2PHONE CALLS
— PATRICK —
IT’S A GORGEOUS DAY IN MAY, with crystal clear skies, but I’m stuck at home studying for an exam. The warm rays of light pouring through my office window make it difficult to focus. When the phone rings, I welcome the distraction. I could use a break from reading about “nursing management in the hospital setting.”
A quick glance at the caller ID lifts my spirits. It’s my best friend, Justin, calling from San Diego. He and I have known each other our entire lives, and even though we live a thousand miles apart, rarely a week or two goes by without one of us calling to keep in touch.
“Hello?”
“PAA-DDY!”
I can’t help but laugh. I’ve heard Justin call out that name a thousand times in his usual singsong way, and every time it makes me smile.
“What’s going on, Skeez? It’s only been a few days since we talked. Is everything okay?”
As we continue to talk, I get up from my desk and head into the kitchen. With the phone wedged between my shoulder and my ear, I pour myself a glass of water as I wait for him to reply.
In a calm voice, he says, “Yes and no.”
“Is your family okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. Kirstin and Jaden are fine . . .”
He pauses and I grab the phone with my free hand, pressing it harder against my ear so I don’t miss anything.
“I had an appointment with my neurologist this morning,” Justin continues. “I have a diagnosis, and I think this one is going to stick.”
“What is it?”
“They’re saying it’s multifocal acquired motor axonopathy.”
“Whoa, that’s a mouthful!”
“They call it MAMA for short.”
As Justin recounts the details of his visit to the doctor, I return to my office. I’m surprised at how easy it is for him to talk about his illness, but then Justin has always been a glass-half-full kind of guy.
“So, what’s the prognosis?” I ask.
“My doctor says the details of progression are unknown . . . but it will probably cut my life short.”
“When?” I ask, my stomach tightening.
“No one knows.”
Shaking slightly, I set the glass on my desk and sit down. Suddenly, the rays of sunshine streaming through my window seem less bright . . . less warm.
We talk for almost an hour before hanging up, and despite the fear and frustration, Justin’s optimism never wavers.
When my wife, Donna, comes home from work, I tell her about my conversation with Justin.
“How long do they say he has?”
“They’re not sure. It could be five years . . . could be twenty. No one really knows.”
“How are you doing?” she asks as she puts her arms around my waist, pulling me close.
“I don’t know.” With Donna’s head against my chest, my words come slowly. “I just keep wondering how much longer he’ll be able to do his graphic design work . . . how he and Kirstin will make ends meet . . . how long he’ll be able to drive. And if he dies, what will Kirstin do? What will happen to Jaden?”
Donna whispers, “I’m so sorry.”
“I just wish I could spend more time with him.”
| | |
Justin and I have known each other literally our entire lives. Born two days apart in the same hospital in July 1975, we grew up within a mile and a half of each other in the small eastern Oregon town of Ontario —an arid farming community where the only trees are those intentionally planted in yards or parks, or ones growing along the banks of the Snake River. When the summer winds blow, dust devils create spiraling brown clouds that rise into the air from nearby fields or vacant lots. But even though our surroundings weren’t the most lush, verdant place on God’s green earth, small-town life provided an ample supply of freedom and open space for two imaginative boys to create worlds where anything was possible.
My childhood home was on a dead-end street that backed up to an empty field with acres of dirt and weeds. Directly south, on the other side of the street, sat the white brick Nazarene church our families attended, surrounded by more acres of empty fields. Along with our friends Greg and Bryan, and my younger brother, Michael, Justin and I spent hours digging holes, building forts, and imagining life-threatening scenarios of rescues behind enemy lines. Sticks became guns, folded blades of cheatgrass became knives, rocks were grenades, and outstretched hands made for a great force field.
Behind Justin’s house, across town, sat the Deep Dirt Hills, a collection of trees, dirt mounds, and tufts of grass straight out of a Calvin and Hobbes comic strip. During the winter, when a blanket of snow covered the dormant grass and barren soil, we put on our winter coats, snow pants, boots, and gloves, and with stocking caps pulled low, down to our eyes, we headed out for adventure.
With round red saucers and inner tubes at the ready, we dove down the steep embankment into the canyon below. Trees rushed past —streaks of green and brown —as we leaned first to the left and then to the right, dodging rocks and bare patches that littered our path, until we finally made it to the bottom. But as we gathered our sleds and tubes and began the climb back to the top, it sure seemed as if we’d traveled much farther than we had.
Though the canyon was a fabrication, and the villains we fought with our makeshift weapons were figments of our imagination, the muscles of creativity grew strong and the adventures we shared cemented us together. Whether our exploits were real or imaginary, it didn’t matter. Together we lived for the next adventure.
As we grew older, our adventures shifted from open fields to athletic fields. Though we were unspectacular athletes, to say the least, we both loved being active, and we shared a competitive streak that often exceeded our abilities. In high school, I ran track and played baseball, and we both played football. Justin played soccer, but tennis was really his game. He had been playing it since fifth grade and absolutely loved it. When he started having problems with his foot during our junior and senior years, he never gave up. He just tried harder.
During his freshman year of college, he tried out for the tennis team. Though he couldn’t keep up with the other players, he still played recreationally. But right before Christmas break, he called to tell me he had given up tennis altogether.
“I’m giving my racket to my sister.”
“You really can’t play anymore?”
“I can still run, but the stepping from side to side is just too much for my left leg. When I shuffle laterally, I stumble and fall.”
“How are you handling it?”
“I have my moments, but I’m okay. At least I can still run.”
A few months later, when I called Justin to check in, he greeted me with more bad news.
“I can’t run anymore.”
“What happened? Are your legs just too weak?”
“Yeah, I was down at the track for a run, and they just gave out on me.”
“Oh man, first tennis, and now this. . . . I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, but I already miss the air rushing past my face and the freedom of controlling how fast I can go,” he admitted. “But what can I do?”
“Man, you’re handling this a lot better than I would. I’d be angry.”
“I do get angry, but it never helps. And I can still get around . . .”
The next year, Justin called to tell me his legs had grown so weak that walking long distances was a challenge. Though he could still drive, walking to and from his car was wearing him down.
“Well, I finally got a handicap parking pass,” he said, sounding more upbeat than I would have expected. We had talked about how this might someday become necessary, but for a guy who used to run through the fields behind the church with me and race up and down hills on our sleds, to now be dependent on blue parking spaces because his legs had grown so weak, this seemed too much.
“You’ve had to give up a lot of independence. First your racket, then running, and now you need a handicap parking pass. . . . It never ceases to amaze me how well you’re handling all of it. Sometimes I think I’m having a harder time with this than you are.”
“It’s definitely hard,” he said, “but dwelling on the things I can’t do anymore just eats away at me. I can’t go there —at least not for long. There’s still plenty I can do, and that’s what I’m going to focus on.”
A few seconds of silence passed while I tried to take in everything Justin was telling me. I gripped the phone tighter and told him the only thing I could think to say.
“Skeez, whatever you need, I’m here.”