This is a story about a miracle of modern medicine, and about the quiet heroism of anyone who endures chronic illness.
Three things that Joel Havemann, the author of this article, is too modest to say about himself: He's one of the best-loved people in his workplace, the Washington bureau of the Los Angeles Times, because he's both hard-working and easygoing, tough and gentle at the same time. He's very good at what he does, which is helping newspaper reporters find good ideas and turn them into clear, engaging stories. And, improbably, he's an accomplished gambler; his idea of a perfect weekend, when his children aren't playing soccer, often involves a casino with blackjack tables.
For almost 15 years, Joel's family and co-workers got used to living with a man who was slowly wasting away. His face grew gaunt. He ate gigantic bowlfuls of cut-up fruit--which also helped optimize the effect of his medications--but continued losing weight. He stole away for midday naps, but still tired easily. His gait became alarmingly unsteady. He sometimes crashed into filing cabinets. (We grew accustomed to the noise, but it frequently startled visitors.) Despite all that, he insisted on putting in a full workday, and on attending every school play and soccer game as well.
Joel's surgery didn't cure his disease--it wasn't that kind of miracle--but it worked some wonders nonetheless. He's no longer colliding with filing cabinets. He's gained a pound or two. His face has filled out. He has his smile back. To those who love him, that's a pretty nice miracle right there.
-- Doyle McManus, Times Washington bureau chief
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The last time my wife saw me on the morning of March 30, she understandably feared the worst. I was in a wheelchair on my way to the radiology lab at the Cleveland Clinic. Soon I would undergo brain surgery for Parkinson's disease. A sedative had left me groggy. My head, newly shaved to decrease the risk of infection, hung down under the weight of a metal "crown" fastened to my skull by four bolts. Blood oozed out where the bolts had penetrated the skin. My arms were folded against my chest and my legs were curled underneath me, in a sort of upright fetal position. At 6-foot-1 and naturally skinny, I looked to Judy as if I weighed 100 pounds.
