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On Friday afternoon, November 22, 1963, when
President John Kennedy was fatally shot in Dallas,
I was a few months beyond the age of fourteen. So of
course I can recall that particular day and the precise
moment I heard the news. If you are American and as
old as I or older, you, too, have a story to tell.
Do you have other November the twenty-seconds
that you recall? I myself have one.
On Tuesday evening, November 22, 1988, when I was
not quite forty years old, I was at home, in Honolulu,
ironing clothes while I watched a PBS special on the
life and death of President Kennedy. My seven-year-old
son David and my one-year-old daughter Elizabeth
were in their beds, presumably dreaming dreams
of matters other than Life and Death.
By lamp light and the flicker of the TV screen, I was pressing
wrinkles out of an aloha shirt, when Frances, the mother of
our children, arrived home from work and a dance class.
She came into our bedroom and stood beside the television,
from which flowed murmurs of sorrow and solemnity. Frances
faced me but did not speak until I said hello.
She quietly replied, “I went to see Dr. Lance today.”
She said nothing more until I turned my face from the
Kennedy reminiscence to look into her unblinking eyes.
“Gene is ninety percent certain,” she said, “that he knows
what’s wrong with David. He’ll have to do a muscle biopsy
to rule out a couple of things, but he says he’s almost sure
that David has muscular dystrophy.”
I had heard the term before, but I’d never given it more than
a moment’s thought. Was that the thing that Jerry Lewis
stayed up all night about? I’d never watched the show.
“MS?” I said. “What is that, exactly, Fran?”
“Not MS,” said Frances, “MD. Duchenne’s muscular dystrophy.
It’s not good. We will see.”
♦
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