Lou Gehrig’s Disease

     Fear.  Dread.  Horror.   And increasingly, people’s names.  Recently, I added one more name.

     Two years ago, we delivered a singing Valentine to a young lady, a victim of the disease.   She is in her 40’s.  We stood, two of us on one side of her bed, two on the other side.  On the walls of her bedroom hung testaments to her life:  pictures of her running, accepting a trophy, plaques and awards, along with other photos.

      She had been a competitive runner, a dancer, as well as a model.  She is that beautiful.  Now, she can move a leg a little.  Unable to speak, she controls a computer by eye movement.  Her computer is nearly as sophisticated as the one Stephen Hawking used.  Using the computer, she has authored a book.

      As we sang our two songs, tears ran down her cheeks.  Only by detaching from the situation did I prevent my own tears from joining hers.  It was Valentine’s Day.  We were supposed to be delivering joy.

     It is difficult to describe the emotions we felt as we left her room, the house, and walked back to the car.  Relief or shame that she had to deal with that burden, not me?

     Anger that life should dictate that anyone has to deal with that? 

     Pride in the human spirit that empowers a person to overcome insurmountable challenges?                     

     Joy that we could bring (we hoped) a moment of that same joy to her?

     Humility because we who had normal abilities didn’t do more with them?  Because we had this talent to share with others, yet didn’t share it more often?

      The last weekend of November, we headed to Greeley to the Union Colony Civic Center Festival of Trees.  The Center provides cookies, coffee, and fruit cups to mostly older folks who are available to attend such an event on a Wednesday at 1 p.m.  While the attenders munch goodies, walk around to view the trees that various organizations have decorated and entered into the display, and maybe enter a bid for the silent auction items on display, we sang some Christmas Carols.  We have been a part of this scene for three years, now.

      About 2:30, the ticket buyers (costs $3) move into the auditorium to take in the program presented by the Greeley Philharmonic Guild.  We sang “Java Jive” for the crew serving coffee, chatted with the Greeley Tribune reporter, and headed off for a less attractive job.

      Rex had been informed that one of his and Dick’s old barbershop buddies had just been diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s disease.  He was in a rehab facility between Greeley and Loveland.  We should drop in and sing a song.

     A year ago, it was a similar situation, but following our Greeley appearance, we went to a hospital where one of our own chorus members was fighting cancer.  Last year, we went to the information desk to get the right room, only to find that Dale had checked out an hour or two before we got there.  Would we have the same luck this year?

      No, Ben was still in his assigned room.  We made our way through the labyrinth toward the room. 

     Dick stopped us and presented an idea.  He would blow the pitch for “Hello Neighbor” quietly just outside the door.  We would make a grand entrance.  It works because we begin the song with an arpeggio beginning with the tenor singing “hello”, followed by lead, baritone, and ending with the bass echoing “hello” on their respective notes.  “Okay?” Dick asked.

     “Okay.  If anybody gets shot it will be me,” I said.  I would be the first one through the door.

     Dick quietly blew the note on his pitch pipe.  I took the pitch and headed through the door.  “Hello!” I sang as I barged into the room.  There were four people in the room, Ben sitting in a chair, his wife standing beside him, one son standing close to the door I came through, and another son sitting on the bed right in front of me.

      They all startled at this unexpected interruption of this skinny gray-haired old guy busting through the door shouting “Hello!”  The man on the bed jumped and turned to face me.  The others all registered shock in their faces, that didn’t disappear when Ted closely followed me in the same manner, the only difference being the pitch of his “hello.” 

      When Dick followed, then Rex, the looks of shock were replaced with first relief and then joy as they saw two faces they recognized.  We weren’t far into the song before Ben had tears running down his cheeks.  With some difficulty, we finished the song. 

     Ben’s wife hugged Rex.  He explained that we had two more songs we wanted to sing for Ben.  She retreated and we went through “Chordbusters March” and “Java Jive.”  Then the old acquaintances greeted one another while Ben’s sons introduced themselves to the two newbies, Ted and I.

      The one son told me that barbershop was the one thing that kept his dad going, that he brought recordings for him to listen to, but our live performance far exceeded the canned versions.  He thanked me profusely for coming to sing.

      Outside in the hall just outside the door, we had drawn a dozen or so listeners from other patients and their caretakers.  When we exited the room, the onlookers dispersed. 

     In the hall, Ben’s wife confided in us that at the moment we crashed through the door, they had just returned from a meeting with the doctors who outlined what Ben had to look forward to in the coming days and weeks.  She said they were at an all-time low, that our interruption had done a lot to restore their spirits.  She thanked us for taking time to come sing for them.

      This time, we had to delay our reaction to our emotional performance.  We stopped to sing for the nurses and others at the nurses’ station.  Again, we drew a small crowd, some in wheelchairs, some using walkers, some staff members.

       We sang one for the ladies at the front desk who said they couldn’t hear us, we were so far away.  That one turned into two as again we drew some listeners.  One of the ladies among those gathered asked for a business card.  She said she would sure like for us to come back.

      We were a few miles down the road before Dick broke the silence by venturing that it was amazing how easy it was for us to bring a little joy to folks.  We should consider ourselves lucky that we had that talent.        

     Indeed.  Gratitude that we have that talent and gratification we get from others who appreciate it.  Those emotions wrestle with all the others that such an outing induces.

     Ben died on December 28.