Bud Grossmann’s Words of the Week for the Week of August 7, 2011 Published as Family History in a Gramma Letter dated August 26, 1997. © 1997 by Bud Grossmann. All Rights Reserved.   Yosemite, 1998 © 1998 by Bud Grossmann HEY, KID, LET’S LIGHTEN UP! Tuesday, August 26, 1997 Dear Gramma,       Science will—someday soon, I’m sure—defeat the genetic disease called Duchenne’s muscular dystrophy. In the meantime, laughter seems to be as potent a medicine as any, and so I’m glad a comedian—Jerry Lewis—is zealously involved in pursuing a cure. Whether the scientists will complete their work in time to do my son, David, any good, well, we shall see.       Laughter helps my kid—he’s fifteen, you know—and it helps me, as well, to get through every day. Each night—when David is ready for bed, and I’m helping him stretch the stiffening, shrinking muscles of his ankles, knees, and hips—we talk awhile and give each other a dose of laugh therapy. I wish I could describe our joke sessions, but I don’t think I can. I can’t quite capture on paper the hilarity of singing silly songs into a flashlight late at night. (Dave and I are considerate—we’d use a real microphone, but we want to let our neighbors sleep.)       Comedy works wonders, but swearing is beneficial, too. Since we know of no drug or diet that can slow the relentless progression of Duchenne’s, we do what we must to keep our spirits high. We laugh, we swear, we slam things around. We accept the comfort of family and friends. We pray, we talk, we cry.       I cry, anyway; I haven’t see David shed tears in a while. When my brother-in-law Alvin came to see us one recent Sunday afternoon, I had to reach for the Kleenex. Al hadn’t taken a long look at his nephew lately, and suddenly he asked, “Hey, Dave, are you losing weight?”       “I guess so,” said the boy. And it’s true—while he’s never been plump, he is now thinning down.       On three occasions in recent months, Dave has driven his wheelchair up onto doctors’ special scales. In January he weighed (not counting his chair) one-oh-two. In June, he was down to ninety-four. This figure—94 lbs.—stays vividly in my mind because it happens to be what’s marked on a bag of Portland Cement. It’s precisely what David weighed at the age of twelve, when he began using a wheelchair and I began having to hoist him from his chair to the seat of our van. Oh, the sorrow! Oh, the backache!       Now, in August, my son weighs only eighty-nine. He’s thin enough for Uncle Al to notice the change. And still, some things scarcely change at all. The seasons come and go. A new school year begins. Our dog and cat need daily love and care. Dave and his sister play and fight as always. They do their household chores (or they don’t, and earn a lecture from their mom). We go to church. We cook, we eat, we sleep. We wake, and do it all again.       Each day brings a lot of Nothing New, along with a few nice or not-so-nice adventures and surprises. While I wait for Mr. Lewis to announce his presentation of a miracle, I am content to accept God’s miraculous gift of each brand new day. What I’m saying is corny, clumsy, and incomplete, I guess; but, Gramma, it is also mostly true.       Thanks for your faithful love, dear Grandmother.                       Love,                       Buddy In Loving Memory of David E.F.W. Grossmann October 19, 1981 — August 7, 2000         ARCHIVES         Click for a list of other Words of the Week I would welcome your thoughts on this page (or any of my others).  Write to me at the following address.  Please be sure to spell Grossmann with two n’s and mention what page you are writing about. Thanks!  BUD GROSSMANN Top of this page | HOME | Fine Photography | Picture of the Day | Writings | | Words of the Week | Mom & Pop Prop. Mgt. | FAQ |

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