[img]2624|right|Diane||no_popup[/img]I was a lifelong skeptic of support groups until our first one the other day provided a huge lift for Diane.
Out in Westlake Village, two dozen persons with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or related to someone who has it, were arranged in the standard semi-circle in wheelchairs, walkers and folding chairs.
As the only person in the room who walked in accompanied by a book, for the anticipated boring stretches, I was prepared to read while others chatted away the short moments until the gathering was called to order, exactly on time. The book never left the seat of Diane’s walker.
As the happily outgoing, sociable dimension of our marital partnership, Diane became acquainted with the gentleman on her left. He had lost his wife to ALS 10 weeks ago, mere months after she had been diagnosed.
Studying the variously contorted expressions, it was plain that no one had wandered into the Community Room casually by mistake. Pain was writ large – but emphatically not loudly – on most faces.
As if she were reading someone else’s mind, certainly not mine, the congenial moderator suggested that everyone should introduce him or herself, commenting on his case.
As a more comfortable alternative, I was going to suggest brushing each other’s teeth. Prudently, Diane nixed the idea.
As each ALS victim and relative spoke, it was immediately obvious that the degenerative disease is encouragingly/discouragingly different in every family. Parallels were non-existent.
Most said doctors needed a frustratingly long time to accurately identify ALS.
For most of the 90-minute monthly meeting, my attention was captured by the first family to speak. I was and remain amazed by Marty, the husband/father. Diagnosed seven years ago, his only apparent concession to this deadly disease that strikes few but devastatingly, was a walker. He stood straight. He walked impressively, normally.
The youngest person in the room was on my right, a tall, athletic 41-year-old who, by his dress and manner, appeared to have just strolled in from a West Valley golf course. Diagnosed two years ago, he is a professional in the medical field who, also, displayed no external handicaps from ALS. Still works an 85 percent week, exercises but is careful not to exceed his limits. His grip is weakening, among the few signs.
Dissimiar instances abounded.
In the case of a 70-year-old woman diagnosed in February, she has been wheelchair’d and no longer can walk.
As each person’s speaking turn came, my heartbeat increased. I was searching for a place to hide in the glassed-in room with a skyscraper ceiling.
When it was Diane’s turn, my chameleon wife morphed into a professor of oratory. Brilliantly and also unassumingly, she fascinatingly assessed and explained her journey, and the whole room seemed to stop breathing, so compelling was her story.
She introduced the chap on her right and identified his day job, which was my cue.
Nothing came out. I could neither speak nor look up. I was too choked up.
