LANGUAGE PROJECT

I bike to an acupuncturist appointment early Friday morning.

Spring is in the air.

The ride across 42nd Street is tiresome.
But my ride up Madison is an easy glide.

Dr. Wang's office is in an odious apartment building between Lexington and Third. The neighborhood is busy and unpleasant.
I am greeted by an unhappy doorman in a small third world lobby. There is a framed Jasper Johns poster by the elevator.

(I had the same one. I found it in my trash-recycle room)

They tear down a factory building from the 1850's across the street from my apartment buidling (it still had the brass fixtures by the doorways to wipe your 19th century boots) but these oppressive apartment buildings prosper.

I arrive at Dr. Wang's with a xeroxed copy of my insurance card and my check book in hand (ready to pay the $65 fee).

(My terrible undiagnosed disease has become my project. I am in project mode!)

At reception, Dr. Wang's wife greets me from a small desk that holds a old fashioned computer from the 80's. (It wasn't plugged in)

There is a mirrored wall behind Mrs. Wang's desk and three folding chairs in a row (near by) for patents.

I'm ten minutes early and boorish because I'm frustrated with the insurance nonsense.

I am ever so surly handing Mrs. Wang my paperwork.

Mrs. Wang's English is terrible.

I explain to her in loud simple English that the "1" in 1 Riverview (my address) is the number "one" not the letter "L".

At my day job, (on Madison and 29th) I call Chinese shareholders on the phone and most of them can't speak English. And they're rude on the phone.

"Not hee-ah! No own stock. Whot stock!??
(loudly)

These frustrating phone conversation bonds (all of us) cubicle workers.

"I got another one "no own Stock!!"

The cubilcle workers laugh, comment, identify, bond.

So Mrs. Wang's language skills sets me on edge, even though she is kind and polite.

I hear Dr. Wang (in another room) talking to a patient about Hasidic women and their wigs.

The patient says "Their own hair is considered very beautiful, so beautiful, that it should be seen only by their husbands."

Dr. Wang says something or asks another question. He is curious and a good listener.

He finishes up with his patient and it's MY turn now.

Dr. Wang looks around 60. He is thoughtful and tired. As if his work has both exhausted him and kept him alive and curious.

(I bet it's (a calling) to be a Doctor-Acupuncturist in China. I bet Dr. Wang had no choice).

He takes me into his plain office and we begin our verbal pantomime.

He asks me to walk around the room. He points out that I march as I walk.

"Your knees go up and down."

"Yes (I say) I need to do this to walk or I'll trip over my right foot."

He asks me to lift one knee at time. He pushes down on each one as I clutch the wall.

I sit.

He asks me to raise each foot.

And so on.

I've been through these same evaluations (over and over). Doctors forget (from appointment to appointment) and I am asked to perform the same tests.

This annoys me.

(Remember me from last week? Don't you keep notes?
That's RIGHT! I can't lift my right foot or move my toes or walk in a straight line and yes I know it’s terrible and serious. I know this ALREADY.)

They see so many patients they forget (I guess), but this reminder of my loss is the melancholy note that begins all of my appointments.

He DOES measure my thighs and calves with a sewing measuring tape. He looks worried.

(This is a new test for me)

And then,

I tell the tale of Charlie Roberts.

The initial sprain (playing tennis),last April. The tripping walking through the city. The exhaustion of walking to work.
The podiatrist. The lime, arthritis, and HIV tests.
The MRI's, and more blood tests, the EMGs, and more EMGs, the spinal tap.
The last evaluation.

Dr. Wang concentrates. Interupting with questions and listening to my answers intently. Like he might be get a pop quiz later.

I speak plainly and use large gestures
(this must seem annoying and condescending to him)
but I REALLY want to make my story clear.

When I talk about Columbia Presbyterian I gesture with my pointed hand uptown (north), and when I talk about NYU I point (south) down town.


Near the end of my story Dr.Wang asks,

"Does your family know?"

And I am reminded of the gravity of my situation.
But I detach and nod yes. (I have to resist fear and get some workable ideas)

I explain to him that there is no ready course of action. I have to create my own. Which is why I am here!

Dr. Wang sees my noble commitment and is more excited to work with me.
He takes me into a little dormitory of rooms with cots in them.
The walls are plywood, the doors paper thin.

I undress.
He asks me why my upper body is so muscular and my legs are so thin.

(I don't know what to say except that they weren't, at one time. More sadness for me to put off for a rainy day)

I lie on my back. He puts long needles into my legs with skillful expertise. There is no hesitation. The doctor is throwing professional darts. Each needle puncture creates a sudden shock of pain that dissolves in seconds. It feels right.

He puts more needles in my arms and then turns off the light and shuts the door.

Lying there, my mind is noisy but calms down like a dog in a locked room (barking and scratching) until sleep... at last.)

I sleep for 20 or 30 minutes. And it's over.

In the small reception area, Dr. Wang gives me the name of a massage therapist and instructs me to take B12.
I must see him twice a week. I have to do foot calisthenics twice a day.
Heat will help with circulation.
I must be careful not to exercise too hard. Listen to your body.

(I am told this again and again from various professionals)

I am a good student to his teacherly advise and am concentrating on listening (and while I listen) (I remind myself to listen!!!)

I write things down in my MUJI notebook (legibly).

I am in project mode.

I say goodbye to the Wangs and as I say goodbye I fall backwards onto the small reception desk almost knocking over the lifeless computer.

10th CHURCH

LETTER

Dr. Ranjan,
I called my insurance company and they suggested you fax it to 523 973 4473, attention Barbra Kesley.

Thank you Dr. Ranjan. I hope you're well.

Mr. Roberts

Sent from my iPhone

WHITE LIE

My agent has set up some auditions for me for Pepto Bismal.
A series of network spots.
I call her assistant and tell her that I am sick and have a hurt foot.
I ask her to "book me out" for at least a week.

This is the first time in my life that I have ever turned down an audition,
knowing that I could physically be there.

I limp when I walk (right now). The casting director might be annoyed.
And if I booked it, could I deal vocally and physically with the pressure for
a two day shoot?

This is just temporary. I WILL get my mojo back.

WAITING FOR THE BUS ON 5TH AVE

LETTER

Hi Mr. Roberts,

I have the letter ready for you. Where would you like us to mail it?

Ranjan, MD

LISTS

At work, Joe McGregor (a guy I really like) talks to me about the house he has bought 90 minutes into Long Island.
Our talk begins at the water-cooler and ends at the printers.

Joe is round like Santa, but he carries it well. And since he got married, bought the house, and had a baby, Joe looks handsome. (His baby has Down Syndrome) Joe is a grinning proud father. He can’t wait to get take that 90 minute commute back to his wife, daughter and new house. (you can tell)

This is a good man.

On our miniature walk through the office, he tells me about his unruly dog, and a niece that has been crawling out of her crib and almost out the front door.

This baby has wanderlust.

My parents had the same problem with me. I ran away from home (a lot). When I would run away (I think) I even carried a long stick with a bandana sack tied to the end (like a hobo).

I learned this look watching TV. "Petticoat Junction", "The Beverly Hill Billies or "I Love Lucy".

TV taught me everything.

Later, Joe brings over a list to my cubicle. Joe likes to include me in (his part of the office) activities. (His part of the office) has downloaded a list, a top 100 MOVIES list from the web.

"Charlie, we're passing this around because the list is so lame, add your own."

Joe assumes that I’m a movie nut because I’m fey and an actor. But my brain is years and years of training my creative instincts, not honing names and references.

I am at a loss for these kind of things.

What actor motivated you to become an actor? What play changed your life?
Your top five novels.
Three roles in Shakespeare that you gotta play.

All of these (kind of things) allude me.

Without looking at the list, I'm able to come up with a few, but I notice they’re already there.

Annie Hall,
All About Eve
Blow Up

But as I work at my cubicle, I’m able to add to the list (in clean block print).

Bringing Up Baby
Breaking Away
Easter Parade
His Girl Friday
Mildred Pierce
Night of the Hunter (I'm reading about the making of that film)
Philadelphia Story

and...

The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (a film I've never seen, I put it down for effect)

At my professional break time, I stand to return it to Joe's desk and notice that this list has a subtitle.

White print on a black rectangle,

"To See Before You Die"

(as if on a tombstone)

100 Movies
"To See Before You Die"

Now I am more curious about the list. I make a Xerox copy of it and decide to tape it to the inside of my medicine cabinet-door (at home) for easy access.

And I check the official list (more carefully) to see which films are missing from my own history.

And I anxiously ponder, standing by my desk quite still, my mouth ajar, my brow closed (like I’ve forgotten where I left my keys)
Are seeing certain movies so important that watching them can change your life? Can missing a film (that you should see) change the very course of your life? Are these 100 films that I must see before I die?

I consider how films (and TV mostly) have duped me into believing life should go a certain way.
As a kid, certain stories crawled into my head and lay there (quietly).

As my life proceeded these quiet stories interrupted the viewing of my own reality, making me compare my cold, scattershot life to the warm, glowing inclusive stories enacted by Jimmy Stewart (movies) or Florence Henderson (tv).

This morning, I called Medco Insureance about the cost of taking this drug for my terrible disease.
I did a minute of research on the world wide web about the effects of the drug. (liver problems)
The web rattled out to me (carelessly and bluntly - an uncouth loudmouth) that most people (with this disease) have a life expectancy of three to five years.
It gets people in their forties.

It was like being bitten buy a snake. I recoiled from my monitor and keyboard.

I stood up.

I walked away.

I found my breath.

I shook it off.

MY FEET TODAY

FROM RANJAN

Mr. Roberts,

I got your message regarding these issues and apologize for the delay in responding. I will look into the insurance issues and let you know how we can be of help.

Sincerely

Ranjan, MD

PT TO THE STARS

Hi Charlie...

Shmuel's great...unfortunately most people very quickly find them pass
of to other therapists, some of which are good and some not so. IF you
do find yourself handed-off, ask for Valerie....he's great. Tell Shmuel
Mary sent you. Below is a great article about Shmuel from the
NYT...He's moved from Carnegie Hall and is now on West 60th...see the
attached link.

Good luck!
Mary

THE DRUG

Charlie,

The name of the drug that Dr. Mitsumoto prescribed is rizuole AKA rilutek. It extends the life of a person with ALS by a few months, but only if they begin taking upon very early onset. That is why he wants you to start it, just in case.

The phone number to find out about receiving financial assistance with it is 1-800-745-8835.
Check with your insurance to see how much of it they will reimburse.

You should get all your info so that you can make a decision ASAP.

And, by the way, maybe you should give Shmuel a try. What do you think?

xo

sister

HELLO DR. RANJAN

Hello Dr. Ranjan,

Mr. Chalie Roberts here.

I contacted my insurance company about getting therapy for my issues.
Specifically, speech, physical and acupuncture.
My plan only allows 8 to 12 visits total per quarter unless I get a letter from a Doctor
saying that I need more.

Would you or could you write that letter for me?

I hope all is well with you.

Best,

Mr. Roberts

PERFECT COFFEE

Sunday morning, I bike to the Christian Science Church in SOHO on Wooster Street. The streets are (cobble stone?) and (whenever I'm down there on a Sunday morning) I feel like a tourist investigating a unique and untravelled neighborhood.

The church is (temporarily) installed in a glamorous store front right next to the likes of
"Patagonia" and "Leafe" (a monstrously overpriced furniture store).

The service is plain and direct. One reader reads from the bible, the other from Mary Baker Eddy.
The people (around 40 of them) are plain, good looking folk and because we're in SOHO, it feels like
everyone is rich.

I sit in a pew after my tiring cobble stoned bike ride and drink it all in. My eyes shut. My ears open to
any ideas that will correct my situation.

And ideas come forth.

I am told (in brief) that the material world is not real. The only real work is spiritual. Disease is a material idea of man.
Disease does not exist in the spiritual world or in G-d, so it cannot exist with spriitual man. Once you see this, that the only everlasting reality is G-d, and G-ds' love, (which is every where) your disease will cease to exist.

I speak to one or the reader's after the service and to a woman sitting next to me (she lives on Beekman place and looks rich)

They ask me about how I came to be here. Where I live. They talk about the new Church being renovated on Macdougle.

I tell the reader that I'm a little overwhelmed by these ideas and he says to remember that they are very simple.

I feel like I'm rushing a fraternity. I'm not good at joining groups but I often feel that way so I don't let it bother me.

I pick up some literature in the adjacent library. I select the monthly and weekly readers. I read testimonies of how illnesses were reversed, broken arms repaired. None of the illnesses are as intimidating as my undiagnosed terrible disease.

But it is a beautiful, sunny Sunday in SOHO and I parade my bicycle to CAFE CAFE and have coffee and a sour cream muffin and read Michael Musto's column in the Village Voice.

(I learn that the movie "Catch Me if You Can" has been turned into a Broadway musical with Tom Wopat playing the Christopher Walken role.)

The high from the coffee and muffin and the headiness of SOHO on a clear, Sunday morning informs my brain cells, and Mary Baker Eddy catches up with me.

I decide how I am, I am a reflection of G-d . G-d is perfect. I am perfect.