Jim
O’Neill and I were walking past the Trevi fountain on our way to the Rome
bureau of the National Catholic News Service, now called the Catholic News
Service. It was my first Rome trip there since my appointment as director and
editor in chief. Jim, the bureau chief, was telling me about visiting a friend
in a Roman hospital.
So I
asked Jim, “Where do you go for treatment when you get sick?”
“To the
TWA ticket counter,” he said with a smile.
TWA was
the airline of choice for many American bishops, and for some folks who worked
for the bishops. Like me. I have a life membership card for the TWA Ambassador
Club, along with another for Pan American. I thought they would be good for my life,
not the airlines’ lives.
Life is a
gift from God, according to preachers and poets. All of us are created equal,
according to patriots and philosophers. Life is a gift that keeps on giving,
prompting some to ask What gives?
One day I
read an article in Catholic Mind, a magazine published for many years by
Jesuits in New York. The author was Bishop John Wright of Worcester,
Massachusetts. I wrote him a note about his article, he replied, and eventually
I went to work on the Worcester Telegram copy desk. That was a long time ago.
About the
time Sally and I left Worcester for Honolulu, Bishop Wright left to become the
Bishop of Pittsburgh. Our friendship flourished. When our first son was born in
Hawaii we named him John Wright Wall. It was at the bishop’s home in
Pittsburgh, years later, that I met a gifted young priest, Donald Wuerl,
newly-chosen secretary to the bishop.
Wright
became a cardinal when he was named prefect of the Vatican’s Sacred
Congregation of the Clergy, and Wuerl became a cardinal decades later after he
was named Archbishop of Washington. It really is a small world.
Honolulu
was the center of the world for lots of transplants like Sally and me, with
three children born in Hawaii. I was managing editor of the morning newspaper,
the Honolulu Advertiser, when a long-time friend asked me to meet secretly with
him in Washington’s Watergate hotel. Bishop Joseph Bernardin was general
secretary of the conference of U.S.
bishops when he invited me to become head of the news service with two major
objectives. The news service budget was blotched in red ink, and losses were
mounting as clients cancelled their orders. Objective number one was to regain
the lost clients and pull the budget into black ink.
The news service prepared bundles of mimeographed news
reports each day for mailing to clients. My job, objective number two, was to
find a way to send the daily news report to clients everywhere via leased wire.
The service had been negotiating with a domestic news agency that was better
than nothing, but it was an answer to prayer when negotiations began with
Reuters instead. Our contract gave us hours of transmission to anyplace in the
world served by the giant news agency, plus the guarantee that news reports
written by our correspondents would be wired to us in Washington within 20
minutes of being presented at any Reuters office. It was a suspenseful time for
me, because Bernardin had told me I had to make all of the decisions and be
responsible for the consequences.
I don’t
suppose that left you in much suspense, but in case it did, both objectives
were met. I kept my job, not aware that an incurable neurological disease was
already sampling some of my brain cells. Bernardin departed to become
Archbishop of Cincinnati and eventually the Cardinal Archbishop of Chicago. And
I wrote a book about him.
That neurological
disease was eventually given a name, olivopontocerebellar atrophy or OPCA,
later renamed multiple system atrophy (MSA). Somebody told me there can be as
many as 100 billion neurons in the brain, and the brain controls thinking,
memory, talking, walking. Anyone with MSA may be subject to zoom-speed
dizziness, sudden falls, shocking headaches, gagging, distorted vision and so
on – and not necessarily be aware of it.
Awkward
behavior is part of the package. I’m glad I have friends who overlook promises
I forget to keep, and conversations that skid right through my neurons, sliding
out through my pores, never to be remembered. Friends know that MSA and
arthritis coexist, gout is part of it, sometimes a shirt is easy to button,
sometimes touch typing is still possible. The give and take of friendship, the
giving and forgiving, is part of the mystery. Friendship is medicinal,
prescribed by the usual folks, like Jesus, Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Nelson
Mandela, Francis of Assisi, the other Francis in Rome.
A few
years ago I gave up my drivers license because I could see highways swaying
like hula dancers, and other dizzy distractions of MSA. One of these days MSA
will revoke my touch typing license and etch my dizziness into the hard drive.
After I stopped driving I had my pick of what to do next, read some lively
murder mysteries, listen to music accumulating on my i-pod, buy things from
Amazon, watch movies on TV, notice all the stars I never heard of who have
become famous since James Cagney, Mae West, Bette Davis and Tallulah Bankhead,
whatever.
Slowing
myself down on my two active computers
is as simple as deleting more commercial emails without reading them, enjoying
hours of Jamestown photos and other Internet nostalgia, and savoring endless
action via online newspapers, broadcasters, social scans and such. Everything
gets older, including the bottled grains of Scotland and jokes via email.
People get older and the luckiest of them are nudged, nagged and nurtured by
family and friends. Thanks, nudgers. Thanks nurturers. Thanks naggers. Thanks
proofreaders.
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