# 174 Tuesday, June 20, 2006 - THE PHONE CALL

"Each of us is just a phone call away, from crippling disability"-  Senator
John Kerry, in support of embryonic stem cell research.


My brother-in-law Marty, or "Uncle" as most of us call him, is the kind of
guy makes everybody's life a little brighter. Forty-ish, and very strong: I've
known him since forever.

When Gloria and I were first going together, aeons ago, Marty was about
eight. Gloria had a pet nickname for him, Boy-boy, and I made the mistake of
referring to him by her private appellation.

"My name. is Raymond.Martin.Zimmerman," he said with enormous dignity. He
looked at me straight, and his eyes did not flicker. Maybe he was eight but
I never called him Boy-boy again.

Extremely strong.  At about fourteen he was casually gorilla-ish, and I
persuaded him to try Olympic lifting, just a little, enough to compete in a
local contest.

He had natural style and a ton of strength. In the lift called the "clean
and jerk" he could smoothly "clean" the bar from the floor to his shoulders,
but did not quite grasp the complicated front and back foot placement for
the "jerk" overhead.

So, having hauled 175 pounds to his shoulders, he paused, thought about it
for a second-dipped at the knees-and just shoved it overhead, without moving
the feet at all, a far more difficult task. His face never changed as he
calmly pushed the bar overhead, more than his bodyweight, but easy as
putting groceries on the shelf.

Time passed and Marty became the person everyone turned to when there was a
project beyond our capacity.

Anything that could be done with hands, wrench, screwdriver, or powerdrill,
he could do, and do it well: never fast, he was in no hurry-but the work was
solid, and would last.

Roman needed a new bathroom put in?  Could Marty do it? Was that possible?

"Mm," he said.

He and my nephew-in-law Tommy LaManna tore out the walls and threw in a new
bathroom.

Marty wastes no words, never seems excited about much of anything.

If there was a sudden roaring fire in the house, I could visualize him
studying the situation, shaking his head, sighing-"we'll be getting out
 now," he might say, if in the mood for such a major conversation.

Not without wit. He calls sister Gloria "mean Jean the dancing machine", and
when Roman Junior got too old for "little guy", and we could not figure out
what to call him any more, it was Marty who casually dubbed him, "Little
 Man".

Marty also has some definite opinions on baseball, which he passes on to
Roman Jr. Watching him and Roman Sr. critique Little Man's batting stance is
a like a clinic.

It seemed natural, therefore, that we should turn to Marty about a problem
coming up.

Gloria, you may recall, has pneumonia.

She has been home from the hospital about a week now. At first, it was
awful. That airhose connecting her to the compressor-she hated it. One end
plugged into her nose, (first looped around the ears, then forward and into
the nostrils) the other attached to the racketing machine.

She is a person who is constantly on the move, and now had to accept
restraints. Which meant, of course, she needed someone to keep our little
world in order, and that someone was me.

I don't know if you have ever had the joy of waiting on someone who has high
standards, and is accustomed to being in absolute command?

Two key words: yes, dear.

Desiree visited and brought with her about a dozen frozen TV dinners, which
Roman Jr. explained to me how to use.

My standards are somewhat more relaxed than Gloria's. My main requirement on
food, for example, is that it hold reasonably still. I am quite content with
a big jar of mixed nuts and a bottle of orange juice. (I favor the high-pulp
version, so you can chew what you are drinking.) Gloria, however, sees the
need for more than one ingredient in a meal.

At one point I made a mild comment about my "culinary abilities". Gloria
looked at me, and said, "You mean you have some?" Which I thought was very
uncalled-for. Had I not just made grilled cheese sandwiches, with almost no
supervision?

There was also the small matter of the housework. I don't know if I would
qualify as a liberated husband; I do the chores required of me, but more
through fear than fairness--    -if you knew the Mrs. you would understand
my urge to gender equity! Well, anyway, I thought I did half the household
labor, but it turns out there was a whole lot of hidden effort of which I
was blissfully ignorant.


To my absolute delight and relief , Gloria began to mend almost immediately.
It's been a week since she got home, and yesterday, she went without oxygen
at least half the day.

She goes to the doctor this morning, 10:45, to see how she is doing. I
imagine they will keep her on the oxygen for a little while more, maybe
another couple weeks.

But now, she is bored, and cranky with the inactivity, which I regard as a
good sign.

Because at first, she was fighting just to stay alive.

That little machine to test and exercise the lungs, have you seen it? Looks
like a child's plastic toy, clear, you can see the yellow ball inside, and
if you inhale deeply the yellow ball moves up a column. At first, it did not
even budge when Gloria tried it. Now, she can raise it a couple of inches.
She is also sleeping more at night.

She is not well, but she is better.

Which brings us to a slight problem.

I love the ancient Chinese martial art of Wing Chun.

This is the close-quarters street-fighting style popularized by Bruce Lee;
it was his base style, expanded to become Jeet Kune Do; if you see the movie
Mission Impossible III, watch for Tom Cruise's last fight. Just before he
knocks the villain through the window, he wonks him with his elbows; the
elbow slams are from Wing Chun.

I cannot do it well, but enjoy it thoroughly. Almost every day I blunder
through the first empty-hand set, (Sil Lum Tao, "Way of small understanding",
which is a  pretty accurate description of my level) and in my garage is a
"wooden man", or Muk Yan Chong, against which I occasionally bruise my
forearms.

Have you seen the Jackie Chan movie "Rumble in the Bronx"? At the beginning,
Jackie works out on something like a short telephone pole with arms. It's
amazing to watch-he just blurs. The clicks of wood-bone-wood come so fast
they are almost one sound.  There is a wooden man set, 116 moves. It took me
18 months and a couple dozen instructional videotapes and books before I
could fumble through it.

Any way, some time ago, we had signed me up for a three-day Wing Chun
seminar over in Sausalito, which takes place next Friday, Saturday, and
Sunday. It cost $325 and we could not afford it, but Gloria wanted me to put
stem cells aside for a while.

I figured that was out of the question, now-and (although I would not admit
this to Gloria) was actually a little relieved. I am 60, after all, and
though I try to maintain some level of fitness, still, the thought of being
among all those young athletes was a trifle daunting.  Doing Tai chi at the
lake with friendly folk near my age is all well and good, no pressure there,
but to pit my ancientness against the energy and speed of youth?

"Oh, no, you're going," said Gloria, "We're not throwing away all that
money."

She portrayed it like a practical decision, as if there was some important
need to be served from my three days immersion in an obscure martial art.

Naturally I made noble noises (and for once was correct) that she should not
be alone.

"Marty is going to come and stay with me," she said.

Oh, well. I wouldn't have to worry, if Marty was here. He would protect his
sister as fiercely as I would.

And then we got the terrible phone call.

Marty had just had a stroke.

He is in the hospital as I write this now, and we do not know how bad it is.

By Don Reed, www.stemcellbattles.com

----------------------------------------------------------------------
To sign-off Parkinsn send a message to: mailto:[log in to unmask]
In the body of the message put: signoff parkinsn