[img]2624|right|Diane||no_popup[/img]Dateline San Francisco – The Journey resumed yesterday to slow or, more hopefully, to neutralize the internal progress of Diane’s five-month war with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.
How are you supposed to feel when you drive to LAX in the comforting pre-dawn darkness?
Optimistic? Worried? Desperately hopeful that the research clinic we will be visiting for the day eventually will discover a clue during the 13-month experiment in which we are participating.
After we landed at San Francisco International and all commuter passengers had rushed off to their destinations, the young pilot strolled back to see that we were still in place in our second-row seats. With a smile he wondered, “You two here for a holiday or is this home?”
“Oh,” he said when we explained we were awaiting a wheelchair to transport Diane through the terminal to the taxi stand.
I am sunny of mind.
I remain the only one of us who believes in miracles. My daily assignment: To elevate her spirits to the clouds, where mine reside.
When you are on this type of mission, your primary responsibility is to load up your wallet. Bring relatives you might want to use as barter. Our airport-to-clinic taxi rides, to and from, cost $36 more than our flight.
Perhaps we should have helicopter’d the final leg.
Noise Ban?
Even though we were ferry’d into The City at morning rush hour, our ride was a Helen Keller-type experience. Shhh. Not a sound was heard. Not one horn was honked. Cars and trucks flowed as smoothly as scarlet roses perched atop a glassy, early-morning Nile.
The second distinction from our hometown is that in San Francisco you wear a coat to ward off all-day coolness.
Our four hours of health business at the five-floor clinic were conducted with an intense personal dimension, confirming the enthusiasm that framed our introductory appointment three weeks ago today.
The entire day resembled climbing inside of a classic portrait – hush was everywhere. The ground floor rooms where various neurological personnel saw us were as quiet as a bedroom at 3 a.m. A half-dozen persons noiselessly moving about a long, carpeted corridor. If anyone had sneezed, surely someone at the far end of the hallway would have responded “God bless you.”
The atmosphere, as quiet as a museum, belied the globally crucial research being conducted there.
When Diane and I spoke to each other, it was almost shattering, like putting your arm through a window.
We won’t know until perhaps this time next year whether the clinical trial that starts in September is successful.
Please remember three words, God help Diane.
