Another one of those moments

You know what I am talking about when I say, it was "one of those moments" that changed a relationship forever. Those of us living with Kennedy's Disease might have a few more than most people, but we all have them.

When I read the following story written by Stan Highe, another one of us living with the disease, I knew it had to be a "guest post" on my blog. It immediately struck home and made me flash on several pivotal moments in my life that a relationship changed because of the progression of the disease.

Arm-Wrestling for Food

Stan Highe - ©2010

I knew I had Kennedy's for some time, as did my family, but it didn't matter. I decided a long time ago that I would do what I could when I could while I still could, any way I could. This is just one of many stories, but sticks with me the most.

When you are parent with school-aged kids, there is always something to do after school. It might be dance, a play, sports, Scouts or any number of other activities. Often we would not get home until nine or ten o'clock. Even though it was late, and we were tired, we always seemed to be hungry, for anything.

This was one of those nights just like the others before. We just got home from a Scout meeting, and as always, the first stop was the refrigerator. It was a race between my son and I who would get there first to grab the choice "snack" or leftover. Wouldn't you know it, we both had our eye on the last piece of Apple pie, and so the contest began. To decide who would get it, we'd arm-wrestle for it. This was one of those moments of father-son bonding that I had to take advantage of while I can.

My son was only twelve and a little smaller than me, but already out-weighed me. That is really no surprise since I have only weighed about 125-130 all my life. (I am one of those people that have trouble keeping weight on) Still, I had the strength, or so I thought.

Like so many times before, my son and I lay down on the living room floor and assumed the position. Of course, my wife and daughter knew what was going to happen and were already laughing. My son had that same smile on his face he always got. He knew I'd eventually give in after a few minutes and let him have the tasty treat anyway. So, we started, hands and arms locked, but something felt different this time.

In past competitions, I would get his arm over where it would almost touch the floor, and then let up enough so he could win. This time as we lay there, I found I could not push his arm over past mid-point. I could keep him from moving my arm over, but that was it. It seemed like we were there for fifteen or twenty minutes; stalemated. Of course, he's giggling the whole time, unaware of what is really happening. Then I started to weaken. The pressure was causing my arm to move over more and more, but I could only hold against it. I couldn't push his arm back the other way. A few more minutes passed and my arm went over onto the floor.

We were done but instead of the usual smile, my son had a puzzled look on his face. Finally, he says, "You didn't let me win that time, Dad, did you?"

I smiled and said, "No, this time you really earned it." I don't know if he realized it- maybe he did and didn't let on- but I knew what it meant. I was getting weaker. As he went into the kitchen to claim his prize, I sat in my easy chair and rubbed my arm. We would have other moments as father and son in the coming years, but we never arm-wrestled for food again.

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I hoped you enjoyed reading Stan's personal story as much as I did. His story again points out the emotional impact of the disease on relationships. Have you experienced one of those moments? Let me know if you have.