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PROSE
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Mom walks five paces behind us, a second-class citizen from a third-world country, her passport stamped “Alzheimer's
Disease.” Her vacant eyes peer from beneath dementia's wax mask. Dad is on a mission, and I can barely keep up with him, despite his heart condition. We are off to see another distinguished, well-meaning doctor, who will have little to offer Dad’s
failing bride of sixty years. We march through the opulent,
twelve-story granite outpatient building of The Cleveland Clinic, known locally as the "pink pyramid." The Clinic is one of the world's premier centers of healing; however, no healing will occur here for my
mother today, or any day. As a physician, I know that Mom’s dementia
is now untreatable. Dad also knows her dire prognosis, but is incapable of surrendering
hope. He clings to the belief that one day I will reach deep into my empty medical bag and deliver a miraculous cure at the
last possible moment. Strangely color-coordinated with the building’s pink walls, Mom is attired in a neon-pink, polyester pantsuit. The color epitomizes the personality of this roman candle-of-a-woman who raised me. Mom has always been electric pink in her flashes of laughter, anger, joy, and
flushed embarrassment. Now, the electricity is gone, as if she'd been unplugged. Although Dad continues to style her hair and dress her in forgotten fashions from
kinder times, I only see a woman that I barely recognize … one who is all dressed up with no way to know. The gold ID bracelet that I gave her accents her outfit; it is engraved with her name, address, diagnosis,
and Dad's telephone number, in case she ever gets lost. Just as Mom clipped my
gloves to my coat when I was a child, I try to find ways to keep her attached to us as she recedes back into her childhood. With Mom trailing, Dad and I stride across the second floor balcony, engrossed in trivial conversation about the upcoming
baseball season … anything to distract us from reality. As we argue possible
starting line ups, I glance back and realize that Mom is gone. Poof! Vanished into a bank of wood-paneled elevators. A thousand questions swirl in my mind: Will Mom notice that she's alone? Will she panic or get violent? Will she follow someone who looks like us? Or
will she sit in one of the many crowded waiting rooms and become a nearly invisible, human Where’s Waldo? The rasp of Dad’s labored breathing snaps me back to reality. All
color drains from his face, leaving only the etched pain of the past months; he seems to age in an instant. I know that his ailing heart must be fluttering like a wounded bird.
He staggers, gripping the balcony rail with shaking hands. Although I
want to stay with him, to hold him, I know I must first find Mom. “I’ll check the floors above!” I yell, as I run toward the stairwell. Dad
enlists the help of a uniformed guard and then positions himself so that he can watch both the bank of elevators and the doors
below that exit onto the mean city streets. I fly up the stairs two at a time. My brain begins to short-circuit, sparking
random thoughts. Flickers of guilt conjure up my brother in my mind, a look of
disbelief on his reddening face as he stutters, “My God! How in the world could you manage to lose our mother –
and kill our father – in only one afternoon? What’s wrong with you?” Shaking my brother’s expression from my imagination, I hit the third floor running. Here, labyrinths of hallways connect with multiple over-ground walkways that access the whole Cleveland
Clinic complex of buildings, a city within a city. Panic strikes! Seeing no pink in the sea of color on this floor, I launch myself up the stairwell again. Time slows. People, lost in their own diagnoses and destinations, move
about me randomly. The din of daily chatter shrouds my silent crisis. My senses in overdrive, I smell disinfectant and sweat, but catch no hint of Mom’s Chanel No
5 perfume nor scent of the butterscotch candy that fuels her second childhood. As
I climb floor-by-floor, my thighs and calves begin to burn and my panic mounts. People
stare at me with apprehension, then anger, and then fear – as if I were a child running with scissors. Wild-eyed and erratic, I’m fortunate not to be wrestled to the ground by an alarmed medical staff. Staggering to the top floor, I see a befuddled woman dressed in pink at the entrance to the "Center For Children." Standing next to her is an equally bewildered young couple trying fruitlessly to extract
from her any useful information. "Mom!" is the only word I can muster, but the
sigh of relief from the couple confirms that this is the one word that they most want to hear. A butterscotch candy cleanses Mom’s palate and her memory of the day’s debacle, as I reunite
her with a husband that she doesn't know. The vision of my brother pops back
into my head, and I hear myself tell him, "Well, the good news is that I got a nice workout today, Mom made two new friends,
and Dad's heart is stronger than I ever imagined." Dad clings to me for strength, as his breathing slows and color returns, weeping softly, "Thank God! Thank God, I was afraid we'd lost her." Watching Mom
fiddle with her ID bracelet and wipe invisible crumbs from her pink pants, I think, "Sorry Dad, we already have." I want to tell him that we worry about him, that his burden is too great, and that it’s time to put
Mom in a nursing home. But we’ve had this conversation. I know that my concern will be deflected off old world ways and that his answer will be, “It’s
my turn to take care of her.” So, I return his embrace, keeping
my thoughts to myself. Dad’s impish grin, which has been my beacon for a lifetime, begins to glow softly again. He takes Mom by the hand and we resume our quest for a cure. And
in that moment, I realize that my black bag is not entirely empty. It still contains
one last “magic bullet.” I reach in, rummage about, and there it
is. Hidden under medical jargon and discarded theories, I find what is indisputably
the most potent curative known to medicine—powerful enough to keep the dead alive in concentration camps and
keep the word “miracle” in the dictionary: Hope. I grab as much as I can hold. © 2004 “Holding on to Hope” (creative nonfiction / memoir) was published
in Chicken Soup for the Caregiver’s Soul in 2004, pages 250-253 - ISBN 0-7573-0159-2
The guard scowled at me,
then at my competitor’s pass, then back at me. He snickered something about
snowballs in hell. Although I stood over six feet tall and weighed 200 pounds,
he apparently saw the gray hair peeking out from under my “ Placing the competitor’s
pass around my neck, I strode into the locker room, where the pungent aroma of liniment and sweat assaulted me. Giant men, who dwarfed my every dimension, spoke in whispers, if at all.
Breathing was audible. If the wooden benches had been pews, this could
have been a church. Some heads were bowed; others stared like statues. After years of preparation, the best wrestlers in the world were here to prove it one more time. I savored the moment—a
sports fan transported to Oz—as I floated from the locker room into an enormous arena roofed in a rainbow of flags. I wandered from match to match, watching victory thrill some and defeat agonize others. When the gold medal match in the super heavyweight division of Greco-Roman wrestling
was announced, I positioned myself next to the mat. As the American hoisted
his 240-pound frame into the ring, a sudden silence filled the arena, as if the “mute” button had been pushed. His baby face and mop of dark hair seemed out of place, small and fragile above a
warrior’s body. When the word “indomitable” was coined, they
must have had this man-child in mind. In the unlimited weight class, he had already
defeated opponents twice his size, using strength and quickness. Then, the announcer
boomed, “Jeffrey Blatnick – Many people remember Carl
Lewis, who duplicated Jesse Owens’ 1936 grand slam track and field performance at the 1984 Olympics. And who can forget
Mary Lou Retton, the perky teen who dazzled us with her smile and style, winning the woman’s gymnastic championship
with perfect “10s” in her final events. Yet, Blatnick’s Olympic teammates selected him for the ultimate
honor: carrying the American flag in the Closing Ceremonies. How many people
remember his name? Who cares about wrestling?
For me, Blatnick’s story is not about wrestling or Olympic medals; it’s about the human spirit—a
story of journey as much as destination.
All anyone can hope for in this life is to find a passion. Jeff found
his in wrestling. He won two NCAA championships and qualified for the Olympic
team. The
Now, one victory from the gold medal, outweighed by thirty-five pounds, his father’s words echoed, “You’ve
come too far to let anything stop you now!” The bell rang and Blatnick attacked.
Standing ringside, the surging roar of the crowd drowned out the sound of the two giants crashing together, then onto
the mat, but I felt the rumble through my bones, as urgent and primal as an earthquake.
Near the epicenter, I almost expected the mat to thunder open and swallow them both.
Counterattack followed each attack. Aftershock followed aftershock. When it ended, Blatnick collapsed to his knees, hands clasped in prayer position in
the city of angels, tears on his cheeks. He had prevailed, 2 – 0. Fate,
however, scheduled an unexpected rematch in 1985, when his Hodgkin’s disease recurred.
After twenty-eight chemotherapy sessions, Blatnick won his rematch with cancer, but retired from wrestling competition. Never a victim, always a victor, Jeff chose opportunity over obstacles. He turned his life’s journey into a journey for life by spreading his philosophy of “winning
in adversity” as a motivational speaker, a member of The President’s Council of Fitness and Sport, and a fund-raiser
for numerous charities, including the American Cancer Society. Looking back over the years,
I marvel at how our concept of “hero” has morphed into a caricature. Today,
superstars come in the flavor-of-the-month, as numerous as gold stars in a kindergarten.
Greatness is measured in dollars, celebrity and outrageous behavior. The
world may someday forget his name, but I pray that his spirit is never forgotten. When
Jeffrey Blatnick mounted the pedestal in 1984 and the American flag danced from the rafters to the strains of our national
anthem, I looked into the eyes and the heart of a “super man.” As
official’s placed the gold medal around his neck for his victory in the ring, I wept for his triumph in a larger arena. —John A. Vanek © 2005 Click here to purchase "Stories of Strength" or for more information.
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