Never Better

One of my close Ft. Wayne friends and neighbors, Chris, had Multiple Sclerosis. I loved Chris. We were prayer partners and went to the same church in Ft. Wayne. My love extended to his wife Pam and their children, Abigail and Tim. Pam never knew she was one of my heroes. She had an unwavering faith, and enough strength to support the entire family. Chris really couldn’t care for himself, so Pam did everything. She dressed him, fed him, groomed, bathed and handled him mostly by herself. She also took care of their kids, their modest home and worked outside of the home. The woman was a saint. No one had more faith than Chris. By the time I met him in the early 1990s, he couldn’t walk. I used to laugh when I saw him buzzing all over the place in his electric wheelchairs and carts. He would race his children and act like a big kid, playing demolition derby. I saw him ride his cart almost a mile to the neighborhood elementary school for PTA meetings or other events. Pam would take him to church. If Chris saw me in the common areas, he would bump into me with his cart and giggle. I’d punch him hard and hop out of the way. He always tried to get in the last lick. One fall, our church had a men’s retreat weekend at a camp north of Ft. Wayne. I enjoyed the honor and privilege of taking Chris with me, caring for him and spending the weekend with him. Our hearts were knitted together that weekend. Caring for him wasn’t easy, and I gained a measure of respect for what Pam had to endure day in and day out. Even though I shared lots of hilarious moments with Chris, it wasn’t all jokes and fun. From time to time, I walked the half block to his house so we could talk about scripture and pray. These times served as equivalents of boy’s night out for Chris and a much needed respite for Pam. She would leave us boys alone to spend much deserved time alone. Sometimes cookies or muffins would make an appearance. Since we were there alone, Chris and I munched like the hungry boys we were. “What can I pray for this week, my friend?” The answer never changed. “Cal, I want to walk again. I want to run and play with Tim and Abigail.” “Okay. Let’s believe God for a healing.” I would pray for Chris and hold his hand tight and then he would pray for me. My problems and challenges always seemed so small when I really got serious and let my mind come to grips with what Chris and his family were dealing with. I prayed and believed. Chris never recovered. He never walked again. I was devastated when he died, but I tried to keep a stiff upper lip. I had survived my struggle with Legionnaire’s Disease, but Chris had lost his battle. He was a much better man than me. I hadn’t been the best husband or father, because I spent too much time and energy trying to climb the corporate ladder, watching women and impressing people who probably really didn’t care about me at all. Chris lived his life confined to a wheelchair, but he had not checked out on his family. Even when the MS got so bad it took away his ability to speak, he still had a smile for me and everyone else. No one knew that inside my head, I had a nagging question that wouldn’t go away. I couldn’t figure out why he died and I lived. I had to fly back to Indiana for his funeral not long before the MS 150. His funeral was a celebration. Pam’s courage and strength inspired many. Everyone had stories about his antics and teasing. I also had my private memories of sitting with him and praying that God would reverse the terrible effects of MS. I believed Chris found his peace. I knew in my spirit he lived in heaven and ran all over the place just having a blast until we got there with him. Heck, he probably biked in heaven too. I thought about him for the first 30 miles or so getting out of Houston during the MS 150. The first few miles came easily. The terrain was relatively flat. Around Houston, a person could stand on a beer can and see all the way to Dallas. Things changed quickly though as we moved on and approached the town of Bellville, northwest of Houston. Although the Texas hill country is breathtaking during the spring with bluebonnets and other natural flora and fauna, the ride is ultimately two days of spirit-breaking hills and headwinds across seven counties. The most challenging portion of the ride is during day two as riders pedal through Buscher State Park. The hills are steep, and the road is narrow. Crashes are common as upwards of 9,000 bikers navigate their way through the park. This all pushed me to the very brink of quitting but for one thing. During registration, the race sponsors provided orange bandanas to riders to commemorate the lives of those stricken with MS. I got a black marker and wrote on my bandana: “I’m riding for my friend Chris Fulton.” I tied the bandana to my handle bars and kept it there the entire 175 miles. Every time a hill seemed too steep to climb, my legs felt like heavy tree trunks or the wind would push against my tall frame with vigor, I’d look down at the bandana, and think about my friend. Chris helped me power over hill after hill all the way to Austin. I forgot all about Legionnaire’s Disease more than a few times during the tour, thanks to my friend and prayer partner. His spirit was with me that weekend. In March, I had returned to the office full-time without much fanfare at all. It had become a small step in the recovery process. With running and biking conquered, I had scored the trifecta of a lifetime.