands so that he could eat dinner that night.
"I'm totally into that," he said.
When we got to the end of his hypothetical day, he said he was hungry.
I summarized that he had to eat dinner but he had only one beer left.
If he cooked, he wouldn't have enough energy to dump the microwave tray
into the trash.
He looked at me quizzically. "But I never do," he said. "I just let them pile up beside my chair until the pile falls over."
Passing quickly over that, I told him it's only 7pm, you have the rest of the night but only one beer left.
He looked sad.
I rarely see Benny get emotional, but I could see he was upset. "How do
you do it?" he asked quietly. I explained that some days were worse
than others; some days I have more beer than most. But I can never make
it go away and I can't forget about it, I always have to think about
it.
"Yeah," he said, "I'm the same way about beer."
I said simply, "Benny, I have learned to live life with an extra six-pack in the back of my truck."
It's hard, the hardest thing I ever had to learn is to slow down, and
not drink all my beer at once. I hate feeling left out, having to
choose to stay home, or to not get things done that I want to. I wanted
him to feel that frustration. I miss never having to count beers.
Maybe he finally understood. Maybe he realized that he never could
truly and honestly say he understands. But with that much alcohol in
his bloodstream you could probably say that about just about anything.
At least he might not complain so much when I can't go out drinking
some nights, or I ask him to drive when I'm perfectly sober. I punched
him in the arm when we left the bar and stumbled into the dark of the
parking lot. I reached into the back of my truck and pulled out the
extra six-pack I had stashed there for emergencies. I said "Benny,
don't worry. Do you know how much beer people waste each day? I don't
have time for wasted time, or wasted beer, and I choose to drink these
beers with you." He instantly looked happier.
Ever since that night, I have used the beer theory to explain my life
to many people. In fact, my family and friends refer to beer all the
time. It has been a code word for what I do and cannot do. It has
become an inside joke. I have become famous for saying to people
jokingly that they should feel honored when I spend time with them,
because they have one of my beers.
Benny always looks confused. "No way," he says, "I paid for the last round."
It was Benny himself who put things in their proper perspective the
next night at the bar. As we stood next to each other at the urinals he
said, thoughtfully, "Look, it doesn't matter who paid for the beers,
whether you have MS or not, or what they are metaphors for, they all
end up in the same place in the end."
So we sadly watched our used beer trickle down the drain. We flushed in tandem.
He cheered up. "I think that new redheaded waitress has the hots for
me," he said. "I got her phone number," brandishing what looked like
the slip of paper from the fortune cookie with a phone number in a
feminine script. He staggered momentarily and dropped the slip of paper
into the urinal, where it instantly disappeared down the drain.
"Oops," he said. Well, that's not the exact word he used, but you've got the general idea
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