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My friends Ethan, Andre, and Caleb have cerebral palsy. They can not control the movements of their bodies. None of them can talk. With stem-cell therapy, Ethan has "miraculously" developed the ability to get around in his power chair, and I have already told him that I'd disqualified myself from power-chair races with him. (He grinned at that.) To all appearances, all three boys seem "mentally retarded."

But they aren't.

Ethan shows evidence that there's enviable mental brilliance under all that grimacing and fluttering. And when I talk to wee Caleb as if he were a blooming genius (which indeed he may well be!), I get a beautiful smile.

My friend and fellow writer Roy is admittedly and board-certified insane. Whenever he gets off his meds for a while, he gets locked-up and strapped-in, with harness-leather straps. (He's a big guy. If you saw him beside western actor Joel McCrea, you'd take 'em for twins.)

Once when he'd just been released from the latest loony bin, I asked him what it was like "inside himself" when he was on a rampage. His description was exactly what I expected.

The "real" Roy was in a sound-proof glass box in the "back seat" of his body, unable to do or to say anything about the goin's-on, while "somebody else" drove his body around with utter contempt for safety and common sense.

At first, the intern who was getting my basics obviously thought that he was dealing with an extreme Alzheimer's case. When it became dramatically clear to him that he was conversing with an active intellect, the change in his attitude and behavior was as sudden and dramatic as a muzzle flash. 'Twas almost comical � almost as if a railroad tie had begun reciting Shakespeare.

� for what it may be worth to anybody here �

The human body can be a vicious thing to have to live with. Praise the Lord that we get a shiny new one in the end (aka the beginning).

Ain't dat ever th' motha-lovin' troof!

I figured you would be opposed to stem cell research.

What I know (and therefore think) about stem-cell research and therapy can be engraved on the head of a pin in three-foot letters. Hafta have some knowledge or logic to have an opinion. Preferably both.

A line from a song in the 60s comes to mind:"within the prison walls of my mind"

Chit happens then 'ya die....Live until that day.

Jayco

Since such a large portion of the research involves embryonic cells, I figured a man of your strong Christian Theology would be apposed to this. I find your non-opposition to be intriguing...

Go back to my post and try to discern the point of it.

a bit out of the ballpark, but i'll share anyways, if that's ok with the readership?

a few years ago Schizophrenia was a general term related to about a 100 different mental conditions that no one could fathom, so they were all thrown into the bucket labeled "schizophrenia."

nowadays, there's only about 30 inexplicable mental conditions labeled as schizophrenia and thrown into the schizophrenia bucket.

of those 30 separate conditions, each of which is labeled as being schizophrenia, a few could potentially turn out to be psycho-spiritual??

It depends on the source of the stem cells. Some come from Peripheral Blood, some from marrow, some from new born umbilical cords and some from embryo's. No problem with the first three, but sacrificing new life for old is just wrong in my book.

You gonna try for strike three?

Gene - he never even saw the first two, and they were right down the middle.

When a far-off friend learned that I'd just had a stroke, he called �

"Has it affected your mind?"

"How the Hell would I know? If it had, I'd be the last to know."

"That tells me that it hasn't. What are your needs?"

"I need a brain-transplant, a spine-transplant, a Brink's truck with a heavy load in back, and an opportunity to determine whether I need Viagra."

Yeah but "Chit" happens to those around you too and often there is a interval between that and dying.
I think Ken's post is about how you evaluate and treat such.
Good post Ken and a good reminder for me.

Ken's post is about how very, very often there's so much, much more in a person than we're willing to let ourselves see.

When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in an Australian country town, it was believed that he had nothing left of any value.

Later, when the nurses were going through his meagre possessions, They found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital.

One nurse took her copy to Melbourne. The old man�s sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas editions of magazines around the country and appearing in mags for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem.

And this old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this �anonymous� poem winging across the Internet.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


Cranky Old Man �See Me�

What do you see, nurses, what do you see,
what are you thinking when you�re looking at me?
A cranky old man, not very wise,
uncertain of habit, with faraway eyes.

Who dribbles his food and makes no reply
when you say in a loud voice, �I do wish you�d try!�
Who seems not to notice the things that you do,
and forever is losing a sock or shoe.

Who, resisting or not, lets you do as you will
with bathing and feeding, the long day to fill.
Is that what you�re thinking? Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse; you�re not looking at me.

I�ll tell you who I am as I sit here so still,
as I do at your bidding, as I eat at your will.
I�m a small child of ten with a father and mother,
brothers and sisters, who love one another.

A young boy of sixteen, with wings on his feet,
dreaming that soon now a lover he�ll meet.
A groom soon at twenty � my heart gives a leap,
remembering the vows that I promised to keep.

At twenty-five now, I have young of my own
who need me to guide and a secure happy home.
A man of thirty, my young now grown fast,
bound to each other with ties that should last.

At forty my young sons have grown and are gone,
but my woman�s beside me to see I don�t mourn.
At fifty once more babies play round my knee,
again we know children, my loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me, my wife is dead;
I look at the future, I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing young of their own,
and I think of the years and the love that I�ve known.

I�m now an old man and nature is cruel;
�tis jest to make old age look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles, grace and vigor depart,
there is now a stone where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass a young boy still dwells,
and now and again my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys, I remember the pain,
and I�m loving and living life over again.

I think of the years � all too few, gone too fast
and accept the stark fact that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, nurses, open and see,
not a cranky old man; look closer � see ME!

Eloquent!

What a fantastic poem! It should be required reading for all employed in health care.

ditto�!