Tammy was a young mother with an autoimmune disease affecting the organs; the costly drugs she was taking helped control it. She was among the fortunate ones who respond to treatment, though she stayed very tired. Her two-year-old son was playing quietly nearby with a bagful of toys. “My husband has a good contracting business, making a comfortable living for us. Up until this year, he was able to provide health insurance for his two employees, but with my getting so sick, and we have a major claim on our workers’ comp, we are seriously looking at bankruptcy.”
“That is awful, just awful,” Adrienne said, frowning intently. “I think it’s a disgrace that our politicians have let us get into this situation while they enjoy the best health care in the world—at our expense. It used to drive me crazy because we couldn’t get enough support from the public and business world to push some sort of mandate through that would provide health coverage for everyone. Every American should have a right to purchase health insurance at affordable costs with the risks spread out over the majority, but that’s not how it works. You get a policy that may have a pool of only several hundred, while the larger corporations and state and federal governments have hundreds of thousands in their pool.”
Red-faced and passionate, Adrienne shook her head. “Insurance companies actually make a tidy profit on every health premium dollar. The pharmaceutical companies are making huge profits, and it’s the consumer that is getting squeezed more and more.”
She paused, trying to quell her anger and then said, almost apologetically, “I was extremely fortunate my husband put me on his insurance policy before I got sick. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to afford any of the care I get now. Let me tell you, this is not a country to live in if you get sick and disabled. With Medicare”—she nodded toward Pearl—“you have to pay for your own medication, which again costs more in this country than anywhere else in the world. And if you get any state or federal assistance, they make you jump through so many hoops you’ll be too exhausted to even seek medical care. And if you do qualify, that means you have to remain poor for the rest of your life to keep it. It just makes me insane,” she said, glaring around the table.
Albert Stoddart started clapping. “You’ve got my vote!” Murmurs of agreement hummed as everyone began to clap.
Finally, Adrienne broke into a smile and began holding up her hands. “Okay, okay, I know I get carried away, but that’s also something we can at least write letters to Congress about.”
“What was it like working in the Capitol?” Pearl Smith wondered.
Adrienne thought for a moment and then her eyes started twinkling. “A friend at the Pentagon once described our government perfectly. Picture this huge log floating down the river, and on that log are a million ants, all racing in different directions”—she paused for effect and looked at each one of them—“and every last one of them thinks he is in control.”
Laughter, interspersed with disgusted snorts of agreement, filled the air. Finally, when there was silence, Elizabeth spoke. “Adrienne, tell that marvelous story about what your last support group did when you left.”
As soon as she finished, Mr. Stoddart started pushing the buttons on his electric cart, moving it back and forth. “Whenever you little ladies are ready,” he offered.
“I’ll give you a run for your money, Stoddart,” an older man challenged, bent deeply inside his own electric cart. The others hooted their approval.
Gregory couldn’t keep from grinning. Dr. Meade knew what he was talking about. When the old doctor had called him last week and told him he should stop by this new group and see what it was about, he’d been right on the money. Since he had found out about the results of the blood test, his life had changed. Gregory had been dealing with it alone, feeling like a marked man.
Instead of telling his fiancée, it had been simpler to break off the engagement. He did not want anyone else to know what his future held. Knowing that made him concentrate more on his work, which wasn’t hard; he was used to that, he was an overachiever. With the future haunting his present, he had also begun to exercise with a determination borne of the fact that if his muscles were destined to atrophy, they would first be as fit and strong as possible, to make the dying take longer. Hell, maybe he could make it impossible. The medical community, Dr. Meade kept assuring him, didn’t know everything. Each person was unique.
Perhaps he could siphon off information from the people in this group, especially this Adrienne woman. Useful stuff. Like maybe how to find some courage. God knew this disease stuff wasn’t for the fainthearted. How do you handle the worst news you’ll ever be given and survive?
Adrienne checked her notes. “Did you know that fourteen million Americans have an autoimmune disease, with women holding the lead? That when this affects men, they tend not to fare as well? I’m looking around, and there’s a seventy-thirty split right here. Not all the women are in wheelchairs or carts, but all the men are. Well, it’s a little slice of statistics showing up right in our group.” She shuffled some papers around and then looked up.
“As I was preparing for this meeting, I started making notes, jotting down things to talk about, and it suddenly occurred to me what we all are. Anyone with a chronic, incurable illness is a plugger. We aren’t heroes; not for us the drama of a cancer patient surviving not only the disease but also the god-awful treatments, then finally attaining remission—a cure! We don’t have that. All we can do is hold on long enough to get through, day by day. So we keep plugging. We keep plodding and sometimes all we can do is keep crawling, but the important thing is to keep on and not give up hope. We are pluggers extraordinaire, if you will. As a matter of fact, I was up late last night plucking through a thesaurus trying to come up with appropriate words to make up the acronym PLUGGERS. I couldn’t come up with anything logical. I tried People Living Under God’s Grace, but I got tired so I went to sleep instead.”
A man at the other end of the table held up his hand. “Excuse me?”
Adrienne glanced at her notes. Post-polio syndrome, with lots of pain, wheelchair. “Yes, Mr. . . . Sanders, Carl Sanders.”
His smile became a wince as a small tremor traveled across his face. “I don’t mean to be difficult or anything, but I must point out, we all may not share the same religious beliefs as you.”
Adrienne clapped a hand to her face. “You’re absolutely right! I immediately apologize. Is this offensive to anyone here?” She looked around, abashed at being so insensitive.
No hands were raised but Carl Sanders’s.
“Yes? This offends you? Are you, um, Buddhist? Muslim? Or—”
He shook his head. “I’m not anything. I’m an atheist.” He glanced around at the surprised looks and then held up a weak hand. “But harmless.”
“Well,” Adrienne said, “it is very important we respect our differences, and we certainly will respect yours. We don’t really have to have a silly acronym for ourselves, but if anyone wants to fiddle with it, be my guest.” She smiled, her face angling to one side. “Nonetheless, I do like the word pluggers, and as long as we know who we are, everything else falls into place.”
“What happens if you can’t plug anymore?” Sally Trotter asked fretfully. She wanted to know. She was an older woman with fibromyalgia, and the pain she felt was worn on her face. The lines were deep and unrelenting.
“Well,” Adrienne considered for a moment. “I think that if you can’t plug along physically, then all you can do is plug along emotionally, if you are Mr. Sanders, or spiritually, if you are like the rest of us. I mean, what else could we do; is there anything left?” She looked around with an inquiring look.
“Are you always so positive?” Claude Nolan asked, suspicion scraping his voice. “Optimists can be a real pain in the tail, if you know what I mean.” He was in a manual wheelchair, shaggy white hair matching a long beard. His demeanor was weathered and irritable.
“Adrienne keeps things in perspective,” Elizabeth offered helpfully.
�
��Perspective?” He grunted. “Don’t tell me, the glass half full or half empty crap?”
“Mr. Nolan, why don’t you tell us how you cope with having an incurable, chronic illness such as post-polio syndrome?” Adrienne leaned over, and all eyes were resting solely on him.
He didn’t like being the center of attention. His face reddened and he started breathing hard. He finally wheezed out, “I don’t. Can’t you tell?”
“Then that’s the way you handle it. By not handling it. So maybe you might want to try a different way, because no one is right or wrong in this,” she cautioned. “We are all finding our own way. Our own way, in our own time. Don’t forget that.”
Then she smiled brightly at Mr. Nolan, who blinked several times before attempting one of his own.
Sandra Little, her shiny black-wheeled walker resting behind her chair, was one of those who shared Elizabeth’s disease. She looked over at her. “Elizabeth, does she always have this much energy?” Then she looked at Adrienne. “Do you?” It was an accusation. Although Sandra looked wonderful, she was mired in fatigue that had been unrelenting for a week. This wasn’t helped by the intense jealousy she was feeling at this moment.
Elizabeth glanced at Adrienne. “She usually does; she’s very focused and motivated. And organized . . . as for me, I’m not.” She said this apologetically. Sandra gave a little nod of approval, and Elizabeth was touched by the empathy she saw in others also nodding.
“I would like to say one more thing,” Carl began, with a rigidity to his jaw that spoke of constant discomfort. “I’ve already told you I’m an atheist. I will respect your right to believe anyway you choose, and I’ll count on you to respect mine. I don’t want you to think I’m rude, though, when I excuse myself if these meetings get to be . . . What did you say earlier?” He frowned, and then found the word. “Spiritual.”
“Thank you.” Adrienne made a note beside his name. “I find this fascinating, your views. I don’t think I could get through a moment without knowing God is real and alive. I’d like to understand your viewpoint, if I may. A thought occurs to me: Does this merely mean I am more needy than you?” She watched him try to shrug.
The word jogged Elizabeth’s memory. “If you need something, you look for it. Perhaps Mr. Sanders doesn’t need anything?”
His smile was brief, twisting at the end. “I think I need to be taken out and shot. This damn body is falling apart.”
“Oh, no, surely your doctors can come up with something,” Adrienne urged gently, relieved to see the tension finally roll off and his shoulders relax.
“You don’t believe in nothing?” asked Nicole Anderson, who had a mane of long auburn hair and looked normal—until she stood up and you saw the cane. Her face was plain, and these were the first words she had spoken beyond introducing herself. She had relapsing/remitting MS.
Hard blue eyes grazed her and she flinched. “You sound like there must be something wrong with me,” he said sternly. “And you’ve used two negatives that negate your question,” he added, a hint of superiority coloring his words. For a brief second before his mouth tightened, he was the arrogant son of a bitch he used to be—in his other life.
“Culturally, she sounds like 99.9 percent of America today,” Adrienne interjected, dismayed at the embarrassed color on Nicole’s face. Adrienne’s husband was a master of the English language, and she wasn’t about to let this man make anyone feel bad about words.
“True.” Carl grunted. “If I believed in anything, I’d agree this country is going to hell in a handbag . . . but since I don’t, I won’t.” The smile that briefly found his eyes was almost amused before it disappeared in a grimace.
“Yes.” Adrienne’s voice was as dry as day-old toast. “Well, we will indeed respect each other’s differences, certainly. Not only with respect but”—here Adrienne shot him a hard, chastising glance, her eyebrows raised—“we will treat each other with courtesy and kindness.”
Her glare didn’t affect him much, although he did nod and say, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Fine. Now, please forgive my curiosity, but may I ask if you have always been an atheist? Is that how you were raised?”
He shook his head and shifted in the chair; that slight move seemed to settle his body in an easier pattern. “No, ma’am. For the first thirty years of my life, I was a Christian, went to church most Sundays when I could.”
“What happened? That is, if you wouldn’t mind telling us?” Adrienne was fascinated, but was mindful of not prying too much.
“I saw personally what mankind can do to each other, its women and even children. I was part of the military task force that detailed massacres throughout the world—the ethnic cleansing, tribal conflicts; it was our job to sort out the details of the dead. How many, how they were killed, etc.” Dark, terrible memories haunted his eyes and he grimaced, whether in pain or something else was known only to him. “After the first year, I knew there was no God. All that church stuff, feel-good loving God crap was just that. No merciful, caring God could allow people not only to kill and torture each other, but to do that to innocent children, too. Nope. That’s why I know there’s nothing beyond these known facts: We get born, we live, we die. Period.”
It was a harsh assessment, Adrienne thought, but one borne of knowledge that shouldn’t exist.
She could feel his anger, his disgust, but she couldn’t contain her questions. “You said what mankind does to itself. Why do you believe God had anything to do with any of those awful things? Now, I’m not saying you’re wrong,” she hurriedly assured. “I just want to understand.”
She saw the look of pity he gave her. “The way I was taught, the way I remember it, God’s supposed to be the One in control, the One who decides what’ll happen, right? Look around the world. There is nothing in control except people . . . most of them doing a damn poor job.” Suddenly weary, his shoulders drooped. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Of course, of course. I didn’t mean to be so curious, Carl. Perhaps we’ll talk later. Now, let’s see.” Adrienne immediately shuffled through her notes and gave a brief summary of what she would try to plan for next month’s meeting.
She looked around the room with a smile for each person. “Anything else? No? Then we are adjourned until next month. A notice will be in the newspapers, but it’s the third Tuesday of the month. I’ll try to give everyone a call or e-mail. Thank you so much for coming.”
Everyone but Elizabeth wheeled, walked, or shuffled past as Adrienne glanced at all the notes she had written. An older man slipped into the room and fell in step with Carl Sanders. Elizabeth later learned he employed aides as he needed them and drivers.
Adrienne was already making plans to get the speakers they had talked about, such as a physical therapist, one local doctor offering acupuncture, and perhaps someone to talk about the Americans with Disabilities Act. Several of the people who came were still working, albeit part-time. Knowledge is power, Adrienne had stated, and they all agreed.
Elizabeth was impressed. Things had gone very well, and she insisted on taking Adrienne out to eat.
Restaurants are as abundant as the fresh fish in the rivers hugging this northern peninsula, and although all are supposed to be handicapped-accessible, some are more so than others. Adrienne knew, by practical experience, which was which. The two had ridden together, so they drove back toward their homes and stopped at Café Latte.
While they waited for their food, Elizabeth ventured to ask about the funeral. Adrienne’s eyes suddenly misted, but she remained composed.
“It was beautiful. Everyone had a special memory to share about Thomas. It was beautiful and sad. It helped us heal, a little, I think.” Adrienne paused to sip some water. “It reaffirmed what an incredible, loving child he was, yet so adult at times. He cared for other people; he was the most empathetic child I have ever known. The stories were happy, sad . . . His brother and sister spoke of how much he meant to them. It was a poignant gathering filled
with laughter and tears.”
Elizabeth waited as a few quiet moments slipped by before she could put together the next question, her voice tentative. “How are the parents holding up? Ever since you’ve been gone I’ve been thinking, carefully and very gingerly, how I would feel if something happened to Kellan. The thought makes me cringe. I don’t think I’d be able to live with such a loss.”
Adrienne looked at her thoughtfully. “Actually, if it happened you wouldn’t have a choice. Just as they have no choice—no, that’s not right either. What they have decided is not to let this cripple them, but to instead strengthen them. I can tell you honestly that their faith is allowing them God’s grace to deal with losing Thomas.”
Faith—always faith . . . “Compared to all of you, I don’t think I have any,” Elizabeth said flatly. “You all seem to be handling it so well, and I—there’s all these questions, all these hurts, I . . . what if I were to lose Kellan like Danielle lost her son, how you lost your godchild? I . . . how can God let this happen?”
Adrienne’s eyes narrowed. “You sound like Carl. Do you think God lets or makes these terrible things happen? Have you asked yourself how God could let this happen?” Her gesture encompassed the chair and her body. “Or this happen?” The motion encompassed Elizabeth, her cane, and her weakened leg.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Of course I have; haven’t you?”
“In the beginning, yes. We had some strenuous discussion over it, God and I.” Adrienne’s face clouded with past memories. “But I have to say I believe He doesn’t let anything just happen. It’s part of . . . some magical master plan. It’s up to us to choose if we are going to be players or not. Don’t forget, we are the ones with free will. You are perfectly free to disbelieve if you choose. That’s the premise of our faith.”
Pretty words, Elizabeth thought. “Doesn’t it all make you crazy?”
Adrienne waved her hand again in a broad gesture encompassing everything. “Sometimes.”
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