This Labor Day weekend, I labored like the Israelites in bondage. I labored like Paul Bunyon's mother giving birth. I labored like George Bush trying to compose a sentence.
Indeed, I carried a lot of fucking furniture.
See, my dear sister L. moved from the warm bosom of the suburbs to a spacious apartment in West Rogers Park this weekend and, by grace of J., I was able to travel north to aid her in her time of need.
Yet, this story is not about my monumental labor. This is a story about people with Multiple Sclerosis and it wouldn't even be funny if it were not written down. I am writing it down, however, and it is okay to smile.
My great-aunt Lorraine, for whom my laptop is named, had multiple sclerosis. She probably had other problems as well, but MS is certainly up there among the biggest. Aunt Lorraine's memory wasn't particularly good during the last 10 years of her life and it was probably worse than I realized. It was my impression that all old people call young people by the wrong name, so when she would say to me, "John, you're full of shit," I didn't think too much of it. She was likely remembering my Uncle John who was also full of shit, as are all the men of my family.
Still, it was a bit odd and not unfunny when, on Thanksgiving of 2002, we had the following conversation...
I lumbered into my Aunt Jan's kitchen (this story has universal appeal because everyone has an Aunt Jan) and called out to Aunt Lorraine, "How the hell are you!?"
"That reminds me," she said. She paused, remembering what it was that she remembered.
I raised my eyebrows expectantly; I enjoy a good recollection just as I enjoy a good semi-colon.
"When I was a little girl," Aunt Lorraine continued, "my father was a kosher butcher..."
"Oh ho!", thought I, "We're on to it!"
"...and whenever anyone would come into his shop, he would ask, 'How the hell are you?' And one day," Old Aunt Lorraine pressed on, "I was playing in his store and a man asked me, 'Why is your father so friendly?' and...Do you know what I said?"
Clearly, I did not and I told her so.
"I said, 'That's Just The Way He Is."
And the way that Aunt Lorraine said it, every word was capitalized, just as it is here.
We ate turkey and potatoes. Some of the potatoes were mashed and there were others that were soaked in turkey juice. I ate some mashed potatoes and I also ate some that had been soaked in turkey juice. I ate a lot of potatoes because I like potatoes. There was also stuffing. I am not sure what stuffing is exactly, but it comes in odd little cubes and I ate two cubes of stuffing. There was a two-liter bottle of Diet Sprite, which I did not drink. I prefer orange juice, so I drank some. There were fresh rolls and there was cranberry sauce and there was small plate of pickle spears and black olives. I ate many pickle spears because I find them delightfully briny. I did not eat very many black olives because they have lost much of their charm when my fingers grew too large to fit inside them. Still, I ate some black olives. I ate three rolls. I did not eat cranberry sauce because I find it either unpleasantly tart or unpleasantly sweet. I didn't eat very much turkey because I filled up rather quickly on potatoes, stuffing, pickles, and rolls.
Later, after I had eaten all of thosse delicious things and had some orange juice to drink, I thought that I would have a hearty chuckle with Aunt Lorraine over how gregarious my great-grandfather had been. I leaned over the arm of her chair.
"Aunt Lorraine, how the hell are you?"
Aunt Lorraine turned her head toward me and gazed at me sagaciously.
"That reminds me," she said. She paused, remembering what it was that she remembered.
I raised my eyebrows for the second time that night.
"When I was a little girl," Aunt Lorraine continued, "my father was a kosher butcher..."
"Oh...", thought I, "this is troubling..."
"...and whenever anyone would come into his shop, he would ask, 'How the hell are you?' And one day," Old Aunt Lorraine pressed on, "I was playing in his store and a man asked me, 'Why is your father so friendly?' and...Do you know what I said?"
I said, "That's Just The Way He Is."
And I said it the way that Aunt Lorraine had said it, with every word was capitalized, just as it is here.
I mention all of this because, when I was carrying heaps of furniture at my sister's new apartment, I met the mother of one of her two roommates. This woman was probably in her fifties and she was sitting in a wheel chair. As I was otherwise occupied, I didn't have much occasion to inquire why she was in a wheel chair, or even to wonder that she was in a wheel chair at all. After a bit of furniture-related heaving, grunting, and sweating, I paused next to my mother and two mothers of my sister's two roommates in the kitchen. They were chatting about the joy of moving their children out of the house and I sat and sweated and drank a bottle of Orange Fanta.
My mother excused herself to go to the bathroom. The conversation died down and the woman in the wheel chair raised her eyes to mine.
"I just want you to know that I studied design at the University of Iowa," she said.
"I study Rhetoric at the University of Illinois," I said.
"I just want you to know that I made some very good designs," she said, "Ellen, tell him about my designs."
Ellen, the other mother there, spoke, "She made some very good designs.
The woman in the wheel chair turned back to me.
"I just want you to know that I made some very good designs."
"Are you going to design anything for this apartment?"
"No," she said. "I just want you to know that the University of Iowa is a good school.
"Okay," I allowed.
"I just want you to know that I have Multiple Sclerosis."
Multiple Sclerosis is an autoimmune disease that affects the central nervous system and attacks a variety of neurological functions.
"My Aunt Lorraine had MS", I offered feebly, trying to maintain some semblance of a conversation.
Ellen jumped in, "We were all sorry to hear about your aunt." My aunt had died a year and a half ago. "I have to go...find some water..."
She walked away.
The woman in the wheel chair and I watched her walk away.
She turned back to me, "I just want you to know," she continued, "that the doctors at the University of Iowa treated me."
"Oh?"
"I just want you know that the doctors at the University of Iowa are the best doctors in the world. I just want you to know that the doctors at the University of Iowa treated me and now I can walk again and now I can see."
She was so earnest and all I could say was a mild, "That's good."
My father walked by. I called out to him, "Dad? Do you need me for anything?"
He paused. "Nope." He walked away.
I felt trapped by her ardent desire to talk, or, less likely, by good manners.
"I just want you to know that the doctors at the University of Iowa are the best doctors in the world and that they called me to congratulate me when they heard that I could walk again."
"That was nice of them," I said fervently.
She had tears in her eyes.
"I just want you to know..."
"Jeff!" My dad was calling from another room. "I need your help with this!"
"I have to go," I excused myself hurriedly. I turned away, but stopped in the doorway. I looked at her. The woman had been practically ignored the entire day and I felt like shit for being so frantic to get away. "I'm glad you're getting better," I said over my shoulder.
"Thank you for listening to me," she said.
True Story.
