BLOG: Grocery Shopping with MS Meets Murphy’s Law

[ActiveMSers]

I’ve never liked that guy, Murphy, always showin’ up at the most inopportune of times in multiple sclerosis. Like last week, when I ventured out to grocery shop for a 10-person dinner party (one that catered to a) vegetarians and b) people allergic to onions, but that’s for another story). All seemed pretty darn smooth when I arrived at the store. I even got the chance to park next to an empty handicapped spot, which I always try to do if one is available—someone may need that extra access far more than I do. And then that dude showed up. Murphy. There was just one available scooter… and the battery was just about dead. ...

http://activemsers.blogspot.com/2012...rphys-law.html

What's your best Murphy's Law and MS story?

[AMFADVENTURES]

A Murphy's Law Story

I’ve met Murphy a number of times but Murphy is a pussycat compared to his meaner, older brother. I was living and working in Jakarta Indonesia when I ran into Murphy’s Older Brother one time and let me just say, he is a particularly nasty piece of work.

I had MS at the time but I didn’t know it yet. All I knew was that I was prone to stumbling over a clumsy right foot and that the Southeast Asian heat seemed to be becoming more and more intolerable. I also wondered about several relatively severe bouts of fatigue I had started experiencing but I kind of wrote it all off to the oppressive heat, humidity and air pollution in that giant third world city. Oh yeah, and I also knew I had a frozen shoulder, a very painful calciferous build up in the joint, which I was just now on my way to Singapore to have fixed.

I got to Singapore in the morning of that summer day, checked into the hospital before noon and was being operated on by late afternoon. Singapore might be the world’s largest island nation shopping center but no one can deny their efficiency, in fact, efficiency and Singapore must be synonymous.

They had to knock me completely out for the operation and I didn’t wake up until later that evening, so I spent that night in the hospital. The doctor saw me next morning, told me he found and removed some calcium deposits and the hoped that would be the end of it. He put a sling on my arm, gave me some pain pills, a few exercises to do at home, and discharged me by noon. By mid afternoon, I was back in Jakarta. So far, so good but of course, that was Singapore and Murphy’s older brother hangs out in Jakarta.

There are certain periods when I’m sure, any international airport in the world is overwhelmed with travelers. This was one of those times at Jakarta International. The line for customs and immigration was over an hour long. Fortunately I was only carrying a small overnight bag and my shoulder was aching less than I had anticipated it might, or maybe it was just the pain pills. At any rate, I got through customs relatively unscathed.

I’m not a neophyte at international travel, I’ve learned quite a few things in my days. If an international airport is particularly crowded, you can count on seeing the people you stand in line with at customs and immigration again when you go to find ground transportation. My wife had offered to pick me up but I had learned that it is usually much easier to run outside the airport and grab a taxi than it is to try to meet someone for a ride, so I had declined her offer. I had also learned that it’s normally quicker and easier to go to the deck that people were being dropped off on and commandeer a newly vacated arriving taxi. You almost always get a better class of taxi that way too.

So I got to the deck I wanted and sure enough there were 3 or 4 good quality taxis dropping passengers off. But as I headed for one, I was cut off by a policeman who indicated that that was a no no and I needed to go back downstairs and get in the proper taxi que to wait my turn. I lingered until it became obvious the cop wasn’t going to turn his back and then I turned and headed back downstairs. My shoulder was beginning to throb a bit by now and the small overnight bag I was carrying was growing heavier.

I waited in the que for a good 45 minutes until I was finally assigned a raggedy old taxi with a broken AC, exactly the kind of taxi I knew that que would produce. I got in the taxi, told the driver where I wanted to go and we took off. I noticed the driver didn’t drop the fare flag as we left and I asked him to do so. He told me no, that there was too much traffic and that this trip would cost me $10.00. I knew the normal meter rate, even in rush hour, would not exceeded $3.00 so as a matter of principle, I said take me back to the terminal. I gave him his 15 cents for the loop as he dropped me off on the departure deck. I got out of the taxi and immediately saw the same cop who had previously chased me off. He also saw me, so without dawdling this time, I headed back downstairs to the taxi que. It’s late afternoon now, I’m sweating profusely, my shoulder is throbbing and exhaustion is setting in, and my overnight bag seemed to have gained several pounds.

Only about 30 minutes in the que this time and I get another dilapidated taxi with a broken AC. I realize I’m starting to look more than a little drug out as I climb into the taxi, and I imagine I’m probably starting to smell almost as bad as the driver. I tell him where to go and we’re off. I’m tired and hungry now, and it’s getting dark in addition to everything else, so it’s a few minutes before I notice the driver didn’t drop the fare flag again. “Drop the flag please” I tell him. “No” he says, “it’s rush hour and the fare is $25.00”. “Take me back to the terminal then”, I say. “No” he says, “we’ve already passed the turn around”, which we had, just a fraction of a second earlier. “Then drop the flag”, I say, and he does but he says the fare is still going to be $15.00. We argued for a few minutes more but I was just too exhausted to push it any further, so we drove the rest of the way in silence. Actually, you can’t call that driving. It was rush hour in Jakarta when traffic crawls through a thick cloud of exhaust fumes at a nearly imperceptible pace.

Maybe the heat and exhaust fumes choked Murphy’s brother because we finally did arrive at the complex I lived in. My complex was typical of complexes that house expatriates in many developing countries, surounded by high walls topped in razor wire, huge manned steel gates with more razor wire and guards posted at various locations within the area. I guided the driver through the gates and up to a manned guard shack. I motioned the guard over as I drug my throbbing shoulder out of the taxi. With the guard there, I pointed to the meter and grabbed that incredibly heavy overnight bag. The fare was approximately the equivalent of $3.00. I threw $5.00 at the driver, got an approving nod from the guard and a sheepish grin from the taxi driver, turned and walked the last ˝ block home. Murphy's brother went back to the airport to await the next poor slob.

[Fit Paul]

Damn, Dave that was fantastic. The grocery store is my least favorite weekend activity (except for the beer isle). I have looked at the scooters with wide eyed wonder. Perhaps one day I will try one out.
Thanks Fat Paul