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A Cure for Milly's Parkinson's?
When his wife was diagnosed with Parkinson's, he sought more funding for research in a race against time. But Washington politics made that crusade more difficult than he ever imagined
Milly, Kondracke,Magazine Morton and Milly Kondracke have been married for 33 years. Since 1987, Milly has been battling Parkinson's disease, a debilitating condition affecting the brain that causes tremors and eventual immobility. (Family Photos)
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By Morton Kondracke
Sunday, June 3, 2001; Page W14
"Marry Milly!" Joan Kehoe whispered in my ear. Then she repeated it, more insistently. We were at an Italian restaurant, Riccardo's, the favorite martini-lunch spot for reporters at the Chicago Sun-Times in the 1960s. Joan had introduced me to Millicent Martinez a few months before. Milly was sitting out of earshot as Joan importuned me. She also couldn't see the quizzical look on my face, which betrayed what was in my mind: Marry Milly? Out of the question.
Not that I didn't like her. I did. She was pretty. She was self-assured. And she was exotic, half-Mexican and half-Jewish. But she did not fit my life's plan, which was to become a big-shot Washington journalist. I figured that the person I planned to be someday should have a Vassar or Wellesley graduate for a wife, or possibly an heiress -- a woman whose family connections and intellectually stimulating company could help me attain the goal.
Eventually Milly overwhelmed this stupid idea and I realized that, wherever I went in life, I would regret it the whole way if she were not with me. So ultimately I followed Joan's advice.
We got married on October 7, 1967. We wrote our own wedding ceremony, praying for peace in the world and justice in America and also pledging in the traditional way that we would be there for each other in sickness and in health. Two photographers from the Sun-Times took different wedding pictures of us at separate moments leaving the church and walking to our reception. Both show Milly and me laughing, in a state of pure joy. I felt utterly confident that I had made the best decision of my life. I have never for a moment regretted it, in health or in sickness.
In fact, for 33 years we've lived a love story -- but of one kind for the first 20 and a very different kind for the last 13, after Parkinson's disease invaded our lives. We moved to Washington in 1968, and Milly developed into a dynamo -- a gifted psychotherapist, a strong mother to our two daughters, a wise neighbor and generous friend, and a formidable companion to me. We were bonded, almost welded.
In 1987, the first shadow of Parkinson's disease cast itself upon our lives. Milly was writing a check and remarked that she could not form the letter "K" correctly. She got a piece of paper and wrote her signature four or five more times, then more times, and said her handwriting just wasn't right. I saw no difference. Anyway, I thought Milly was both vain and perfectionist about her clear penmanship. Whatever was wrong -- if anything was wrong -- was in her imagination or was being exaggerated, I figured.
That May, Milly made an appointment to see her old boss at the Neurology Center in Bethesda, Marvin Korengold. In fact, after getting her master's degree in social work at Catholic University, Milly had counseled patients at the center for a few years. She'd brought home harrowing stories about people stricken with Alzheimer's disease, epilepsy and particularly Parkinson's. Korengold, a neurologist, examined Milly and diagnosed ulnar neuropathy, a nerve inflamed from pressure at the elbow. He told her to try to keep her arms straight and avoid leaning on the elbow. Milly reported these findings to me with relief that the problem was not serious. But, even though she followed instructions, her symptoms did not go away.
On a follow-up visit in June, Korengold had her swing her arms and noticed that the right did not move as smoothly as the left. He prescribed Symmetrel, which Milly took believing it was meant to help her nerve problem. He did not tell her what it was actually for, evidently not wanting to scare her. She went back to see Korengold a few times during the summer because her right little finger remained weak and she began to notice a slight tremor in her right foot when she pressed the accelerator or brake while driving.
One day in September she called me at work in tears, with a panic in her voice that I'd never heard before.
"Something terrible has happened," she said. "You've got to come home." I had a fleeting terror that one of the girls had been injured or killed. She said, "I looked up the medicine Korengold gave me in my pill book. Symmetrel is for Parkinson's disease!" I was relieved that this was not the worst possible news, but for Milly it was. "I know what Parkinson's is. I've seen people with it," she cried. "It's a horrible disease, People shake. They can't walk. They choke on their food. It can't be that!"
I drove home as soon as I could and found Milly utterly distraught. This was the first time in our lives together that I had ever seen Milly out of control. She said that if she did have Parkinson's it meant that she would have to give up her psychotherapy practice because clients would not want to be treated by someone "so pathetic." She predicted, "You won't keep loving me. You'll leave me. You don't know what Parkinson's does to people. You'll have to take me to the bathroom. You'll have to feed me. You won't want to do that."
I said rather automatically that I didn't care what happened, I'd never leave her. I meant this, too, although she was correct: I knew nothing about Parkinson's or the extreme disabilities it could cause. And, of course, her problems then were so mild that her grim predictions seemed speculative and extreme.
For five years, as is usual with Parkinson's patients, a medicine called Sinemet worked to keep her tremor and stiffness under control. But gradually, as is usual, it stopped working. She began to experience severe leg cramps. She sometimes froze in a chair, unable to move. Worst of all, she began to lose her sense of balance. She fell often, and we became regular visitors to the emergency room at Suburban Hospital, where she received stitches in her lips, forehead and chin.
In 1994, as Milly's condition continued to worsen, we began looking at drastic surgical therapies to relieve the symptoms. Basically, two were available -- a fetal cell transplant and a pallidotomy. I read a lot about both. Milly and I met up with Joan Samuelson, president of the Parkinson's Action Network, who got us involved in advocacy and lobbying for increased federal funding of Parkinson's research. Samuelson, a Parkinson's patient herself, put us in touch with some of the top neurologists in the country, whom I called for advice about what we should do next for Milly.
They told me that, theoretically, a fetal transplant would be the most advisable thing for a direct hit at Milly's Parkinson's. The procedure, made controversial by opposition from the antiabortion movement, involves injecting dopamine-producing cells from aborted fetuses into the brain of a Parkinson's victim to replace those that have died. At the time we were considering the operation, federally sponsored research trials were just beginning because President Clinton, as one of his first acts, had lifted a ban imposed by the Reagan and Bush administrations.
A few doctors were performing the operation without federal sponsorship, notably a surgeon in California who was reporting dramatic results. But the researchers I talked to warned me away from him, saying that he was not publishing any scholarly findings and stories were circulating about botched operations and brain damage. The experts I consulted also said that their review of results from Europe and elsewhere indicated that while fetal transplantation was a promising area of research, there were significant problems keeping cells alive after they were transferred. They advised looking seriously into pallidotomy instead. A doctor named Mahlon DeLong had been studying this daylong surgical procedure in which the patient is awake throughout, helping to guide doctors to the targets they would be trying to hit deep in the brain to slow the misfiring of hyperactive nerve cells. DeLong had been Milly's neurologist at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore before moving to Emory
University in Atlanta. He warned there was potential danger to a pallidotomy, but Milly begged him to perform the surgery. "I can't stand to live this way anymore," she said. "I'd rather die." He agreed to do it.
The first indications were good. When Milly was able to get out of bed after the surgery, she and I danced briefly around the room. Her balance wasn't perfect, but it seemed improved, and I thought she moved less haltingly than before the surgery. But the old pattern resumed: Some days, she could walk around the house safely by herself or using a walker. Other times, at home and away, she collapsed forward or to the side and was unable to break her fall. The emergency room visits recurred, and the stitches. One day when our daughter Andrea was home from medical school, Milly had almost reached the bottom of the stairs when she suddenly fell forward, hitting her head on a wall. We put our three-story house on the market and signed a contract on a one-story rambler.
There was no longer much hope that Milly could avoid being rendered a permanent invalid by Parkinson's.
Inside and out, the White House fairly shimmers with light at Christmastime. And so it did on December 15, 1993, when Milly and I made our first foray into politics as a way of saving her from Parkinson's disease.
By the time Bill and Hillary Clinton's Christmas invitation arrived, I was beginning to understand disease politics. My eyes were first opened earlier in 1993 by literature that Jill Schuker, Milly's best friend, sent to us from the Parkinson's Action Network. It pointed out that Parkinson's research was deeply underfunded by the federal government in comparison with other diseases. The minute I read it, I felt that I'd let Milly down by not taking action earlier. I knew I had to do something, but I didn't know what. I had a twice-weekly column in Roll Call, a newspaper read by practically everyone on Capitol Hill, but at first it struck me that using my position to campaign for more Parkinson's money constituted unethical special pleading.
But in July of that year I decided I could write something if I disclosed my personal interest. I phoned Joan Samuelson, whom I hadn't yet met. On the basis of the interview, I wrote a column saying that President Clinton had given a gift of hope to victims of Parkinson's, Alzheimer's disease, diabetes and prenatal disorders by lifting the ban that Presidents Reagan and Bush had imposed on federal funding of fetal tissue research. But, I wrote, Clinton then "dashed that hope by cutting the funding" for research -- $9 million from the budget of the National Institute of Neurological Disorders and Stroke and $4 million from the National Institute on Aging. I quoted Samuelson as saying that Parkinson's and Alzheimer's research were "sacrificial lambs to pay for cures for AIDS and cancer while trying to reduce the deficit."
Indeed, in his first budget as president in 1993 Clinton had asked for $225 million more for AIDS research, to bring the total to $1.3 billion, and $130 million more for cancer, for a total of $2.1 billion. According to what came to be known as Samuelson's "disparity chart," NIH then was spending an average of $1,000 a year on research to help each of the nation's 1.3 million HIV/AIDS victims. For each of 8 million cancer victims, NIH spent $260, while 4 million Alzheimer's patients got just $54 each, and 1 million Parkinson's victims $26 each. In this column I said that "a close relative of mine" had Parkinson's.
The next step in my education came just a few weeks before the White House party, at a big dinner honoring Abe Pollin, owner of Washington's pro basketball and hockey teams, whose wife, Irene, was Milly's friend and former social work colleague at the Neurology Center. The Pollins arranged for us to sit with Abe's political adviser, Washington health lobbyist Terry Lierman, who proceeded to completely demystify medical research politics. Lierman told Milly and me that diseases were allocated research money based on the clout of their advocates -- in the White House, in Congress, in the media and public opinion, and within NIH and the scientific community. Disease researchers who were receiving the most money one year had the best chance of getting more the next year, sometimes regardless of the scientific merit of their proposals. Parkinson's was bringing up the rear, he said, and probably would stay badly funded unless the whole of NIH got a major boost in funding.
Lierman also revealed to us that Bill Clinton, though he was helping AIDS and breast cancer research, was giving short shrift to every other disease studied at NIH, not just neurological diseases. This news stunned me, but it had credibility because Lierman was a Democrat. It was news that the public was unaware of -- something I could definitely write about, I said.
Now, as we moved slowly through the receiving line that snaked from the cavernous main-floor receiving room of the White House, down a stairway and through a ground-floor hallway, Milly rehearsed what she planned to say: "Mr. President, I love the two of you. I think you're great. I tell Morton that all the time. I tell him to write nice things about you. I want to say, I have Parkinson's disease, and there isn't enough money being spent on research. I hope you'll do something about that."
She repeated the speech two or three times. I was ready to cite some figures from Samuelson's disparity chart and tell the Clintons that Parkinson's was a disease that could be conquered soon with an extra effort.
When we reached the Clintons and were introduced by a military aide, Milly started, "Mr. President, I want to tell you something. I have Parkinson's disease . . ." Then she lost track. She turned to me, "Morton, what do I want to say?"
I, even less articulate, hiked my thumb into the air and blurted: "Increase brain research." Clinton just nodded, but Mrs. Clinton chimed in, "Oh, wait till we pass health reform. We're going to do a lot!"
You move on fast in these receiving lines. That's all we got to say. I felt embarrassed that I'd been so frozen-headed. But I muttered to Milly as we walked on, "Well, you've just been lied to by the first lady of the United States."
There was nothing in Mrs. Clinton's health care reform plan for neurological research, or much of anything at all for medical research. To make matters worse, the Clinton budget released the following February contained a mere 0.5 percent net increase for neurology after inflation. For NIH as a whole, Clinton requested a 4.7 percent increase, only 1.7 percent after inflation.
For the next year, fiscal 1995, Clinton was proposing less of an increase than had been enacted for the previous year, with the biggest increase going for just two favored diseases -- breast cancer and AIDS. Clinton had angered the gay rights movement, which supported him in the 1992 campaign, by failing to lift the ban on gays serving in the military, instituting the policy of "don't ask, don't tell" instead. However, in an apparent effort to mollify gays, he increased the AIDS research budget by 20 percent in his first year in office. In the meantime, women's groups were legitimately angered that breast cancer research was underfunded, and Clinton responded with a 33 percent increase in fiscal 1994 and another 28 percent the following year.
More than one conservative Republican we visited looked at Samuelson's disparity chart, expressed sympathy with our cause, and declared, "We can get the money for Parkinson's from AIDS." A few members added, "Preventable disease," referring to AIDS. I confess, I did not argue with them.
A Cure for Milly (Page Two)
A Cure for Milly Milly, flanked by the couple's two daughters, Alexandra and Andrea, in 1984. (Family Photo)
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Continued from Page One
For four years a newly energized Parkinson's community rallied around the Udall bill, named after Mo Udall, the longtime chairman of the House Committee on Interior and Insular Affairs who was diagnosed with Parkinson's in 1979. One celebrated effort was mounted by the Tucson real estate investor Bob Dolezal to get Arizona's senior senator, Republican John McCain, to support the bill. Diagnosed with Parkinson's in November 1992, Dolezal first wrote to McCain in 1993. He got back a form letter thanking him for his views. He shifted his attention to Rep. James Kolbe (R-Ariz.) and gained his support rather easily. Then he turned back to McCain. His mail and phone calls started getting answered -- impatiently -- by a particular McCain aide. Dolezal bombarded him with correspondence.
Finally, in March 1996, Dolezal exploded in an e-mail that ended: "One can reach one of three conclusions: The NIH is stonewalling and doesn't want [Parkinson's funding] data made public, that the request of the senior senator from Arizona has been cavalierly disdained by NIH; or that the senior senator from Arizona never seriously pursued this matter, and really doesn't give a damn. Which one gets your vote?" This outburst had consequences, short- and long-term. Somehow word got back to the University of Arizona, which promptly severed connections (since restored) with the Tucson chapter of the American Parkinson's Disease Association, which Dolezal headed. That response not only inspired Dolezal to launch a statewide campaign in Arizona's Parkinson's community to work on McCain but persuaded him to fly to Washington to visit McCain personally.
He took along Brad Udall, Mo's son and lookalike, who was a board member of PAN, and Mary Helen Davila, a Parkinson's activist and sufferer from Phoenix. Davila told McCain what Parkinson's was doing to her -- and cried. Dolezal launched into the Parkinson's case. McCain interjected that he did not like to earmark for specific diseases. Dolezal kept spouting statistics and arguments.
Suddenly McCain put up his hand. "Okay, that's enough. I'll co-sponsor the bill." This time Dolezal began crying. "It was one of the greatest experiences of my life," he told me.
When Oregon's Mark Hatfield retired in 1997 after 30 years in the Senate, it became crucial for the Parkinson's movement to find an influential Republican to carry the cause. Sen. Paul Wellstone of Minnesota, both of whose parents had died with Parkinson's, was the lead Democrat. In January 1997, Dolezal wrote to McCain, suggesting that it would be especially appropriate for him to take the lead given his friendship with Mo Udall. Within a week Dolezal got a call from McCain's office with the word: The senator would do it.
On September 3, 1997, McCain and Wellstone offered the measure as a floor amendment to the annual appropriation for the departments of Labor, Education, and Health and Human Services. There was a brief floor debate in which McCain said that "there is a gross inequity here that needs rectification," citing figures from Samuelson's disparity chart. The vote to approve the Udall bill was overwhelming, 95-3. However, the Senate fight was not yet over. The next day, antiabortion Sens. Dan Coats (R-Ind.) and Don Nickles (R-Okla.) planned to amend the Udall bill with language reviving the Reagan-Bush ban on federal funding for fetal tissue research. Samuelson and PAN's policy coordinator, Mike Claeys, were at PAN's office in Santa Rosa, Calif., and from there spent all night soliciting statements from scientists on the importance of the research and faxing material to friendly senators in Washington. The next day the Coats-Nickles amendment was defeated, 60-38.
The Udall bill survived a House-Senate conference on the Labor-HHS appropriation. Its passage was hailed by Parkinson's advocates as a moment of triumph. Indeed, we were invisible no more.
But the passage of the Udall bill did not guarantee that one cent more would be spent on Parkinson's research. Even though it passed as an amendment to an appropriations bill, the Udall bill was not an appropriation; it simply authorized NIH to establish a Parkinson's-related research program.
Where should the money come from? My first instinct -- based partly on my knowledge of the funding disparities, and partly perhaps on prejudice -- was to take it away from HIV/AIDS. It struck me as deeply unfair that the government was spending something like 40 times the amount per victim on AIDS as on the disease that was killing my wife.
In 1996 I began working on a PBS documentary, "The Politics of Medicine," which ran on the network in October 1997. One of the first people I interviewed was the AIDS activist (and patient) Gary Rose, who had once attacked PAN over the disparity chart, calling it "AIDS-phobic." When I asked him about that, he accused me and PAN of telling Congress that the plight of AIDS victims was their own fault, that the money should be given to Parkinson's. He said that, after watching so many friends die, he found that argument repulsive. And to put the blame on the victim, whether the disease is HIV or lung cancer, is wrong.
"Most people don't have a choice about getting HIV-infected," he said. "I didn't have a choice. To say to someone, 'You should have worn a condom,' just think about that: If HIV were a disease primarily of middle-aged, white heterosexual men . . . you tell the entire community . . . 'You have to wear a condom for the rest of your life. Period. And if you don't, it's your own fault if you die.' That would not wash if you were telling those people that . . . Human beings like to have sex . . . and they like it to be natural, not negotiated."
As I sat across from him, I felt myself getting furious at the implication of his argument. I burst out at him: "Well, as a citizen and as somebody who's married to someone who has Parkinson's, the way I look at it is, I see a community that has a preventable disease. It has mobilized itself very carefully, using Hollywood and the gay community, has impacted Congress, has gotten an enormous amount of money spent on it . . . And the consequence of this is that an enormous amount of money . . . has been devoted to this group's disease . . . The diseases that I care about are defunded, underfunded. Why am I wrong?"
He burst back, underscoring how AIDS had ravaged "homosexuals, drug addicts, poor black people . . . If the most condemned sections of American society can pull together and do the remarkable and miraculous thing that we've done . . . We didn't have any power. We didn't have any money. We had nothing. We had nada. No one would talk to us. If we can build that out of those garbagey tools, I don't understand how anybody in good faith can now come after us and say, 'You really don't deserve your success. You could have stopped it. You can stop it now . . .'
"I'm just incredibly offended by being condemned for success that has cost me every person I cared about in my entire life. This epidemic has decimated my entire peer group. Everybody that I've worked with, cared about, lived with. And out of that pain, we've developed a movement, a process where we could cure this disease in 10 years. And I have to have somebody coming after me and saying, 'You don't deserve that? Give some of it to us.' I'm sorry, I don't think that's moral."
He finished me off with a challenge: "Are you going to stop working in television and become a full-time Parkinson's advocate? When you've done that, when thousands of other people, including people with Parkinson's, have done that, have given up your lives to find a cure, then you come back to me and say, 'You have to give up some of yours.' "
It was a powerful rebuttal, but Rose made an even stronger argument that convinced me that there was no future in trying to rob AIDS to help Parkinson's. Even if the money were cut from AIDS research, he said, it wouldn't go to Parkinson's; it would go to the next most powerful disease. He cited breast cancer research, which was being pushed by a powerful coalition of women's groups and the White House, and diabetes, at the time the favored disease of Republicans because House Speaker Newt Gingrich's then-mother-in-law suffered from it. I knew instantly that Rose was completely correct and that the funding definitely had to come from somewhere else.
The object of the Parkinson's movement's post-Udall lobbying was to get Congress to actually appropriate $100 million for Parkinson's research -- or to write language as close to a directive earmark as we could persuade congressional leaders to accept. Other diseases kept getting them. One year Gingrich and then-White House Chief of Staff Erskine Bowles, whose child suffers from juvenile diabetes, quietly put an extra $300 million for diabetes research into a final budget agreement. Another year Ted Stevens (R-Alaska), chairman of the Senate Appropriations Committee, became irritated that prostate cancer was getting less attention than breast cancer and added $50 million for that. In truth, Parkinson's also benefited from inside action when Rep. Joe McDade (R-Pa.), a member of the House Appropriations Committee who has since retired, was diagnosed with Parkinson's in 1996 and created a $25 million fund for neurotoxin disease research in the Defense Department.
In 1998, in an effort to get a $100 million earmark for Parkinson's in the NIH budget, I went with Samuelson to talk to McCain. We met McCain in an ornate room just off the Senate floor. He listened as we explained that NIH, despite the Udall bill, was refusing to significantly increase Parkinson's funding and probably would not do so without a command from Congress. Would he co-sponsor a floor amendment with Wellstone to write $100 million into the Labor-HHS appropriations bill? McCain became irate. "This is earmarking," he said. "This is pork. I have spent my entire congressional career fighting this sort of thing. If you're looking for somebody to do this, I'm not your guy."
Running for the Republican presidential nomination in 2000 and eager to retain the support of abortion opponents, McCain later apologized for his vote lifting the ban on fetal tissue research and came out against federal funding of highly promising research using stem cells derived from leftover embryos at fertilization clinics.
On January 31, 2000, the day before George W. Bush lost the New Hampshire primary to John McCain, I slipped into a makeup room at Manchester TV station WMUR, where Bush was cleaning his face after a Fox News appearance. He knew who I was because I'd interviewed him for a profile in Reader's Digest the year before. I said, "Can I write you a letter about my favorite cause?"
"What cause is that?" he asked.
"Doubling the NIH budget," I started. "It's . . .
"I'm for it," he said. "I've talked to Connie Mack about it. I told him I'm for it. It's the right thing to do."
I said, just as inarticulately as I'd done at the Clintons' Christmas party, "Think brains."
"Brain cancer?" he asked.
"No, neurology," I said. I made a botch of my speech. "Great things are happening," I said. "Neurodegenerative factors . . . No, I mean, something called neural growth factors . . . Great implications for Alzheimer's, ALS [amyotrophic lateral sclerosis], stroke, Parkinson's. Great things are happening . . ."
I finished with my favorite political argument for Republicans: "Republicans in Congress have been increasing NIH by 15 percent a year, ramping up to double. They never take credit for it."
"They don't know what they are doing," Bush said.
"Al Gore only wants to double the cancer budget, not the whole," I volunteered, hoping he'd try to trump Gore and make doubling the NIH budget a centerpiece of his campaign.
"No," Bush said, "I'm for doubling the whole -- what, over 10 years?"
"No," I said, "five. They can do it over five. NIH can absorb it over five."
"Okay, I'm for it."
Besides writing columns, I kept nagging Bush's political and issues staff to get the candidate to make a major speech proposing a doubling of funding for medical research.
In September 2000, Bush came out with a rousing statement: "As president, I will fund and lead a medical moonshot to reach far beyond what seems possible today and discover new cures for age-old afflictions . . . Our government will promote medical advances with new resources and new resolve."
Bush's campaign staff produced a position paper that was thorough and sophisticated about the hopes that medical research might fulfill reasonably soon, including gene therapies for cystic fibrosis, Huntington's disease and some forms of deafness, and new drugs that strangle the blood vessels that feed tumors. The language on Parkinson's was pure music: "The world's leading neuroscientists have declared that Parkinson's can be cured within 10 years -- and what's learned in the process can help cure Alzheimer's, Huntington's and other neurodegenerative diseases." Bush promised to finish the job that Sens. Mark Hatfield, Arlen Specter (R-Pa.) and Tom Harkin (D-Iowa) and Rep. John Porter (R-Ill.) had started in fiscal 1998, doubling the NIH budget to $27.5 billion by fiscal 2003. He promised to increase spending over 10 years by $67 billion.
Even though his September speech was eloquent, the message was never repeated in the campaign, indicating it was not a core part of his program. And he didn't promise to redouble the research budget in the five years after 2003. The $67 billion he campaigned on would not pay for redoubling over 10 years.
In January 2000 Michael J. Fox announced that he was leaving his TV show, "Spin City," to devote himself to conquering Parkinson's. This produced a huge burst of publicity -- and an invitation from Hillary Clinton to sit in her box when President Clinton delivered his State of the Union message on January 27. I was sitting in Chicago's O'Hare Airport en route from the Iowa presidential caucuses. My cell phone rang. It was Fox. He said he was inclined to turn down Hillary's invitation. It would look like an endorsement of her senatorial candidacy, he said. I was a little startled, but in an instant I realized that he had shrewd judgment. I said, "You are absolutely right. All you'll get out of it is five minutes of face time with Hillary, if that. She'll promise you something for Parkinson's, but she'll lie just like Clinton did to Christopher Reeve. You'll just get used." (Reeve had visited the White House and was promised $10 million extra for spinal cord injury research.
But it never materialized.) Without accepting my invidious analysis, Fox skipped the State of the Union.
In the fall, just before the 2000 election, Fox wrote an op-ed column in the New York Times pointing out the differences between George Bush and Al Gore on the issue of embryonic stem cell research -- Bush remained against it, Gore was for it -- and urging that the research be allowed to continue in order to save lives. When Bush became president, he hinted that he might issue an executive order banning federal money for stem cell research. As it turned out, Bush had heard from numerous disease advocates -- including Sen. Connie Mack (R-Fla.) -- urging him not to stop the research. And he did not, ordering a study of the issue instead. The issue is still pending.
Fox wants to tell President Bush that he could be the president who presides over the conquest of Parkinson's. The request for a meeting is also still pending.
Ever since Milly was diagnosed with Parkinson's, the nation's leading neurologists have been saying that this disease could be cured within 10 years. They still say that, but Milly's time is running out.
She is confined to a wheelchair. It's progressively harder for her to eat solid foods. Four times, I have had to perform the Heimlich maneuver to prevent her from choking to death. Often she has trouble even drawing liquids up through a straw. She can barely speak. Her voice has no volume and she has difficulty forming intelligible words. Her mind, however, is sharp. We communicate mainly through portable computer, though she has difficulty punching the right keys. She is inexorably becoming a prisoner trapped in her own body.
I do not know how our love story will end, or when. Some days, she says she does not want to live like this any longer and, when the time comes, will refuse a feeding tube and starve herself to death at a hospice. Other times, she says she will agree to have a tube implanted in her stomach -- reserving the right, however, to have it removed when she feels utterly trapped and life becomes intolerable.
I pray every day that a medical miracle will save her. But it does not seem to be forthcoming. I am losing Milly. But when I lose her, if I lose her, our story will not end. Memory will survive. I remember the restaurant where we first met, the raincoat she was wearing the moment I knew I had fallen in love with her, the soft couch where we first made love, the smell and taste of her that I became addicted to for life. And 33 years of marriage -- our fighting, our children, her steel, her generosity. Her courage. I will keep working to end Parkinson's disease on her behalf, and I will hug her in my heart forever.
Morton Kondracke is the executive editor of Roll Call, a commentator on the Fox News Channel and co-host of Fox's weekly political show "The Beltway Boys."
© 2001 The Washington Post Company