His answer was a question. “Mr. Pendergast, have you ever heard of Lou Gehrig’s Disease?”
I did. I knew where he was going. After that, I don’t remember anything. I was numb from Lou Gehrig’s disease reverberating in my head like the sound of gunshot fired next to my ear. It ricocheted through my head. I hung up and broke down.
Struggling to breathe, I told my wife. Christine and I held each other close and our nestled faces moistened from each other’s tears. Life as we knew it was over. I was 44 years old. The rain struck the kitchen windows streaking downward to match the tears streaming down our faces.
Because of the research I had done, it wasn’t as if I was surprised. I shared with my wife before the call that my symptoms appeared to be ALS. The confirmation was still devastating.
My family was precious, my career noble: I had a good life, everything considered. I realized I was content. I wanted to continue for as long as possible doing almost the same thing. I stayed home a couple of days to let it all sink in. Thursday I returned to work, anxious to re-enter the world of normalcy.
Teaching was my therapy and I threw myself into it. My colleagues were told about my diagnosis before I came back. They surrounded me in a loving, protective cocoon. I was glad to be there doing what I loved.
One icy January afternoon in 1994, I escorted my students to the bus as usual. After they boarded, I returned to my classroom. On the walkway back, I failed to negotiate an ice patch and slipped. I fell hard, hitting my head, knocking me unconscious for a moment. I laid motionless sprawled out on the sidewalk. The children in the neighboring classrooms saw me. Their teacher called the office. I felt groggy when I attempted to stand, but could not. I looked up to see the angelic face of our school nurse, Maureen, dispatched to rescue me.
“Chris, stay there a minute until you feel strong. You took a bad fall. There is no blood, so nothing was cut.” She spoke as if I was a routine visitor to her school office. Maureen Conroy was a gentle soul with a warming smile and soft voice. Her personality suited her role as surrogate mother to the 500 children in her care.
Her calm manner helped me as well. Not much over five feet, many fifth graders towered above her. With some assistance from her, I arose. She struggled to steady me. I was in a daze and wobbled from side to side.
“You are cold Chris. I want to get you back inside your classroom. Don’t rush, Chris, take your time. Here, lean on my arm.”
We looked like the odd couple as my six-foot-plus frame leaned on her petite, five-foot body.
“Easy does it, Chris,” she warned as we went back. I walked on automatic pilot.
As the fog lifted, I realized I did not know who or where I was. The woman standing next to me holding my arm was a stranger. In a soothing manner, she said conversational things like the weather and the ice.
“It has been cold. There is ice everywhere. Kids are coming in all day long from falls.”
Maureen calmed me by talking. Once safe inside my room, she eased me into my chair and sat across from me. She answered the questions I peppered at her. My principal came to check on me. She assured both of us the bump was just temporary.
“He is ok. His memory will return in short order,” she said.
She was right. The presence of my principal alone helped jog my vague memories. He left after being satisfied I was okay. Maureen spent the better part of an hour coaxing me back to reality.
I began to remember details about my life, but something eluded recollection. I had a haunting and ill-defined premonition. I knew not all was well but I didn’t understand why. Somehow, I sensed Maureen was not disclosing everything. I held a menacing feeling that I could not shake.
I grew agitated for the first time since losing my memory. My paranoia was palpable as I raised my voice.
I quizzed her, “What are you holding back? Why won’t you tell me?” I grew mean and bordered on abusive. I was so agitated. “Maureen, something is missing. Please tell me!” I pleaded with her.
“Everything is okay, Chris, don’t be upset. Try to calm yourself.” Her eyes contradicted her words. There was something more.
I shouted, “You are not telling me the truth.” I stood up and demanded to know what she was holding back. My memory was shielding me from something terrible. I could see it in her face.
Maureen saw my dismay and she was not able to calm me down. She took my hand in hers and told me to sit down. Looking into my soul, she stroked my hand and began to speak.
“Chris, you don’t remember you are sick, do you?”
The words terrified me. Angry, I pulled away and stood up. I looked at her, “Just tell me what the hell is going on.”
Unable to avoid it any more, she blurted, “Chris, I am sorry, you have ALS.”
Stunned, every other question troubling me evaporated. “A L S?” I forced out the letters. She looked directly at me and nodded in affirmation. Her revelation was shocking and new. There was no memory of my diagnosis.
For the second time I heard, “You have ALS.”
I lowered my six-foot-two frame into the small student desk next to her as I tried to digest her words. They opened a floodgate of emotion once more. I reeled from the news. This time I understood the implication. In an instant, I went from a confused, agitated man to a heartbroken one. I hunched over in my seat, put my face in my hands closed my eyes and cried. She extended her arm and clasped my hand again.
In the darkness, I heard sobbing. Maureen cried with me. Her muffled sobs soothed my aching heart. I knew I was not alone.
Life is not fair or unfair. Life just is. Most people in middle age never have to hear the devastating news, “You have a terminal illness.” Others like me are not so lucky. It is a breath stealing, mind-altering experience. Readers who have experienced it comprehend what I mean. Those untouched by a harbinger of death cannot fathom it. They can only empathize.
I went through that rite of passage once. How could it ever happen again? A diagnosis of ALS is a statistical rarity. Yet, it did. Worse, the second time I received the news was as terrible as the first. The double diagnosis scenario has to be one for the record book.
Life is too short to spend wishing things were not so. Things are what they are. Some occurrences are not our choice. However, we do choose how to respond. We decide how to live the life we get.
I said my second diagnosis was simply, “A deadly déjà vu.”
The lesson I learned from this was the importance of empathy. One supportive person is all it takes to transition safely through a crisis. Each of us will be presented with an opportunity to support someone in crisis. I learned just how much value there is in taking that opportunity.
Oh, The Games We Played
I always remembered the game with fondness. No birthday party seemed complete unless they played it. In my childhood mind, it held a riveting power. When I played so long ago, I used to alternate between titillating excitement and ominous dread. Where would I find myself when the music stopped?
The days came as a young parent, when I hosted my own group of excited youngsters at the birthdays of my children. Of course, they played musical chairs. The game was not the same for me. No longer caught in the intrigue as a player, I could stand back and observe. A generation ago, the faces were playmates. Now I saw just players. How different that game had become.
The stereo spun birthday records. The music blared through our small living room as they began their game.
“Are you ready?” my wife slowly asked the impatient kids. Then she put the record player on to begin the music.
I studied