G-D's FAVORITE

It's sunny. It's 45 degrees. It's two in the afternoon. I decide to see if I can ride my bike.

Spiro (my doorman) greets me in the lobby. Spiro is crazily over attentive to me. He is - to everyone. There has been tragedy in his life. He's from Albania. He has decided something about life. I'm not sure what it is but it translates into unceasing kindness and attention to others that often rubs me the wrong way.

"Spiro! - I'm off on a bike ride. Do you think I'm crazy?"

And then I fall... I feel my back legs give out in a way that they never have before. I fall backwards and lie on the cool marble lobby floor comfortable and cozy like I fell into a snow bank.

Spiro tries to lift me up, but it's not possible (now). So he rolls a luggage cart over to me and I manage to right myself.

"I guess that's not a good sign."

"Well sir, at least you had the warning, yes?"

But this warning doesn't stop me. I go to the bike room and get my bike and bring it outside.

I notice that it is much harder for me to do than the last time. It feels like... it's not you (exactly) but a storm around you. Your mind is convinced you can do what you need to do- but it's such an enormous struggle, a struggle that is outside of you... so you persist, you perspire, you groan, waiting for the winds to die.

Mounting my bike takes all the concentration and energy and hope and strength that I own.

But I do it. And once I am on my bike, my body and mind chemically change. It's worth it.

The wind, the cold, the aggressive runners, the scenery speeding by, gives cues to my body.

It's GOOD for the body to shiver. It's GOOD to feel light and wind. Its' GOOD to face the elements. My brain and nervous system re-jiggers. It is about as healing as it gets.

I bike down to Battery Park. There are people out with babies. Fathers playing lacrosse with their sons. Runners and die hard tennis players.

I turn a corner and notice the Statue of Liberty. There is a clump of six or seven people taking it in. All six stare into electronic devices. It is a windy vigorous sunny day on the Hudson River and all six are enveloped in the digital view of the world. It is more compelling to see the statue of liberty though their cannon kickback or talk about it on their SONY PDA than to simply be there in the moment. (There is fear here). The fear is that the moment isn't enough (or) I don't understand the moment but my electronic device will make sense of the moment for me later.

And maybe they are right.

I bike back up town and pass my building. It's cold. I shiver. But it's sunny and clear.

I get to around 6oth and decide to turn back.

My battery runs out.

I call JD. I wait by fence on 59th and the river. JD picks me up in his big huge car.

When I call JD, my fingers don't work. The cold messes with muscle articulation.

And because I am dehydrated I am frighteningly inarticulate. My tongue doesn't work.

JD drives me home and when we get to my apartment building - Spiro (the doorman) pulls me out of the car and tells JD, " G-D truly loves this one".

Up in my apartment JD cleans for a little bit, changes a light bulb, and advises me on the miracles of Chi-Gong.

After he leaves, I feel good - like I spent the day ski-ing.

Town car to La Guardia

THE WELL AND THE UNWELL

At the last minute I book a town car to Laguardia.

It will be in front of my building in twenty minutes.

Jackie (my 74 year old neighbor, a native of the west village- her nearly extinct New York accent gloriously intact) carries my bags down to the lobby and runs to a nearby deli for singles and fives for tips for skycaps and porters.

The town- car pulls up and the driver pokes his head out the car window.

"Roberts, Charlie Roberts?"

"Yup, that's me."

The driver is dark and tall and funny and familiar. He has the easy smile of a popular uncle or teacher. He takes charge of my one single piece of luggage as I ply myself and my two canes into the back of the car - a fresh New York Times tucked into a back seat pocket.

"Wait!"

Jackie rushes back to the car. My exit from the apartment complex is exciting to Jackie, like I’m Dorothy going home in the big balloon. She’s absolutely breathless.

"I got you two fives and ten singles.” She focuses on the handsome car and driver. “Well, Hello there! You mean if I cawl the numbuh Chawlie used, you'll show up fuh me?"

The driver likes Jackie right away. "That's right."

"What's your caw numbah? Do you have a pen? I wanna write your numbuh down."

(Jackie once told me she's afraid to take taxis because she's worried she’ll be kidnapped).

_______________

We drive east through midtown. The limo it tired. But it feels padded enough to experience that lovely feeling of gliding through the city as a soft voyeur instead of a hastled member. I feel free. I feel relief. This isn't so hard. I should travel! (I think). I relax.

I release a deep breath and look around the car.

"Is the New York Times for me?"

"Of course. And I have the Post up here too.”

The driver responds immediately like he’d been waiting for me to talk.

“The cover of the post has that fashion designer on the cover.

....t he fashion designer who killed himself."

(He means Alexander McQueen).

"This is unbelievable to me. These rich Americans. They have everything, money, freedom, a good life. They need for nothing and yet they are miserable. They're sad and depressed! I don't understand this."

I know what’s he’s saying, spoiled pathetic americans - but I ask,

"Don't you have any rich people where you're from?"

(I mean to me, being rich and famous dictates depression and ruin).

"Rich people? In Morocco? Yes. We have plenty of rich people.

But they aren't unhappy. Not like here. I guess this fashion designer was sad about his mother death? Everyone's mother dies. Maybe he felt alone. I don't know if he was married or had children."

"I don't think Alexander McQueen had kids. But I know he was married. To a man."

"Oh. He was “a gay".

"And he was British, he wasn't American. I think he lived in London."

"London, New York, it's really the same city."

This has occurred to me before. I studied in London. I did a commercial in London recently. So I agree.

"I guess that's kind of true. They are kind of the same. They're sister cities." I enjoy sizing up European cities - makes it sound like I fly to London periodically. I enjoy the the pretense.

"And Paris?" I add with delight, "Paris is a distant cousin!"

"Yes, this is true!" I can see the driver smile in the rearview mirror . "I like that... New York and Paris are second cousins. That’s right!"

"But my feeling" I go on, "My feeling about that designer, actually about suicide, my feeling is ... is that there must have been booze or drugs involved. I mean it's the fashion world. Don't all those glam super-rich designer types do drugs? Drugs and alcohol mess you up!”

I’m on a roll. Being driven around gives me a voice, so I go on.

You know what I think? YOU KNOW WHAT I REALLY THINK IS THE TRUTH OF IT? I think that to deal with the stress of life - of this life we're all forced to live every day - I think it's all about balance. If you mess up the balance of your life with alcohol or drugs... you're doomed. Everyone's life is held in the balance. We're all tightrope walkers, and we all have to watch it. Even good things can ruin the balance, too much money, too much success. Balance! - from what I've been reading, is the key to everything. Alexander McQueen messed up his balance."

The driver drives and considers my opinions.

"UNLESS?" I say, "Unless this guy was lost in his own ego. Maybe he thought his world was terribly important. That HE was terribly important. But you know, I believe we're all playing on the same level, everything that life has to offer can be enjoyed by everyone and it has nothing to do with your scene or status or money, it truly is about enjoying this moment, nature - the earth... equally available to everyone, and people lose sight of that. With all his money... why didn't he just get away?!"

"Go some where warm!" the driver says.

"Or even Iceland!” I say nonsensically.

“See nature. See something different from his suffocating designer world. Get away and go to Iceland!"

"That's right. That's RIGHT! I agree!" my driver is totally on my page. With my pale voice, and my frail sincerity, I gain his trust without a hitch.

We drive in vague discomfort waiting to think of something to say that can add and escalate our position.

I can’t think of anything so I offer,

"I'm on my way to Florida. My dad died."

"Oh. I am sorry."

"Yeah, so this trip is pretty much last minute."

"Oh, I see. I'm sorry. May I ask, how old was your father?"

"Eighty- two."

"That's old! He lived a long life!"

"Yeah, he did. I guess that's right."

"What did your father do?"

"He was an advertising executive with TIME magazine. He traveled the world. He got to eat in the best restaurants in New York."

"That's nice, he was lucky."

“Yeah, he was lucky. My father was lucky.”

"What was he like?"

"My dad?"

"Yeah what was he like? Was he funny? Did he tell stories or jokes? What was he like?"

"Well, he wasn't funny, I guess. He was actually pretty moody."

"Moody!" the driver grins and repeats the word moody as if being moody were a good thing. But his elation doesn’t dent the look of remorse on my face.

"Yeah, he was moody. And he occasionally drank too much. He didn't like to exercise, which drove me crazy. He liked to sit in his chair and read papers all day."

"Ah. .... What did you do together?"

"My father and me?”

“When you were young.”

“Well, when I was kid, my Dad used to take me to boat shows. We would spend the day at a nearby marina getting in and out of glamorous motor boats and sail boats, some of them with elaborate cabins, some of them bleak and spare. My dad had an old VW bug that sputtered. I remember driving to these boats shows on cold October weekends in the noisy VW bug.

We camped.

My father liked to camp, we camped a lot together. My father forced me to partake in boyish outdoor activity, boy scouts, winter camping, hiking in state parks. I couldn't quite figure out what the point was when I was a kid. I remember asking him why we couldn't get a camper with a bathroom and a working kitchen... and a TV! Watching TV in a camper in the woods was about as good at it could get - for me - as a kid. I couldn't understand why my dad didn't see it that way. I’m sure it was a sad disappointment to my dad that he ended up with a kid that couldn’t embrace ll bean blucher moccasins and fishing.

But Now, I don't watch TV and I love to sleep outdoors - I ended up doing a lot of camping on my own. I have my own tents, foul weather gear, I’ve tented on my own near glaciers -like I'd always loved it -like I'd always been a scrubby little outdoorsy type. Not true. My dad forced it on me and it worked. Freezing in a canvas tent by a lake and a mountain is ideal to me, now.

Is your Dad still alive?"

"No he died twelve years ago. He died young. He was sixty four."

"Oh, I ‘s sorry. What did he die of?"

"He died of Alzheimer's."

"Hmm.... so it was neurological."

"Yes, that's right... neurological. My father was a great man. My father was a very important man in our city. He was the head of the police... very well respected. Everyone loved him. I revered him. But once he retired, he got lost. He objected to retiring- didn't want to retire - And once he did, he got sick. He died just a few years later."

"Do you still think about him?"

"Every day, many times a day, not a day goes by that I don't think about my father. But you and I, we can be different. We don't have to die that way. You and I, we can keep busy, stay busy, doing things we love."

"Yeah, I mean if you're aware. I mean now we're all aware that it's not a good idea to retire and then just sit at home. How long was your Dad sick?"

"Oh. A long time. Maybe two years."

"Did you try to stop it? I mean the disease. Did you try to help him?"

The driver shakes his head and winces, sadly, defensively. "No, I couldn't. When your time is up, it's over. There is nothing to be done. There is nothing left to do."

"Right. I see.”

But I can’t let this go. Because if I do, I’m hurting myself, maybe even cursing myself in some way.

“But I guess for me... for me I'll keep trying. "

"Are you getting help?"

"Sort of."

"Are you getting well?"

"I'm not sure."

"How long have you had this? How long have you needed help walking?"

"Oh, the canes? My gosh. Less than year. Actually it's only been three or four months."

"Oh!"

"Yeah, this is all new. So... I see a lot of therapists. And I changed my diet and I swim."

"Do you go to church?"

"I do. My grandparents were christian scientists, so I go to their church. I mean, I just started going this year. Christian Scientists don't believe in illness. They ask Christ to help them see themselves as they truly are, perfect creations, perfect reflections of G-d... it's hard to explain."

My driver looks worried. He takes some time and then risks,

"I am Muslim."

He says it with breath and bravery like he's not sure how it's going to sound until it comes out.

"Oh cool!" I coo like we're comparing music on ipods.

"Please" he says, “Please”,

He sounds very concerned so I scrunch up my brow and lean in closer to the front seat to hear him better.

"Please. When you pray? Please, I recommend that you pray directly to G-d, don't pray to Jesus... don't pray to the middle man... I recommend that you pray directly to G-d.

Have you read the Koran?"

"No I haven't."

"As Muslims, we know about Jesus. Jesus is mentioned in the Koran in many places"

The driver is talking to me carefully like I am a born again christian he doesn't want to offend.

"We believe Jesus existed. Mohammed... you know Mohammed, right?"

"Sure. Of course" I answer unsteadily.

"Mohammed mentions Jesus in the Koran many times. But we don't think he is ... what you say... the father?"

"The son of G-d?"

"Right. We don't see him as the son of G-d. And (he adds casually) he never died."

"On the cross? No resurrection?"

"Right. It was someone else on the cross. Not Jesus."

"Got it."

"Also we believe there was a chapter about Mohammed in the bible that was removed."

"Oh. Interesting.” I’m playing it very smooth here because in all honesty I’m just a curious spiritual type looking to save myself. And I don’t want to come off as prejudiced. But if I’m too relaxed, then what kind of g-d fearing Christian am I? I’m feeling fake. So I focus on the practical.

“So do YOU pray to G-d for guidance or say, health? Does G-d help YOU?"

"Yes. G-d helps me. But we believe that one should not look up to the heavens. When you look up to the heavens you become overwhelmed and dizzy. We look down, because when you look down you see there are people that are worse off than you. G-d created the rich and the poor, the well and the unwell. If I pray with my face down, I will understand where I fit in and I will realize that there are people who are worse than I am, and for this... I can be grateful."

I'm feeling a little queasy about the Koran. Doesn't seem like Mohammed will offer me much help.

"Did Muhammad create miracles?"

"Yes" he measures, "Muhammad made miracles"

"Because you know Jesus was pretty impressive when it comes to miracles."

"Well... Mohammed couldn't read or write and THAT was his first miracle"

Not exactly walking on water but I offer, "Wow!"

"Would you like to know more about the Koran."

"I'd love it. To be honest, I never thought much about Muslims until 9/11. In fact that's the only reason I know about Muslims. Sufis and Shia... right? Are you a Sufi?"

"Yes I am."

"The Sufis are more conservative?"

They're pretty much the same. We don't go to graves to pray to the dead and the Shias do."

“Right.”

I can't think of anything else to say so I nod and say, "Mecca".

"Yes... Mecca" my driver agrees to be polite.

And then I remember " There's a temple on East 88th. I've walked past it a few times. Ever been there?"

"I know there is one on East 96th. But it's not new."

"Oh yeah, 96th. That's the one I was thinking of.'

"You should visit on a Friday. You worship on Sunday, the Jews on Saturday, and we worship on Friday. Pick up a copy or the Koran. It's very similar to the bible. Has all the same things."

We arrive at Delta. My driver retrieves my one bag from the trunk and I try to hoist myself from the passenger seat onto the sidewalk. But I can't do it.

"I think I'm going to need some help."

The driver holds the passenger door steady. I grab the top of the door and pull myself up to a standing position.

"Good. I made it. Thank you."

"Can’t I help you check in?"

"No, I'm good. I got it. The sky caps will take care of me.”

My driver looks uneasy. My driver doesn't want to leave me. My driver feels responsible for me now because we’ve shared about the importance of enjoying life, we shared about our fathers, we openened up about prayer and G-d.

So I tell him,

"I'm fine. I'll be fine.” I smile. “And I promise to read the Koran."

The driver smiles back.

"Good. Stay Well".

And he drives away.

New York Cab Ride
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

CABBING

New York City
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

TAXI NYC

DSC_7917
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

NATURAL IN BACK

Chelsea Barbers is hopping.

I stumble in - with my canes. I enter the barber shop like a key-lit actor in a well staged film sequence. Haircuts stop. Men stand up. A barber peels back from his chair and pipes "What happened?"

I am determined to get to a chair, to rest. Yet through the noise (fending off a different barber asking to remove my coat) the rearranging of men in waiting room wooden chairs (like I said, the place is hopping) I dimly feel relief that I present as someone that had something "happen" to them - a cute ski accident, a drunken fall down the stairs!

Whoa! Was that a scrape! But I'm still here! Pass me the bathing suit sports illustrated ... no sideburns, part on the side, natural in back!

But instead, I mumble as I tumble in the wooden waiting chair - canes clattering...

" just having a few problems".

I sit.

I'm so sleepy and achy -like I haven't been to bed in days.

I look down at my belted pants and my t-shirt - I used to fill them out. I used to have to suck it in to wear this shirt. Today it hangs slackly.

I had a good body - it occurs to me now.

There are four barbers today, four customers in the chairs, and about eight men waiting.

All the men are cute. You have to be a little self involved to find your way to Chelsea Barbers. It's been written up in GQ and Esquire.

Today I feel like I know I'm in the right place - I'm just not so sure I'm wanted here.

I ask the guy next to me if he is waiting for Max too. I ask this loudly - like the drunk at a quiet party.

"No, I'm not" he whispers - looking down.

So I pull back.

I see my hair in the bottom corner of a mirror across from me.

It was good, it was right - to get my haircut before seeing my family in Florida tomorrow.

I'd had the delusional idea that I looked swarthy and arty like ... Keanu Reeves.

I look like Beetlejuice.

Max is ready for me.

I need to use both canes to get to the chair. Max is humble and meek with me today.

Usually he's kind of snotty. I kind of like it when he's snotty. But today I have the halo of the fighting spirit. This dims Max's snottiness.

After my haircut, I hail a cab on 23rd and tenth. An elegant woman (mid seventies) stands beside me and tries to hail a cab for me. I roll my eyes (inwardly).

I flag down a cab and as the cab pulls over the elderly woman steps in front of me and waves to the cab as if it was her resourcefulness that snagged the taxi. She runs to open the passenger door without asking me if I would like help.

I get inside the cab, pull my legs up, and the elderly lady wants to shut the door for me - but I offer a stressed out "thank you" to her and manage to shut the door myself.

Slam.

As the cab pulls away I see the elderly woman expression. It's upbeat but slightly shaken.

A smile with a bad after taste; Saintliness with a dash of uncertainty.

7

Hi Charlie, I love the pics of your dad;

you look so much like him.

I wanted to say that I'd love to read

your blog if you're open to it.

I think it's semi-private now.
I think about you often these days,

and the little writing of yours that CAR

has shown me was beautiful and profound.

Love to you,

Bostwick

Hey Bostwick!

Please feel free to check out my blog.

I close it (now and then) depending on my mood.

When I assume no-one is reading it - it's easy for me to post.

It's getting harder to write

as I run around healing
myself. Sitting down for hours at a time

to write isn't the best choice

for my cold skinny legs.

_______

The pictures of my Dad are in honor of him.

He took off yesterday at 7 pm.

He'd been ill for about six months

and he slipped away sitting in a chair

as my mother made dinner.

He just took off.

I hope he's okay.

Love -

CHARLIE

me and dad

dad

HOT DOGGING DOWN THE EMOTIONAL SLOPES

My father died tonight. He died at 7 (or 8?)

He is lying (alone) in a funeral home right now.

I just spoke to my mother. She sounds clear as a bell and loud and strangely normal.

She tells me,

"I was feeding him. and I asked him if he wanted an egg, and he said, one. So I made him some bacon and some eggs with some butter and salt. I brought it over to him but he wouldn't eat it.

He was sitting in the new $1200 chair I bought him and I thought, I'll just let him sit there - we'll build him up tomorrow.

And then he was dead. I can't figure it out. I can't figure out how it happened. I’ll have to think about it. I'll figure it out tomorrow.

But it's late now. It's cold. It's sixty degrees out here on the deck and I'm cold. So I'll call you tomorrow, hunnie...

...Okay?"

My mother (like my aunt) is impervious to emotion. No matter how dire the situation, it is spoken of with flat and unemotional practicality. Bad news is delivered like you're getting instructions and scolded at the same time.

My aunt left this stony message - "Charlie?! Your Dad died. Call your mother but use her cell phone, the home phone isn't working."

(click)

But my sister reached me first.

I was sitting on a rolling stool in my kitchen. (I cook my food and eat it next to the stove because it's too much effort to carry the plate to a table or counter).

I was eating my fish dinner and my cell phone rang and I knew - could feel - that something was up.

As soon as my sister said, "Charlie?" and then pause - I knew my father was dead.

And I dreaded hearing it because I didn't want to experience how I felt about it. I didn't want to manufacture an emotion. I wasn’t sure how I was going to feel- how I felt. I didn't want to know.

My father’s been struggling since July. And because of this struggle, I haven't been able to make a connection to how he would get better. All this effort to keep him from falling backward... and for what? He seemed in pain, a lot of pain. He couldn't (shouldn't) drink alcohol anymore. He wasn't interested in food. Couldn't control his bowels. He seemed lost at times. He didn't always recognize neighbors. But still, even for all of that, my dad didn't want to die.

My father was still purchasing things (on the internet). (Later -we found a catalogue bookmarked to a very expensive sport coat for traveling (wrinkle free!) Where did my father imagine he was going?) His will to live- to continue to enjoy (with moody crankiness) the every day stuff -coffee -the newspaper, the game on TV - frankly it impressed me.

When I would see him (this past year) I would think... if it were me, I would just let go. My dad had no interest in letting go.

I’m on the phone by my Talapia.

My sister says to me over the cell phone

"Charlie? (pause) Dad died".

Died.

Died.

Strange and impressive to use that word. Like using the word mortgage when you buy your first home - or wife, right after you're married.

Died.

My dad died. The word died has an intimate smell and color to it (now).

My sister and I hang on the phone allowing the pauses their full due, daring the other to shape the conversation in a specific way.

And I think (as we talk) - I would be terrified for how my world had just instantly changed, but lately I've become an expert on (taking on) the unthinkable so I stare down the death abyss like a seasoned warrior.

My hand clutching my iPhone, I spin away from my talapia and ride the moments - hotdogging down the emotional slopes.

In my gut, I am worried for my dad. Death is a scary thing. Is he scared? Does he know what to do?

It's cold when your dead at first (I think). His body is cold and tiny on the white condominium carpet. Did my mother handle it right? I bet she didn't.

I allow myself to bawl, and it comes easily. I try to say to my sister,

"He was so.... tired."

But I am incomprehensible through my sobs and sloppy ALS voice.

"He was so what?" my sister asks.

"He was so... tired"

"He was so hungry?" she asks again.

"Tired!

TIRE - ERD.

He was so tired."

I'm really weeping (now) and later I realize that I was actually thinking about myself. I'm so tired. I'm so tired of trying to figure away to keep death at bay.

I'm so tired I'd just like to ... just give in.

I think about my Dad's cameras. The thousands of slides and photographs that will have to be sorted - his clothes.

I call my brother.

My brother asks If I'm alright and then wants to talk travel plans. My brother releases nothing emotionally.

I call my neighbor Jackie and ask her to come over.

I tell her my dad died.

Jackie, a repentant alcoholic and italian, is the opposite of my stoic mother and aunt.

When Jackie hears the news, she suffers.

We make my bed and she tells me how lucky and blessed he was to be home when he died. When I describe his life - she reminds me how fortunate he was.

"Not many people get a chance at a life like that, Charlie."

She gives me a hug and tells me she'll take care of the cat while I'm in Florida.

And lying in bed I realize, I'm not devastated, because my father left a while ago.

But I did have one good conversation with him last week on the phone. I described the three restaurants I was going to in New York for restaurant week. I described the outstanding service at Tocqueville, which I'd already been to, and my father listened brightly because he went out to lunch and dinner five days a week and sometimes nights too - in fancy restaurants all over Manhattan with an expense account from Time Magazine. His quiet knowledge of the New York restaurant scene created unacknowledged awe from me. He didn’t care he knew about it. I did.

When I described to him the joy of getting top notch service, my father listened and was far, far away from death.

He said,

"Now you see? We just can't get that here down in Naples, you just don't get that kind of service here!"

as if good service was the one thing keeping him from a night out.

My father wanted to live.

no deeper than that

My body is trickier and trickier.

This doesn't alarm me (exactly). I simply pile more things onto my "get better" list.

1. My feet are blue- buy a heated food massager.

2. I am exhausted - research Chi Gong.

3. My legs are weaker - buy a stationary bike.

4. My stomach muscles are lax- get a girdle.

I think.

I think as I have always thought.

My mind is a grayish maroon. My mind is continually on the edge of mild discomfort.

My mind is undisciplined. Along the way, my mind calls for action (large and small).

My mind is no deeper than that.

My mind circles - looking for a place to land - until sleep does the trick.

I think - I hope- this dimness will save me. My mind has kept my temperament in solid edgy

denial. Maybe the gray maroon will keep me from despair.

I have always held onto the idea of transformation. This idealistic grasping has led me on some dubious paths. It might help me now.

I sit a folding recliner chair (a Lafuma) in my apartment and face the Manhattan skyline.

I breath deeply.

I need transformation.

I need the magic formula.

I need the magic word.

My life depends on an answer to a riddle.

I not only have to figure out what the answer is, I have to figure out what the riddle is.

I was never bright. I didn't test well. But I enjoyed learning. Tutoring helped me enormously.

I need special help, now.

Is the answer, "There's no place like home"? or "To your own self be true" or "Reality's what you make of it" or " a rose is a rose is a rose" or "THIMK!"

Remember "Thimk!"

Stem Cells

All stem cell procedures are not the same. Monterey uses autologus; taken from your hip and cultured over night before replacing through holes bored in your skull. although i heard, now they're putting the cells into the spine.

Some use placenta cells, some fetus cells, others are making breakthroughs in re-engineering skin cells into pluripotent (undifferentiated) cells which become nerve cells.

I emailed the american company but haven't heard back. there should be a report out from Monterey in March. am waiting. no one who has had the procedure is shouting from the rooftops yet.

cheers charlie!