Saturday, November 4, 2023

What I Learned at My 30th College Reunion

I’ve been back before. I never attended with the thought, Is this my last visit to West Point?

October 11, 2023

Months of uneasiness preceded my trip. Psychological juggernauts in the shape of mounting health issues battled the resurgence of past demons over the right to take the lead in the domination of my senses. At times, it had been unbearable.

When I returned home three days ago, I had one objective: Live Like There’s No Tomorrow.

My fondness for this cliché isn't as uncivilized as you might assume, despite my poor wording. Starting my article by explaining what I mean would make for a dull story. If Aesop had begun his fable with its moral message, would children read “The Frogs Who Wished for a King” with the same curiosity? Of course not, but his woven storyline proved it was wise to ensure you can better your condition before you seek to change it.

October 6

I sat in the Cadet Chapel as we memorialized 21 classmates who have seen their final tomorrow. War, illnesses, accidents, and suicides are some reasons they left us far too early. One by one, their names echoed throughout Gothic architecture as classmates called role for our brothers and sister. My mind wandered the way it does every time death joins a conversation. I wondered what occupied their thoughts and what they did the day before, suddenly, there was no more tomorrow. I wondered about the unbearable anguish of those who knew there would be no more tomorrow. What would be different if those 21 souls had the chance to do it over again? Would we still have mourned 21 classmates? Twenty? Nineteen, fourteen, or four? How different would our world be if all 21 tragedies instead celebrated their next tomorrow, tomorrow?

There Is No Tomorrow for Me

Fifty-one trips around the sun have mellowed my temperament. I’m no longer arrogant enough to assume I have the right to speak on behalf of everyone, so I added the caveat “for me.”

At some point, I will face my end. That may happen later today or sometime far in the future. Regardless, one tomorrow will never come. Until then, there will be many lasts for me.

When I climbed out of my Apache helicopter on Thursday, September 2, 1999, I never considered the possibility that I was standing in the doorway of the last tomorrow for my aviation career. If I knew, what would I have done differently? When I shared “Little Dreamer,” my reflection on the last day I ran faster than Rogue, there was still a glimmer of hope that medicine, determination, and miracles would combine to give my legs the advantage tomorrow. Tomorrow never came. Now, I pray it never does because it would mean my daughter had grown slower and weaker than her broken-down father.

My heart does not mourn the loss of those tomorrows the way my classmates mourned our fallen. They cried and embraced the families of the dead. They embraced each other, imagining once-unimaginable sacrifices if those efforts would bring their friend back. They sat in silence. Then they sang! Cherished hymns from our cadet days did not just mourn 21 lives ripped from our ranks. Ageless chorals reinforced and celebrated collective bonds we will always share. Tears would come again later that day, then the next, and the next, but those sickly sobs paled compared to the bellyaching festivities brought on by every story pulled from the past. We are alumni, even worse, middle-aged old grads of the Long Gray Line. That title mandates plenty of griping about changes from “The way it was,” the weather, and the fact that our Army football team cannot get out of its own way (until today, when our 2-6 team took on #17 ranked, 8-0 Air Force, and won 20-3). Those moments were also short, as more ghostly memories about the way it was pulled another round of tears, stories, and even louder bursts of hilarity. Forever tethered to the past, their somber embraces turned to joyful hugs, and finally tearful goodbyes with promises to do this again tomorrow…

For me, loss remains in my thoughts like a once-bountiful stew left to simmer unattended on the stovetop. The water, red wine, and beef broth have long since evaporated, their remnants burnt into the once-immaculate Dutch oven. Blackened ingredients no longer resemble the savory chunks of beef, radiant vegetables, and subtle wedges of potato from when they started. Pleasant rosemary, thyme, paprika, and marjoram aromas are replaced by the stink of burnt promises of what was to come. Every memory I have of my time in the Apache has that stink because I left while my career was still simmering, never savored.

I struggled with the next line in my story. “What different steps would I have taken if I knew there would be no more tomorrow in my aviation career?” It no longer feels like a valid question. Tomorrow never occurred. It never will. Empty memories reserved for the never-realized days after tomorrow occupy far too much real estate in my mind, leaving nothing but scraps of storage space for the true history that I never mourn losing. It is a senseless paradox. Trying to understand the logic would drive me to mania faster than the pattern of derangement I followed for 24 years.

There is only one path. My classmates showed me the way.

October 23

Tomorrow is here. The sun is still hiding somewhere over the Midwest, but I popped out from under my covers to kick off the new day and run (figuratively) to my computer. I thought about my aviation career, using it as nothing more than a token symbol of countless things taken from me, not lost, because of my MS. A genuine tear of sorrow pooled in the corner of my eye; my chest heaved as I tried to take a breath. Seconds before my body collapsed from grief and regret, forgotten memories crashed into my mind and flooded it with laughter, excitement, and stimulation. A smile splashed on my face just as I looked out and watched my back deck come into view under first light. Tears may come again later today, or the next, but the heartache won’t be the same. I don’t know how to describe the difference between mourning something lost versus languishing over a tomorrow never had, but the adjustment is life-changing.

Today was here. Regardless of what expired after yesterday, last year, or on September 2, 1999, there was still a tomorrow for me. I can’t run anymore, but I can walk. When Rogue came home from school, we took an impromptu stroll through the neighborhood as she caught me up on the frenzied life of a 13-year-old who holds a passion for everything she encounters. When the day comes that I can no longer do that…I will deal with that insurmountable obstacle when it crashes on top of me tomorrow.

Live Before Tomorrow Comes

Live like there’s no tomorrow for me means nothing more than enjoying my time because, unlike the man I was on September 2, 1999, life blessed me with the knowledge that there is no tomorrow for me. My MS will continue to progress, continue to chip away at my body, and continue to take what I have today. Use It or Lose It downplays the undeniable. I’m at the point where I can track measurable loss over small increments of time. Those intervals are becoming shorter and shorter. Capabilities, God’s gifts, talents, honed crafts, or essential functions–nothing is protected. Everything lies in the destructive path of multiple sclerosis.

When I lose more tomorrow, memories won’t rot in my mind. They will remain spirited, sprouting wings and flying through my stories with breathtaking tales of how I used those capabilities to their fullest extent before my MS stripped me of their companionship. When we go for a walk, my daughter will ask me, “Daddy, why are those cartoon birds singing and fluttering all around?”

“Memories, darling. They’re making memories.”

I will suck every bit of juice from my limbs before MS claims them. And when it does, I’ll remember what my classmates taught me: cry, embrace those close, sit in silence, then sing before sharing ruckus tales about what I did before I couldn’t do it anymore. I will tell stories that make you want to laugh at me, cry with me, and celebrate everything I can still do until another tomorrow comes. When Rogue goes to high school next year, then college, then everywhere, I’ll tell stories of “back in the day” when I had to do all that plus a hundred things more (let’s call that my creative nonfiction). And every time her legend travels beyond anything I ever dreamed possible, which happens quite a bit already, I will be there to praise the amazing person she is today and blossoms into tomorrow.

Tomorrow Is Only the Next Day, The Next Day Is Not Tomorrow

English is a beautiful language. Thanks to Germanic tribe conquests of England over 1,500 years ago, the influence of romance languages, and various other tongues across Europe, Africa, and Asia, I can rewrite my fears to dismiss the anxiety they create. Inevitable becomes a faraway journey instead of an immediate terminus. Tomorrow never comes. I can play my silly game and live in “the day before…” like an infinite loop until the harsh realities displace my childish wordplay.

Disease-modifying therapies show statistical effectiveness in slowing the progression of multiple sclerosis. After years on the therapeutic merry-go-round, Rituxan became my stable option in October 2016. Was it working? Would my tomorrows be worse today without those semiannual infusions? Probably. My journey with Rituxan came to an end by way of my last MRI scan. Fancy terms like “T2 signal hyperintensity” and “white matter” provide a bit of holiday spirit to my exam (think “lit up like a fucking Christmas tree”). Extra effort was added, describing the white matter foci involving the supra and infratentorial brain and the supratentorial brain lesions predominantly within the sub and juxtacortical distribution, intended to test either my subpar anatomy education or my exemplary Google search skills.

The VA gave me electronic access to those test reports along with a healthy serving of time to think about any possible directions my life was going—five and a half weeks passed before the chance to talk with my neurologist.

[You are now at the point where I paused my story, standing face-to-face with those health issues and past demons. I could not craft the climax of my manifesto with no idea what course of action I would take in 2024. Pray for the best, expect the worst, be prepared for both.]

Unfortunately, my smile and sarcastic demeanor, easing distress with entertaining tales from back in the day, don’t do shit against the uninterrupted advance of my multiple sclerosis. Tears and hugs no longer lessen the burden of those MS demons draped over my shoulders. With secondary progressive multiple sclerosis, they continue to grow, searing pain throughout my body 24 hours a day. Violent swells, unpredicted aggravation of my existing symptoms, often magnify their onslaught. New Activity is rare, but that’s what those bright hotspots on my MRI represent. What function passes through the particular nerve endings butted up against these lesions? How long before the ability they carry degrades? What will I lose tomorrow?

After writing five paragraphs about heartbreaking injuries and illnesses my classmates have experienced, their physical loss and psychological torture, I deleted the stories. It’s not my place to corrupt breathtaking experiences with my creative nonfiction. The tiny fraction of struggles they shared pale compared to the hardships they endured, yet they have one word in common: FIGHT.

Had Aesop been a member of West Point’s Class of 1993, he would have crafted a fable of Tóra, who cries, hugs, laughs, and sings in the face of insurmountable tragedy. The shrinking rabbit entertained others with captivating stories and antics that enchanted their plantation on the west bank of a mighty river. Tóra insisted, “You simply must hear my words before tomorrow comes, and I can speak them no longer.” Music and song helped Tóra bring his anecdotes to life, distracting his friends from the vicious battles he fought. Tóra grew smaller and smaller every day, but nobody noticed; the rabbit became a towering warrior who entertained the other creatures and inspired them to join in on the merriment. When Tóra finally became a rabbit so tiny that no one could see, they cried and hugged. That was when they realized he filled the plantation with laughter and song for his voice was still loud. No matter how small he was, Tóra would still be there tomorrow.

Unfortunately, I’m not that creative. My reliance is on plainspeak.

I fight, resisting any attempts to shrink and wither away my body. I will seize the opportunity every time science develops ways to hold off tomorrow. All the while, stories will inflate my swagger larger and larger. Whenever you read my words, each time they make you want to laugh or cry, I hope you remember how my own tears spilled from the same humor and sorrow.

I was back at the VA yesterday for my long overdue discussion of those MRI results. I rejected my neurologist’s premise that the activity is insignificant–deterioration is expected–I should stay my current treatment plan. After 14 semiannual infusions of Rituxan, I pushed a transition to Ocrevus. Should that prove ineffective, we will pursue more aggressive options.

November 4

Thanks to my classmates, my wonderfully well-thought-out plan is to pretend. I promise this is not denial, the typical reaction of my irresponsible he-never-really-grew-up mentality. I won’t try to convince anyone that my secondary progressive multiple sclerosis will not progress. It’s built into the name. Nor will I lull myself into complacency that the cure to all my woes is right around the corner. That cure, that world free of MS, is coming. I will dedicate my efforts to achieving that tomorrow—I will use my creativity and energy to help raise the money needed for crazy-smart scientists to do their crazy-smart science things.

I accept the downward spiral my body is going to take tomorrow. What comforts me is the fact that it does not matter. My fight is not a losing battle; my contribution is not a sacrifice. The heartfelt pleas I express for donations in support of a cure I will never enjoy is the most selfish act I have ever committed. The moral in my baffling world of contradictions only reveals itself at the end of my story. That will not happen until tomorrow.

In the meantime, I will see everything as strong, better than it has been in a long time. That upward tick is the reason I have a lot of making up to do.

Rogue deserves a dad who does not shy away from Magical Experiences D, E, F, and G because he was brooding over his loss of Capabilities A, B, and C. Together, we will make it to Z before looping around to restart the alphabet (maybe in the Hangul or Hindi the next time).

I have shunned family and friends while crawling deeper into my self-imposed isolation. They deserve to know the value I place on their love and support. Like my classmates, gatherings will become mini-reunions where we celebrate our common bond, spanning anywhere from yesterday to December 28, 1971. Reflections over loved ones we lost along the way may bring tears and hugs, but they will quickly give way to laughter, singing, more embraces, and cherished stories from the past. Impromptu hijinks will create new stories we will gather to celebrate and share tomorrow. Be prepared for random texts asking What’cha doing this weekend? before I hop in my car or board a flight to somewhere…

Committing myself to a world of imagination, I will dive deeper into my writing. Digital pages rife with once-absurd storylines will become speculative tales of fiction and fantasy, where my readers entertain the thought, Holy shit, this could really happen. Biographical blogs about my sometimes catastrophic navigation through that river just east of the plantation will rattle your mind with the realization, Holy shit, that really happened. When your guard is down, when my stories overwhelm you with emotion, I will drop my shield and beg: “Please consider a donation in support of our fight against the devastating effects of multiple sclerosis.”

For over 34 years, I have borne witness to the greatest feats of compartmentalization imaginable. Applying the brutal force of a heavyweight knockout punch with surgical precision is the underlying standard my classmates demonstrate day in and day out. That’s what I learned at my 30th reunion.

When My Tomorrow Never Comes

When the sun rises that morning, countless others will open their eyes and welcome a new day. Snapshots of peace and anxiety will continue to flood my family, friends, and loved ones. Emotions will sprinkle their lives with hearty amounts of laughter and tears. A tiny piece of that will be my contribution to their lives. The greatest gift I can offer them is another reason to smile–another charming story to tell–one more memory to help ease any troubles they may face. Reminders of how I wasted my time would be nothing more than another burden heaped onto their shoulders, so I will live like there’s no tomorrow for me and try my best to avoid selfish acts that tarnish my daughter’s next sunrise.

I learned that strength of character from shining examples of the West Point Class of 1993, Defenders of the Free.



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