Bethany: Love and Determination

Bethany’s first bicycle was small - the appropriate size for a girl of five - and pink - a dainty, girlish pink that would likely make her nauseous these days. And the bike had training wheels, although not for long.

Bethany had had the bike for a week or two, when, one overcast Saturday morning, the Harris family went shopping. On our way back to the Myrtle Avenue estate, Bethany said, “When we get home, take the training wheels off my bike.” Debbie and I did the responsible parent thing and attempted to convince Beth that the training wheels should stay on for a few more weeks. She would have none of it. When we got home, perhaps hoping to teach her a lesson the hard way, I took the training wheels off. Then, as Debbie and I watched, Bethany got on the bike and rode down the sidewalk like she had been doing it for years.

One summer evening, a year or two before Bethany started school, we were at Cederquist Park watching Russ’ Little League game. Bethany wasn’t enthralled with the baseball action, and she spotted some friends playing on a pile of dirt. She was so excited, she fell off the top row of the bleachers. As Debbie and I jumped down, Bethany got up and dusted herself off. She allowed us to ask her a few questions and to look her over, but she did so with a great display of impatience. Then she ran off to get dirty.

Bethany’s interest in science is limited, which might be due to an experiment she conducted as a child. Her question: How long does it take for the coils of an electric stove to cool once the burner is turned off? The answer turned out to be: Longer than she thought. The result: Two burned fingertips, great wailing and many tears. We rushed her to the sink, held her fingers in a stream of cold water for several minutes and then slathered them with Vaseline. By then, she had calmed down enough to pretend she was listening to the parental lecture, and when that was over, she was on her way.

Bethany has never lost that confidence that seems to say, “I’m going to do this, and don’t even think you can stop me.” Until 2001, when Debbie and I divorced and she and Beth moved to Idaho, Bethany’s concept of untamed wilderness was Lake Shore Park. Since then, she has become quite the hunter and fisherman. A few years ago, she shot a bear. And one day last week we were talking on the phone and she said she was going to get some grouse for dinner. This didn’t mean a trip to the supermarket. She was going to go up in the mountains and get the evening meal the way Daniel Boone did.

Bethany has another side, of course. One night years ago, she sat on the kitchen table, looked at me with those expressive eyes and sang, “Say, Say My Playmate.” It was enough to make a grown man cry, and the thought of it still does.

Confidence, determination and love are always needed, but Bethany needs them more than ever now. On Friday she gave birth to a son. Hayden appeared abruptly and unexpectedly three months ahead of schedule, weighing in at one pound, eleven and a half ounces. It’s hard to judge a person’s reaction when the only thing available to you is the sound of her voice. But what I hear on the phone is the love, confidence and determination that have always been there. Debbie, who is on the scene, has told me our daughter is amazing. One doctor, Debbie said, was so impressed with how well Bethany was handling the situation that he told her once Hayden gets through this, Beth should consider becoming a nurse. She’d make an excellent nurse, he said.

I haven’t met Colt, Beth’s fiancé, but they say he’s a fighter, too. Hayden has a long and perilous battle ahead of him. But with Bethany and Colt in his corner, I’m betting Colt makes it.

Clouds Over Cuddles

The sun did not shine on Ashtabula yesterday - not once, not at all. The dark clouds and drizzle conjured up visions of November, which can be a very depressing month, indeed. Cuddles was unaware of this for most of the day, her schedule being what it is. It was just a routine day for her. Up at 5:30 a.m., she prowled around the house, making sure all was in order and then nudged her bipedal housemates into consciousness; shortly after nine, satisfied that she had done all she could to keep the homo sapiens in her life from wasting the day, she retired to a chair, curled up and fell asleep. And there, except for an occasional foray to the basement to use the facilities, she remained.

Had everything proceeded as scheduled, sunlight would have streamed in through the glass in front door and the living room and dining room windows by 3:30. The late afternoon sunlight is Cuddles' cue to get up, stretch, groom, and get at it. This is the busiest part of her day, the part she spends chasing both the sun's reflections and the shadows created by the sunlight. She listens for the sound of each approaching car and watches the wall, hoping to see a reflection of the sun's glow scamper across the wall as the car passes. When it does, she gives chase. If she is frustrated by her inability to capture light in her paws, she doesn't show it, and she will pursue the next whispy sprite and the one after that and the one after that with the same eager determination as she did the first. Cuddles is a master multi-tasker, and she listens for my wheelchair even as she listens for traffic. When I move, she springs to life, scanning the walls and floor for her prey, the elusive beam of light. Sometimes as I sit idly, she will crouch inches from my chair, demonstrating her deep desire to hone her instincts, along with her misplaced faith in my ability to spot her there and to avoid her once the wheelchair is in motion.

But there was no sunlight to brighten the house on Monday afternoon, and Cuddles never got off the recliner. Oh, she woke up a couple of times and stretched a little only lay back down and fall asleep again. What a pity that a cat barely a year old can't find a reason to get out of bed. But perhaps today will be a better day. There have been moments of sunshine this morning; maybe blue skies are on the way.

Hurry back, DQ

On Sunday, the Dairy Queen will close for the season, a sure indication that "summer's almost gone and winter's coming on." It also means that after Sunday, Nancy and I won't be walk up there and hang out several evenings a week and be seen. Apparently, on a summer night, Route 20 between Route 11 and the mall attracts people from everywhere in Ashtabula County. Almost every time Nancy and I run into someone we haven't seen in a while, we are asked, "Was that you guys at the Dairy Queen the other night?" Yes, it was us.

Alas, the six months or so the Dairy Queen will be closed will transpire much more slowly than the six months or so it was open.

Awake in the Wee Hours

At 2:13 in the morning, the mind that is too busy to sleep wins its battle with the body that is too tired to stir. I lie awake and my mind frantically generates thoughts and ideas. Some are sentimental, some biting, some gentle, some serious, some wistful, some humorous, some poetic, some witty, some effervescent, and some maudlin. They are wonderful ideas, and for the next forty-five minutes, my mind churns out verses, sentences, paragraphs and pages of scintillating prose and poesy, rhymed and unrhymed, silly and profound.

Six hours from now, when I sit at the computer, the ideas will have lost their luster. The words that now sparkle with the liveliness of a cascading stream, and the words that flow with the languid beauty of a river on a summer’s day will later spread across the page like scum on a stagnant pond. I know this will happen. It always does. By three in the morning, when my mind begins to tire and the surge of ideas becomes a trickle, I wonder if there is a program that can transfer tonight’s musings from my head to the computer and then be retrieved at a decent hour. And I wonder if it would make any difference. Are these nocturnal notions as dazzling they seem? Or are my powers of discernment too tired in the middle of the night to be discerning?

My mind has worn itself out and longs for rest. Fall is approaching, the window is open and the air conditioner is off. The quiet of the night is not the same as the quiet of the day. It is softer and more comfortable. The leaves rustle in the gentle breeze; enjoyable white noise, unlike the refrigerator that I noticed only when it shuts off. The dog across the street barks for a minute or two. And a critter, probably a raccoon, pushes a tin can around as it searches through the garbage for a bite to eat. It doesn’t stay long. Maybe it doesn’t like the selection and is going away hungry and unhappy. A siren, faint at first, gets louder and then fades as a police car races along Route 20. Two CSX freight trains, one eastbound, the other headed west, scream at each other as they approach Columbus Avenue. There is a great rumbling and clanking of metal as the trains pass, followed by a moment of silence before one of the trains sounds its horn at another crossing. Then all is quiet.

The air is cooler now, and I curl up on my side and pull the blankets over my shoulder and fall asleep. For three hours, leaves rustle, cops chase, dogs bark, scavengers scavenge and trains rumble, but I am unaware of it all until the radio comes on at 6:15.

Who was that masked man?

Nancy and I went to the rib burn-off at Lake Shore Park Saturday evening. The trouble with the lake shore in September is that it can sometimes feel like the lake shore in November. This year, however, it seemed more like the lake shore in June. It is a wonderful thing to get out on a pleasant day and hang out in a large crowd of locals, and I ran into several people I haven't seen in years.

Almost from the moment I began having trouble getting around, I noticed a marked improvement in human nature, at least in those humans not associated with FOX News. One day, when I was still using a walker, I went to the Post Office to mail a package. When I finished at the window and started out, a woman I didn't know gave up her spot in the lengthy line and held the door for me as I went into the lobby and then followed me and held the door to the outside as I left the building. Making my way out the doors, I had visions of the Harris family going into a restaurant. Walking through the parking lot we looked like a typical family, but then Dad, Ed, Jim, Uncle Jim or I would bolt to the door and hold it open. And once the ladies got safely inside, the men would stand outside for fifteen minutes saying things like, "Go ahead," "After you," "No, you first."

In any event, when I am out and about and getting in the way of people or asking people to get out of my way, they are invariably understanding, cooperative and pleasant. Is this because people react differently to me because I'm in a wheelchair? Or do I see things differently from my wheelchair? It could be that when I was not so dependent on people's cooperation and helpfulness, I failed notice it when it was there. If someone got surly, I could always find a way around him, hurling imprecations as I went. Well, being a wimp, I lobbed my imprecations, getting great satisfaction from unleashing a string of expletives under my breath while avoiding the risk of having the other person hear them and reducing me to a pile of broken bones in a pool of blood.

This question arose again the other night at the rib fest. When I decided what I wanted to eat, I made my way to the end of the line for that vendor. There were a lot of people going this way and that, and the two guys who had been at the end of the line until I got there, moved aside to let me through. Just to be sure, I asked them if I was at the end of the line. They said "yes," and I told them that's where I wanted to be. Then they turned around, and for the next ten minutes talked to each other while I followed behind watching people. But when they got to the front of line, one of the men asked me what I was going to have. I told him, and a minute later, he handed me a plate with what I had planned to order on it and walked away. I was left wondering if he thought I was needy; which I'm not. Or if he felt sorry for me; for which there's no reason. Or if he was someone whom I should have known but didn't recognize; which would be embarrassing. Or if he was just a nice guy who in a generous mood.

I appreciate his kindness, of course. But I feel like the guy on old western TV series, who said just before the final credits rolled: "Who was that masked man?"

Neurologists I Have Known

Katie is in the writing class I go to. She is eighty, give or take a year, and has Parkinson's Disease. Somewhere along the line, Katie had cancer, which is apparently acting up again. Suzanne, our instructor, has been accompanying Katie to her appointments. Last week in class, Suzanne mentioned something Katie had said about her neurologist having a rough bedside manner.

Until a few years ago, I took the attitude that since I was going to feel better in three days, anyway, why bother going to the doctor. So, I'm probably not the best judge of medical demeanor, but the neurologists I've since come to know do seem a little different. My first encounter with a neurologist came early in 2006, when I went to see Dr. Mellick at ACMC. He was a friendly guy with the kind of cynical sense of humor I enjoy, and he provided a running commentary as examined me. I wasn't quite sure if the purpose was to keep me informed or if he was just talking to himself, but as he went through the different steps in the examination, he would say, "OK, that must be this," or "Well, it can't be that." When he finished the examination, we sat down and he began a very perfunctory listing of possible causes of what was ailing me. It was all sort of "blah, blah, blah, blah, blah." One of the blahs was, "or it might be a brain tumor," which he uttered in the same dull monotone as all the other blahs. But as soon as he had mumbled it, he turned and looked at me straight in the eye and said, "Boy, I hope it's not a brain tumor." At that moment, "brain tumor" went from being one of many possible problems to being the obvious problem, at least in my mind. A week or two later, after I had had an MRI of the brain, Dr. Mellick told me my brain was normal, which was a relief to me, although nearly all my non-medical acquaintances expressed their doubts.

Dr. Mellick then referred me to the Cleveland Clinic, where in October 2006, Dr. Rudick diagnosed my problem as primary-progressive MS. That appointment began with the usual questions about the problems I was having and when they began. Then he asked me to go over and get on the examination table. As I made my way to the table, he told me to be careful and take my time, and I came back with what I thought was a witty retort acknowledging that I had no choice but to take my time. "I'm glad you can laugh about it," he said. But he said it with an edge in his voice, like the one Mom used to have when I broke something she had told me not play with, and she'd say, "We'll, I hope you're happy now."

A few months after that, I asked Dr. Bathoux at the Mellen Center about getting a disability placard for the car. He got out his prescription pad and noted that I had MS, a lifetime disability. I took the slip to the license bureau and was told that it needed to have an ending date on it: the DMV doesn't issue lifetime disability placards, six years is the maximum. The next time I was at the Mellen Center, I gave Dr. Bathoux the prescription and told him what I had been told. He gladly wrote out another slip, noting that I would have MS for the next six years. "Won't they be surprised when you show up again in 2013?" he joked. I know there is no cure for MS. But there are times when I would rather not be reminded of that, and that must have been one of those times.

Start the Music

Whatever happened to elevator music? It seems to have become extinct, at least in public places, where elevator music performed its greatest service.

Sure, the music was as bland as warmed over Cream of Wheat, as insipid as a Lifetime movie, but that was its great strength. Elevator music could be ignored. It asked to be ignored. Like one of those nettlesome tasks you really ought to do, but which no one will notice if you don't, it begged to be ignored.

The accompaniment to the unpleasant but necessary, it was found in the places you didn't want to be, usually in a waiting room where you were biding your time until the doctor or dentist was ready to hurt you.

Hugo Winterhalter, Andre Kostelanetz, Lawrence Welk, Enoch Light, Nelson Riddle and the rest were ideal waiting-room companions. If you wanted to read a magazine, work a crossword puzzle or share your medical history in all its nauseating detail with the stranger next to you, they didn't interfere. And if you wanted to sleep, elevator music was a terrific soporific.

Of course, there was the possibility you might be vaguely familiar with the lyrics to one of the languid melodies. Then those few words, that phrase, that snippet of schmaltz would linger. The mind wanted to sing, but the only words it knew were "baubles and bangles and beads," or "shall we dance, bum ba bum," or "across a crowded room," or "I'm crossing you in…a boat?"

It was frustrating. But the words had limited staying power and fled at the first sign of impinging reality.

Sadly, elevator music has been banished from most waiting rooms and replaced with televisions tuned to one or the other cable news stations. Regardless of their politics, all news networks have two things in common: announcers with screeching, grating, nasal voices; and theme music with an insistent, driving rhythm, like the music announcing the approach of the shark in Jaws, only louder, more ominous and more demanding of attention. To add to the frenzy, the announcers, who never have much to say, insist on saying it rapidly and at great length; perhaps they're paid by the word.

It's nigh on impossible to read, carry on a conversation or nod off for a moment when the waiting room is filled with the mind-jarring, ear-piercing yammering of people whose job it is to convince us that the end is near – right after this commercial break. Stay tuned or miss the apocalypse.

To make matters worse, these news people, with their degrees from some of America’s great universities in English or journalism or communications, seem incapable of asking a simple question. Five minutes of meandering speed talk and fractured syntax produce a disjointed, convoluted query that might have a point – somewhere.

Then the guest says, "Well, Sharon, I think…"

Only to have the newscaster interrupt in a rare burst of brevity: "I'm sorry, Senator, but we're out of time. Thank you for dropping by."

Then the nurse calls for you, and a few minutes later the doctor says, “I think we better talk about your blood pressure.”

# # #