Everyone who has worn a uniform has those fiends. You shared the same wins, losses, doubts and
fears together as you sweat and climbed the same mountains. Everyone who had worn a uniform knows about
those true friends; bonded for life regardless of what happens next. When I was diagnosed with MS in 1999
absolutely everything in my life changed in an instant. Everything, this is except my friends. This is a story about three men who changed
my life by committing that my MS changed nothing.
I met Bo, Ho and Dougie all on the same day. June 28, 1989. R-Day; reception day for the incoming class
of 1993 at the United States Military Academy.
West Point may be a prime mark of military success for young men and
women, but on June 28, 1989 it was a spastic day for at least four boys. Coming from very different backgrounds from
across the country, we were now expected to conform to one crisp standard. Together & with the rest of our new
platoon we made it through R-Day.
That first day carried on through that first week, month and
finally the end of our first year. We
stumbled through, carrying each other and being carried. Plebe year at West Point. We were seasoned; no longer wide eyed and naïve. At least that is how we saw ourselves in the
world. We refined that crisp
standard. We trained together, studied
together, and tested each other. All the
time supporting each other, physically and mentally, in the ways that you would
expect brothers to support each other:
·
By challenging each other to push on faster
& longer, regardless of our desires to quit.
·
By never letting up and never allowing each
other to take the easier way out.
·
By finding the humor and sarcasm in everything
and trivializing our fears before those fears could ever take hold.
That first year carried on
through 22 more (and counting). Separately,
we have all travelled our own paths and are now in very different points of our
middle-aged lives, again spread across the country. Each of us has been individually defined by
our careers, assignments, deployments, transitions, marriages, divorces,
children, families, and unique life events in general. Together, we are defined in much the same way
as we have been since that June 28. Every
step of the way is marked by some story we’ve told a thousand times
already.
We talk as often as we can. Sometimes more, sometimes less than we would
prefer. Every year, though, we
gather. Guys’ Weekend. Our excuse to put aside our worries and
concerns about life and enjoy time with each other.
Bo, Ho and Dougie know all about
my disease and the ongoing litany of issues, hospitalizations and
medications. Sometimes we talk about it,
usually because I am taking the opportunity to vent a bit. But on Guys’ Weekend, I put all that aside in
favor of the random banter, beer drinking, cigar smoking, good time crisp
standard that we all maintain! Not quite
the same STRATC young men we were, but we can hold our own.
What’s so special about Guys’
Weekend? For me, it’s the only group
where I don’t have MS. Sure, they know I
have the disease. They know about (and
see) all of my issues and treatments.
For me, they don’t see that. Bo,
Ho and Dougie treat me exactly the same way as they always have, as one of
them. No more and no less. Most important, no different than ever. I can honestly say, besides these three men
there is no one else whom I can say that about.
For someone with MS, being treated like everyone else can be the
greatest feeling in the world.
I let Bo into my MS world this
summer. He rode with us in this year’s
BikeMS fundraiser here in Oregon. This
is the world where I am Kevin: team captain of Team Amulet and one of the faces
of MS. For me, the angst preceding the
weekend on my part was unwarranted. He happily
rode and celebrated with us, all the time surrounded by sites and stories of
MS. In the end, regardless of what he
saw or heard I was still KB. Nothing
changed.
I’m headed off for Guys’ Weekend
next week. I’ll never thank Bo, Ho and
Dougie for what they do (rather, for what they don’t do). Nor do I have to. They would just shrug it off anyway. Maybe even poke fun at me for a while, then
crack open another beer, then poke fun at me again. Jackasses.
Thanks
KB
Kevin Byrne - Portland, OR
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