One day I wake up feeling like I got hit by a ton of bricks. The next day, I'm leading a charmed life again. Maybe they need to up my medication.

Let's think of a charmed day, shall we? One that occurred a little over two years ago. In an earlier column, I described the second greatest Easter story ever told -- well, that's what it felt like anyway, receiving a donated $25,000 wheelchair on Good Friday. Does it sound foolish to say it seemed as if I'd been struck by lightning, singled out by something improbable and much greater than me? It's difficult to describe such a magnificent and strange event without using this many metaphors, although one thing's for sure: lightning doesn't strike twice.

Or does it? Gather round, readers, for the third greatest Easter story ever told -- and for the reason I'm telling it now in July. It's a story of what can be accomplished. Maybe it will get some wheels turning out there.

This story is about abundant and unexpected blessings, and that's how it starts too. I am blessed with wonderful neighbors. My wife and I keep in touch with them by publishing a local newsletter, and through other area groups. These wonderful neighbors include the family next door, who are fantastic people. Tim and Ali are 11 and 9, and to my eyes, bright and dazzling as stars -- every time I seen them, I smile. I hang out with them all the time. Of course, they are a reflection of their parents. Dave works long hours to provide, and in his free time is an amateur naturalist and historian: great for Tim, a hearty kid going through his World War II phase. Karen holds down an evening job as a counselor while she homeschools the kids to several grades above their age levels.

You would think that would wear her down. But no, she's not content to confine her efforts in-home. That's why I answered the door one day (thank goodness the Masculine Munder Physique was safely shrouded in a robe) to find Karen on the other side of a movie camera.

"Karen, what are you doing?"

"Making a movie."

I wasn't going to ask the obvious. I feared the answer. (A science project for the kids? What, animals in their natural habitat?) I folded my paws, er, my arms.

"Smile," she said through the lens, "I'm nominating you for Extreme Home Makeover."

So incredulous was I that I rose from my chair. I thrust out my chest, brandishing my arms with righteous indignation. Extreme Home Makeover, I declared, is the TV program where communities and businesses join forces to improve the homes of society's most beleaguered and downtrodden citizens. Rather than benefit from the largess of others, I will contribute instead!

That's what I wanted to do. What happened instead was Karen blew past me, filmed my entire house and narrated (beautifully, I might add) an entire spiel about how the Munders love their community and their community loves them right back ... while my wife and I hemmed and hawed like deer not just caught in the headlights, but hauled downtown and booked at central station.

It was a flattering gesture, to be sure. However, like I said at the time, there are families much more needy than my own. And sure enough, Karen's videotape generated no replies. There are simply a lot of families devastated by medical hardships.

But more importantly, what an affirmation this was of the true friend we had living next door! Yet we had no idea of the depth of that friendship. Karen and family had bigger surprises in store.

The following year, we traveled on extended business to Texas. While away, Karen planned to surprise us with a home makeover of our own. She began organizing volunteers and enlisting local merchants. As the scale of plans grew larger, it was decided that Karen call us for permission. Once again, we were surprised, but had to decline. We believed her efforts ought to benefit a family more needy. She understood, and reluctantly shelved her plans.

A week later, Karen called back. Someone at her church, responding to the (expired) call to volunteerism, had obtained flooring that Mohawk Industries was going to destroy. Karen wanted to know if we would be angry accepting the floor anyway. Hardwood flooring, headed for the dumpster. I was (pardon me here) floored. No, in that case, bring it on!

I know little of what happened afterward. A whirr of spontaneous generosity, astounding to contemplate. A local church got behind the project in a big way. People whom I didn't even know donated funds. The youth group trooped to my house over and over to volunteer. Other parishioners did the same, working alongside my neighbors and relatives, day in and day out. They were joined by businesses large and small, from Mohawk to the local Home Depot and Century Tile, that donated materials.

On returning home, these good people crowded our yard to welcome us! (Are we on a game show?) They surrounded us as we entered, wide-eyed.

• The blonde wood flooring is elegant and spacious. Driving and steering my wheelchair is much easier than on the old carpeting.

• They painted half of the rooms. (My wife got to pick the colors, from Texas.)

• The kitchen was expanded for accessibility. The open floor plan lets me open my own refrigerator for the first time in years. I was three years old again: simply opening a door made me smile!

• My sister and brother-in-law widened and remodeled the bathroom. Now it's attractive and more accommodating of my wheelchair. Our lives are better for it, period.

There's a final touch to mention, a special one.

We once heard Anthony Hopkins give advice to young actors: Be bold and mighty forces will come to your aid. The striking phrase made such an impact that we mounted it on the wall ... actually taped it there on computer paper, to see how it might look. Honestly, it was pretty tacky! An experiment, not meant for outside eyes.

Hopkins

One of our neighbors, a busy father named John, saw it. He took the time to cut painting stencils in detailed Gothic lettering, and now it looks majestic -- very much like those colorful and muscular WPA murals we can admire from the 1930s, John's work is a bold emblem that captures a unique moment of community spirit.

I don't know where the lesson lies in all this. I'm still digesting it. My wife and I are just normal Joes, modestly successful at what we do, but neither of us set the world on fire like we planned in our youths. Yet here dozens of people, many of them strangers, labored to do so much for us. Huh?

I think the answer must lie somewhere in that phrase. Mighty forces. Penned by British writer Basil King, depicted by American teacher John, each morning I wonder at it, enshrined overhead. It reminds me about what can be accomplished when ... when what, exactly?

"Be bold": writer Basil King

At first I thought these mighty forces were quasi-mystical powers, more theoretical than actual, to coax us away from inaction and fear, to not worry so much and take the leap -- the Charlton-Heston-in-The-Ten-Commitments way of saying you'll never win if you never try. Also, as a Christian, I inevitably tie it back to God, that He will bless our endeavors.

Those could both be true. But I think there's another component, a less ethereal and more earthly one. These were humans who embarked on this project, after all, and humans are complex, with a multitude of motivations. Why, why did they do it?

One answer is dumb luck. I happened to make my home amongst a group of big-hearted people. Another, is when we engage others and try making a difference in their lives, we might be repaid in unexpected ways. Certainly, I'll be the first to say that nothing I've done merited anything like what I received. But that attests to what I'm saying. It's not a one-for-one trade-off, doing for others. It's no factory job, you don't get paid per piece. You don't get paid at all, but do it because you want to. The good work is its own reward. However, every so often, a breathtaking rebate rolls your way ...

I write this not to crow or brag, but perhaps to inspire somebody else. Mighty forces are too heavy to carry on our own.

A thought exercise I came up with is a booklet of practical knowledge, to hand down to the young ones, so they could benefit from what we learn in the twisty, turny passages of life. I figure, why should every generation have to start from scratch? (As if they'd read it! I'd have torn out the pages to roll cigarettes.) My booklet would be short as possible, and it would include a quote from the Beatles.

It's one of the last harmonies they sang, at the end of their magically mysterious adventure that ended on Abbey Road. The screaming and controversy of Beatlemania had blown past, leaving only a soft, wobbly piano in the background tink-tink-tinkling a Chopsticks-like beat, and McCartney and Lennon (I like to imagine it's both, or maybe all of the boys this time) sing a line like you'd rehearse for your deathbed,

In the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.

POSTSCRIPT: Another Beatles line is All things must pass, and so, my friends I introduced to you here are moving on. They recognized a good opportunity, and pounced on it in typical Karen carpe diem style! They'll no longer be neighbors, but they'll always be friends. This column is a parting gift to them.

When is the last time you rode a bike? Feeling the wind on your face, in your hair? The exertion and power of your limbs, the blood flowing, the brain popping at all the sensory stimuli of a world gliding past you. It feels fantastic, that freedom, doesn't it? You might even be tempted to sit up in the saddle. To take your arms from the handles and fold them as you go along, surveying everything around you. Pleased with yourself, aren't you? You feel young again!

But if you hit a stone, if you wobble or, heaven forbid, wipe out, it all turns south, instantly. How easily things can go from perfect to horribly wrong! Then afterward, there is that tentativeness. You are jinxed up, hesitant. "Oh no," in the back of your mind, "oh no." You don't feel so young anymore. You feel frailer, maybe a bit old.

This is the column of an old man. I'm not old, numerically ... maybe in dog years. But, like the man on the bike, the age lies not in the body, but in the mind. Lately, I have old man concerns.

These concerns stem from my holiday custom of taking stock. That in itself is a good thing, but it comes at the end of a rough year.

We've had a couple of losses from our online community. Steve Meerman is one who left us. Talk about your perfect life: a tall, fit, good-looking doctor who was a retired Air Force colonel and proud family man with a supportive wife and two boys flowering into teens. Then he received an ALS diagnosis.

Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, or Lou Gehrig's disease, destroys parts of the nervous system. There is no cure. Steve counterattacked, using his contacts and knowledge to look into new treatments and specialists. As he went through this process, he started a blog, or online journal. Here's one of your great uses for the Internet. Others might have figured 'what's the point?' But Steve lived his life engaged with life. All the way in.

I made a point of responding to his updates, each of which must have required gigantic effort to compose and post. Most described a worsening in his situation. How then, I thought, do you respond to serial bad news? It's a question I asked myself time and again. I mean, what can you say? Dare you be cheerful? Here is this formidable man who could eat me for lunch, and here I dare to say that ... what am I going to say, anyway?

But at the end of the day, everyone needs support, and I'd post something anyway.

His blog was a great act of perseverance. It was a testament, and we readers learned a lot from it. It has since disappeared from the Internet, but I hope it returns, as a reference for others.

Another loss was Pete Lustig. He was a retired businessman who also started a blog, unusual for someone in his 80s. He just jumped right in, where his peers would be intimidated. I admired his pluck.

Pete and I wrote one another, and were a natural fit. He was a pleasure to know, amiable, and liked a good joke. He also had a sharp mind and continued his business consultancy to entrepreneurs up to his final year. He and his beloved wife Penny were sociable and always up to something new.

Pete injured himself in a fall. I believe he sustained a broken hip. For the elderly, a break like this can prove fatal. It's a drastic shock to the system, and the body does not heal as quickly. Pete had to stay in a convalescent home during his healing. Penny is blind, and try as she might, couldn't attend to his needs in this critical time.

Pete felt out of place, of course. Healing is hard enough without having to adjust to new surroundings -- and no Penny. The other residents weren't as active as Pete. His Internet access too was sporadic, but it was to be only temporary. He was even more determined to get better and return home.

He lived only a few hours south, so I threatened to come down and stage a jail break! An afternoon in Abe's Van of Ill Repute does wonders for the morale, if not the soul.

During summer, Pete was on cloud nine that he got the OK to attend his granddaughter's wedding. I know he had a great time too, and posted pictures from the ceremony.

That was the last I heard of him. One day, someone wrote me that he had passed. I have no other details, and there is no one to contact. Finis. Another strange aspect of the Internet.

That's not all the year brought. A beloved cousin received a cancer diagnosis. Similarly, my close neighbor relapsed into cancer. Both are proud moms of young boys. Thankfully, both responded spectacularly to treatments.

Two others I know, also mothers, suffered relapses, but weren't as lucky.

I write none of this to commiserate or ask your sympathy. Instead, I intend it as a celebration, a Thanksgiving prayer for Steve and Pete, and the others in my life. This is the season for Thanksgiving, and they are the reasons. I hope you can find many reasons of your own when you turn away from this screen.

Let us be thankful, extremely thankful, for all the good that lies before us this moment. Whatever good people, comforts and plenty lie within our reach, be thankful for them, and live our lives to show it. Appreciate their beauty and uniqueness. It can all disappear tomorrow.

(Then, with most of this column already written, more news: an elderly uncle has been diagnosed with terminal cancer. Granted, he's lived a long and productive life. But it brings a tear to my eye that such a gentle and intelligent man can be visited with the heinous disease. And so his sad news further underscores my purpose here.)

Yep, you are on a bike, and a bike exists to move onward. You don't walk it, or throw it to the side. You must continue peddling or you'll fall again. Pedal through the doubt and go.

Once you get rolling, you regain your momentum and the road opens up. Life blossoms anew -- it's bright and good! There are wobbles and dips awaiting on the long ride ahead, but that's later on up the road. A wise old man appreciates the good road that's directly before him. He rides.

Live a rich and vibrant new year!

[Summer greetings, my friends! It's been a long hiatus. I passed much of the year in the Pineywoods of East Texas, which is beautiful country, but not so connected for the Internet. But I used the quiet time and fresh air to put together my first book--details to come--and write columns, which I'll post for you. I've missed all my friends who I've met over these past five years. Stay cool, and thanks for hanging in there with me! -- Abe]

They call it Skydiving for MS, except there wasn't much skydiving involved. Not for this guy with MS, anyway.

That's a big deal! I wait all year long for this. How many opportunities do you think I have to get out of this wheelchair, anyway? And I've been good, no complaining. Because actually it's been two years, since the weather last year let no one jump.

Here's how good I was: I got up at four in the morning. Repeat, four in the morning! That's to be out on the field at seven. A 7:30 jump time. The only slot they had left, all day! That's even after Chicagoland Skydiving Center brought in an extra plane to go up and down throughout the day, both planes ferrying a dozen or more jumpers on each trip.

I did all that, like a good boy. But it still didn't happen. In fact, I was the only one not to jump. I had to wait for a steady breeze to pick up, or I might land too fast. (Consider the girth of my ego alone.)

In the meantime, Diane got to jump. She's Old Faithful--except for the old part. She drives almost every year from Akron, eight hours one way. She even hung out last year, that dreary-weather year, and still had a smile on her face as we shivered around the bonfire. But this year, she went up. It was her second jump, and she made it look easy. Landed on her feet. Like she's James Bond or something. Nice.

Jaci got to jump. She drove 12 hours, all the way from eastern Pennsylvania. She's been going through a real rough patch: first, selling her beloved bookstore, and then, a divorce. She had been eyeing this event for years. Lately she's been wanting to do something new, something big, on her own. The time was right.

She and Diane looked like commandos in matching black jumpsuits. I watched them land in the field about a 100 yards away. Behind them the line of brightly colored nylon windflags waved like cheering spectators. The commandos hugged in elation.

Jaci was electrified the rest of the day. First jumps are that way. No doubt she's worn a hole in her jump DVD by now.

Meghan Honeman got in her first jump. A beautiful young woman, 28, with a bright positive smile. She was diagnosed with MS last year. Then her sister, Katie, 25, was diagnosed. Aren't those super-precise MRIs wonderful?

But Meghan didn't sit on her hands. She raised $2,225, then jumped from 14,000. Some people won't let anything stand in their way.

Speaking of which, let's see, who else got to jump? Vanita. Ah, Vanita. She is the story of the day.

For the past few years, Vanita has been lugging around one of those on-again, off-again MS diagnoses. Even with all the MRIs and record number of diagnoses going on now, MS is still often difficult to diagnose. Vanita, like many of us, was languishing in medical purgatory, with that terrifying question mark hanging over her head. After you've done that a while, the horrible words "you've got MS" can ironically be a great relief. Because before those words, you were limping like a wounded animal, fearful and hurting but uncomprehending as to what it's all about.

And then it only got worse.

That's when Vanita's strokes started. At first they too went undiagnosed, mistaken for attacks of MS. But they kept coming, and because of the nature of strokes--once you suffer one, you are bound for more--it was imperative to discover the cause.

Here was another difficult diagnosis. At first they figured on a clotting disorder. Then, one keen specialist detected the real cause in a misty smudge on her brain scans: a rare condition called moya moya. It is a hardening of capillaries in the brain, which on scans appears as a ghostly blur. "Moya" is Japanese for "ghost," but this condition isn't child's play. Urgent brain surgery was needed to avert the next stroke, which could be a killer.

Vanita got through the risky surgery. But in the first vulnerable moments of recovery, she suffered another stroke, a powerful one. She escaped with her life, but since then she's had an unrelenting struggle through therapy. She walks again, with an impaired left leg and arm (the same as before surgery). However, she still works on regaining speech. She can vocalize, but not talk. This would be tough on anyone, but it is particularly for a writer like her.

But this is no sob story: she came to jump! I had her stalwart husband, Rick, call the Wizard of Air, Nathan Dexter, my jump guru who specializes in tandems with the disabled. Nathan has taken me up four times. Nathan is game for anything, but he's responsible and told Rick he would make a final determination on Vanita's status when they met.

When the day came, Vanita did indeed get the OK. She suited up. But Nathan was booked solid. The jump would go to tandem instructor Greg Poston instead.

All right, Greg is a quiet, unassuming guy . . . who just happens to have 3,000 jumps. That's right, he's an instructor at jumpzones across three states, but Mr. Expert-on-Wheels here didn't know him. So, while Greg's preparing Vanita for her jump, I'm pestering him with all sorts of inane questions:

"Shouldn't you be tying her hands in front of her chest to prevent shoulder injury, like Nathan did mine?" "Only a suggestion, but is there enough wind to land her safely?"

"Uh, only wondering, Greg, if you should go with the American chute instead of the Australian one?"

I'm not a guy to worry, but I could foresee this being one of those times I keep my mouth shut, and then ...

But "then" turned out to be a perfect jump, perfect landing. "Then" was Greg bringing them down nice and slow, like kissing a cloud. "Then" was a ride back to the hangar in the golf cart through an applauding crowd, like she was a returning astronaut. And "then" was an acute case of "permagrin" on Vanita's face the rest of the night by the campfire.

Permagrin is what they call the thrill that courses through your veins for hours after your first jump, the one that lights up your face like a billboard. But we all had permagrin that night, as we laughed around the bonfire.

That goes for the jumpers who came in from across the country just for this event, like Todd Davis. Todd sold his stake in CSC to his partner Doug Smith, and moved to California. But "if there is one weekend I'll come back for," Todd told me, "it's this one." He is one of the reasons Skydiving for MS exists.

Stephanie also had the permagrin. She and her husband, Josh, a surgeon, are award-winning competitive jumpers. That very day, Stephanie received her hard-earned Ph.D. in microbiology. She cut out of the ceremonies, shoved the diploma in the glove box and high-tailed it to Hinckley. For her, the real party was at the jumpzone, at the one event she does not miss. By now, she and Josh are in San Antonio, following his residency. But on a certain day next year, they'll be back.

My friend Wendy Booker flew in to get the grin. This woman can really, truly be called an adventurer. Just in the last year, she has scaled new peaks in New Hampshire and Argentina. She is also the representative of Teva Pharmaceuticals, one of our sponsors, and she jumped for the first time last year. Now she's hooked!

Organizers Dave and Ceil Perez knocked themselves out once again. Their permagrins came not just from happiness, but exhaustion as well. Per usual, they took the lead in raising money, getting the band, putting out great food and a great party. It wears them out more each time, and yet they keep getting back on the horse and doing it up even bigger the next year. This couple, along with CSC's Doug and Carolyn Smith, are the biggest heroes on a day when there are many of them. And 54 planeloads, 934 jumpers and $30,000 later (all records, by the way), they deserve as much rest as they want--but they're probably already building SkyMS-2008 as I write this!

Permagrin is what Skydiving for MS is about. I've got it right now, writing about it. I'm grateful for that annual charge of permagrin--I run on the stuff for months afterward, like an STP treatment for the spirit. That steady breeze never did come in for me, but when you've got a million watts of perma-current flowing in you, who needs to jump?

But that reminds me ...

If all these other people continue to outshine me year after year, I may eventually have to find another spectacular event. I mean, a column like Abe Munder, the Wheeled Former Wonder isn't as snappy.

So I'm thinking, Get Shot Out of a Submarine for MS. Or, how about Dropped From a Hot-Air Balloon Onto a Mattress for MS? I'm working on it, people, I'm working on it.

(Thanks to the contributors, the participants, and the CSC staff who made MS-X one for the books!)

[This column crossposted to Vanita's blog, In the Blink of an Eye ("Discovering Self After Stroke"), at http://wreckingball1965.spaces.msn.com]

Please pause to reflect on all the thousands who have labored and sacrificed to help guarantee the great life you lead now.

If you'd like to show your appreciation, consider contributing a little to those now fallen or in the field, through these organizations:

USO -- they do everything

US Troop Care Package -- supporting our deployed soldiers

Adopt a Soldier -- sending care packages to troops in Walter Reed Army Medical Center and Bethesda Naval Hospital

America Supports You -- support and send e-mail thanking our troops

A week before the Civil War, Major Sullivan Ballou of the Second Rhode Island Volunteers wrote his wife.

July 14, 1861
Washington D.C.

Dear Sarah,

The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days, perhaps tomorrow. Unlest I shall not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I'm no more. I have no misgivings about or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the revolution. And I am willing, perfectly willing, to lay down all my joys in this life to help maintain this government and to pay that debt.

Sarah, my love for you is deathless. It seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but omnipotence can break. And yet, my love of country comes over me like a strong wind and bares me irresistibly with all those chains to the battle field. The memory of all the blissful moments I've enjoyed with you come crowding over me and I feel most deeply grateful to God and You that I've enjoyed them for so long. And how hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when God willing we might still have lived and loved together and see or boys grown up to honorable manhood around us.

If I do not return, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I loved you nor that when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name. Forgive my many faults and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless, how foolish I have sometimes been. But oh Sarah, if the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they love, I shall always be with you in brightest day and the darkest night-always, always. And when the soft breeze fans you cheek, it shall be my breath or the cool air on your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah, do not moan me dead, think I am gone and wait for me, for we shall meet again.

Sullivan Ballou

By the time his wife opened the letter in Smithfield, Rhode Island, a week later, Sullivan Ballou had been killed at Bull Run. It was the first day of battle in a four-year war.

(To see films of the 75th anniversary at Gettysburg in 1938, pictured above, click here.)

This storm over stem-cell research has stirred up a lot of disinformation, kind of like the sediment from the bottom of your fish bowl. It's murky, you don't know what's in there, and it's certainly not suitable for ingestion.

Starting with Rush Limbaugh's initial broadside on the Michael J. Fox political ad, the opponents of embryonic stem-cell research have been putting out a lot of propaganda. They are crafty and so they accuse their opponents of something they themselves are guilty of: that their arguments are driven not by science but by ideology.

Politically, the Limbaugh side equates embryonic stem-cell research with abortion. And so, in their arguments and even in their news coverage of this week's controversy, they are advancing plenty of inaccurate claims and, as journalists, passing them off as general knowledge.

Limbaugh himself does this each day, and judging by the call-in transcripts at his website, he's got much of his audience under the sway of his falsehoods. But in this week's news coverage, I have also heard Bill O'Reilly echo Limbaugh's arguments, joined by an editor from the National Review and several writers in the Weekly Standard.

Much like the run-up to the war and a lot of other administration policies, the current clique of Republicans is not as concerned with facts and truth as they are in advancing their ideology. This was most famously confirmed after the fall of Baghdad when a presidential aide chided a reporter for being part of the "reality-based community," as opposed to the administration which thought it could remake the world according to own realities. Democrats are guilty of this as well--witness the squelching of any items pointing to the drawbacks of day-care or older parenting--but then, Democrats are not in power.

Do not take these people at their word--they aren't interested in accurate information so much as advancing their political policies, or they are just too lazy to check their facts. (I'm giving them the benefit of a huge doubt there.)

I include myself in this invitation. Check my facts. This field is too important to leave to mealy-heads and political operatives. They don't care about your welfare, or your children's welfare.

(For a decent general background on stem-cell research, and both sides of the controversy, spend a little while reading the range of articles at the Time magazine website, http://www.time.com/time/2001/stemcells/.)

Here are the myths I'm hearing the past few days:

• With the availability of adult stem cells, there is no need to pursue embryonic stem-cell research. Most scientists advocate pursuing both. They are not mutually exclusive.

• Adult stem cells have already led to a long list of treatments, while embryonic cells have led to none. Adult cells are leading to treatments. The number of "cures" cited by adult-cell advocates is typically exaggerated. Limbaugh holds up a list of them; others claim 60, 70 treatments or more. It's just not true. Which is not to delegitimize research with adult stem cells. But it's wrong to cite proven treatments or cures from any type of stem-cell research: it's simply too early to do so. Meanwhile, the embryonic stem cells possess much more flexibility and promise in developing all sorts of neurologic and other types of treatments. This is due to their pluripotent abilities, which allow them to develop into many different types of cells. Adult cells, on the other hand, are more fixed in their purpose: it's more unlikely to grow brain tissue, for instance, from bone cells, which are mature enough to be inclined toward being just what they are, bone cells.

• All the advocates of embryonic stem-cell research have to show for their efforts are vague possibilities of what might come to be in 15 years or so. Consider the exciting prospects of this budding field. We are talking about growing new spinal columns, regenerating entire organs, reversing horribly painful and crippling degenerative diseases, where now there exists no hope, but only eventual death. Is 15 years too long to look ahead for such historic progress? Is 15 years a long time in order to create and develop an entirely new branch of science? Of course not. Really, the question doesn't matter. The notion of a timetable on science is preposterous. If we can envision it, we will make it so. That is the nature of science, the nature of mankind itself. Orville Wright soared at Kitty Hawk in 1903, some 400 years after Leonardo da Vinci sketched his flying machines; Neil Armstrong stepped to the moon in 1969, seven years after John Kennedy's speech at Rice University; before Armstrong and Wright, mankind had been chomping at the bit to fly for thousands of years. Despite the politicians, we are going to do this.

• Missouri's Amendment 2 (which Fox and other advocates support) is not about stem-cell research at all, but about legalizing cloning. No, and yes. Amendment 2 is indeed about stem-cell research. It is about enabling and promoting embryonic stem-cell research. And yes, it is also about cloning. Not cloning as in creating a race of subhumans, in order to harvest their organs or serve as slaves or whatever. That type of cloning, cloning to the point of conception, is specifically banned by Amendment 2. Nobody except nutjobs and paranoiac preachers are interested in anything like that. But embryonic research technically does require cloning, in that the nucleus of a stem cell is destroyed and then replaced by the nucleus of the desired type of mature cell (nerve cell, bone cell, etc.). That act, and not the nightmares found in movies and horror novels, is called cloning. Now, can this type of cloning be abused? Sure. All science can be abused. That's how we make so much money every year selling weapons to Third World countries. But these types of cloning abuses can occur already now. We'll have to be vigilant against abusers, in either case.

• Senator Jim Talent, opposing the Claire McCaskill-Michael J. Fox effort, is indeed for stem-cell research. He supports adult stem-cell research, not embryonic. Make that distinction.

• New treatments using placental cord blood cells have surpassed the need for embryonic stem-cell research. No. Again, they show promise, like adult cells do, but not as much as embryonic cells. It is yet another avenue to pursue.

• Embryonic stem-cell research already takes place, regardless of government policy. Yes, but without federal funding, and painstakingly or quarantined from all facilities and equipment procured to any degree by government funds. The separation results in a confusing division of resources that has put the brakes on full-fledged pursuit of a very promising science. These red-tape headaches (at which we know government excels) have thrown a monkeywrench into progress, and discourage scientists away from the field, or from the country altogether, leaving for other lands with more sensible policies.

• Embryonic stem-cell research is akin to abortion and murder. Altering a handful of cells, a few hours old, is the same as murdering a child? Fine, let's accept the supposition where it's made. (Although, by this measure, we probably shouldn't be throwing away amputated limbs, or scrubbing blood from the pavement in the wake of auto wrecks, either. Mustn't waste human cells.) However, the compromise bill vetoed by the president allowed for use of stem cells discarded by fertility clinics anyway. That is where murder occurs, not in the research, but in the needless destruction of these those embryos. And if embryonic research truly is murder, then the president already sanctions infanticide each day when he approved those 60 or so lines of stem cells to be subject to experimentation since 2001. If this is your standard, then those original cell lines are alive, too. Disturbing to contemplate, no?

• That's right, what about those 60-something lines of stem cells already approved by the president for federally funded research? Scientists say that those lines, through the constant replication caused by great demand by the entire research community, have deteriorated down to only 22. Even those are not is useful as new lines would be, because they were replicated using older technology, and so are not as productive as before.

I wasn't trying to be boring here, only exhaustive. (Though I may have grown only exhausting!)

On any of these points, copy the key phrases and run them through Google. Read several articles on each question. The more you read, the more you will see through the smokescreen, and the more convinced you will become to support embryonic stem-cell research.

The people spreading these faulty arguments are banking on your fear and your ignorance. If after you've read a great deal of the material on both sides and still think it's wrong, then that's honorable. But don't be cowed, and don't accept opinion as fact (not even my own), but live your life in knowledge.

[To see the Michael J. Fox ad that Rush Limbaugh criticized, scroll down to my October 22 post.]

The thing that gets me about this Rush Limbaugh-Michael J. Fox dustup is how transparently provocative it is.

Of course, anyone who critiques somebody afflicted with Parkinson's is a jerk.

But so is someone who calls the president's adolescent daughter a dog. Or levels allegations that pro quarterbacks are chosen because of their race.

Not coincidentally, one oracle has leveled all three allegations. That would be Rush Limbaugh.

The old saying about research work is "garbage in, garbage out." In other words, considering the source, what do you expect?

Rush Limbaugh is an entertainer. He knows exactly what he is doing. He knows his audience. He knows that they like red meat, and he doles it out to them in big chunks.

And they never love him more than when Limbaugh pisses off "those others." The blacks, the president's fans, the supporters of stem-cell research. His spew is noxious to most ears, but to that hardcore audience of his, it's all sweet-smelling ambrosia. (They don't know what ambrosia is, but they lap it up all the same.)

This is a well-honed strategy employed by a lot of familiar names. Ann Coulter. Howard Stern. Madonna.

None of them give a damn what you think. They know exactly who and what they are after. And they are all rolling in more dough than you and I could ever count in this lifetime, or the next one.

Every time the Parkinson's community, the FTC, the Malawian government or the Pope slaps them, they hear a sound, and it's not little birds:

KA-CHING!

I mean, really, does it strike anyone how one man can simultaneously be expert in neurological disorders, quarterbacking, pro football management, cutting edge medical research, and everything else he blubbers on about for 20 hours every week?

There is only one qualification that could guarantee knowledge in all of those fields and many more. You can't get it from a university. It's an innate genius that comes after only after you've ingested a sufficient amount of dirt in repeated schoolyard whuppings.

It's called being a Know-It-All. For a very few lucky people, it pays extraordinarily well.

The one thing these people cannot abide is when you simply ignore them. Ignoring them is like poisoning them, like depriving a plant of sunlight.

The dilemma in this particular case is that you can't ignore it and let it go unanswered. Not only is Limbaugh out of line in attacking Fox, but he is misguided in his facts on embryonic stem-sell research. His contention is that Fox is misleading the sick and disabled, giving them false hope. But this is Limbaugh's ideology speaking, and not any expertise.

Embryonic stem cells, like adult stem cells, may very well produce treatments and cures--so say a great majority of the knowledgeable research scientists--and that's why we have to try them. By revisiting the compromise that would allow use of discarded fertility treatment cells, we can push the healing science while honoring the ethical objections that have been raised.

Is there a guarantee to all this? No, but there is never a guarantee behind science. Science is exploration. Untainted by fear, or ideology, or the stupidity of name-calling.

But I'll tell you what, after this election, let's try some of that ignoring, OK?

AMWW#136: WHAT A CROCODILE HUNTER TAUGHT ME
by Abe Munder, the Wheeled Wonder
(AbeMunder@aol.com)

Yep, my jaw dropped too when I heard about the Crocodile Hunter.

For all the obvious reasons, sure, but also because he taught me something. In this age of celebritology (did you hear how CBS taped Walter Cronkite's voice to introduce that Hostess Twinkie, er, twinkie hostess Katie Couric as the latest freshly scrubbed news anchor-reader? blech, blech, blech), it sounds schmaltzy to say a star influenced your life. But Steve Irwin really did drive home to me at least one good lesson.

Irwin demonstrated fearlessness, perhaps to a fatal extreme. But he also showed an essential toughness that impressed me as much. Tough as the outback brush he was always bounding and flailing through like a runaway Tonka truck.

He was in a rough and tumble business. I'm in a rough and tumble business.

Welcome to the dings and pricks of handicapped life. Fingers and joints hyperextended. Bruises, cuts, tendonitis, pressure burns, even occasional humiliations--how about sitting in your own urine for hours on end?

It's a hard-knock life, all right. But there are things even the weakest of us can control.

For example, when someone is pulling a comb through your knotted hair, hell yes it hurts. But it's also nobody's fault. So do you spit and swear about it? Or do you check your tongue, knowing it will be over in 20 seconds or so, and realizing that, after all, you are lucky to have someone doing it for you in the first place?

Same with hanging from a lift in a sling, getting banged around like a second-hand pinata. It's not part of some Argentinian torture ritual, no, but the state-of-the-art method for someone to move you into the shower.

The person moving you is being as careful as possible, especially because she is receiving as many bangs and bruises on her end. Do you bite her head off, or shut up and receive the shower you crave?

These incidental pains are being shared in a very literal way by caregivers, you understand. (Think of it as Newton's Third Law in action: for every inflicted ache and pain, there is an equal and opposite counter-ache and pain.) Nobody talks about caregivers. I don't write about them enough. Like Ginger Rogers matching Fred Astaire step-for-step and backwards, caregivers live the same down-and-dirty existence as their charges, and then some: because afterward, they have to clean up the mess, launder the clothes, take care of themselves, and miss sleep while doing so.

Being handicapped isn't so fun, but it's also not the center of the universe.

Back down under, through nicks, cuts, bites, bleeds and breaks, Steve Irwin didn't complain, at least not that he let us see. To me, that was an unspoken yet powerful message.

What attracted us to Irwin was his daredevilry, no doubt. But what reeled us in, and kept us coming back for more, was his enthusiasm, his joy, his passion. Call it what you will, but it came across as the real deal.

The first time you heard him say to a crocodile, "You're a beauty--I just want to kiss you on the lips," you giggled. But then as you watched, you thought, He really does want to kiss that crocodile on the lips!

That passion was a motor inside of him. It's why he always wanted more, why he couldn't wait to get in there to mix it up, and why he didn't complain about a fractured finger or an occasional alligator fang sunk down to his bone.

Because to Steve Irwin, those were painful things, but they were all transitory. You suffer a wound, it smarts, you treat it with care, and you heal. But the work and the passion remain before you.

The danger in this celebrity age is that you relate so much to the characters fed to you through the idiot box, that you begin believing that you know them, and even that they are like you. In that respect, I may be acting like a sucker here. But I don't care. Because whether or not I knew the real Steve Irwin, or even if I am projecting my own thoughts and themes onto his life's work, it's still a genuine lesson I'm taking with me from this.

And while I won't be wrestling crocodiles or scuba-diving with stingrays, I will be always remember Steve Irwin's lessons to me. To go at things with passion, and bite my tongue over the small stuff.

Plus the line "you're a little beauty," blurted in my best Australian accent, works a charm with my wife. Thanks, Croc Hunter, and good on ya.

You knew I wasn't going to let this one slide. That cockamamie political maneuvering a few weeks back that took the wind out of the sails of stem-cell research.

The vetoed measure, overwhelmingly popular and backed by rare bipartisan Congressional support, proposed using extra embryos from fertility clinics. These embryos are destroyed regardless.

That is a phrase that's difficult to read: human embryos destroyed. I don't like it, just as I don't like abortion. Personally, I'm against it. But it's happening every day, human embryos destroyed, whether or not this legislation was passed or even proposed in the first place.

Fertility clinics destroy untold thousands of embryos each year. It's part of their normal operating procedure. Couples and fertility doctors create more embryos than are required. They implant more than are wanted. Then, the most promising embryos are kept and developed into fetuses. The others are all destroyed. It's in the manuals that way. A regular day at the office. In this way, fertility clinics bless couples with brand new healthy babies.

I've heard a lot of yelling about stem-cell research. A lot about supporters like me being godless Dr. Mengeles, moral relativists, or science-worshiping pinkos who've got it out for Mel Gibson and the baby Jesus.

I'm none of those, and I've not harmed a single human embryo.

But on the other hand, I've not heard anything about fertility clinics. And they, and their clients who only want to be loving parents, well ...

Let's just say that if you are serious about saving embryonic life, you need to go after fertility clinics.

Me, I've got nothing against fertility clinics. I'm against those hiding their heads in the sand, pretending they've taken a stand by derailing this proposal.

They've accomplished nothing. They've saved not one cell.

In fact, if stem-cell research ever moves to a point where it can be done without replacing or destroying an embryo--as implied by the announcement this week that parts of an embryo, called blastomeres, can be extracted for use while preserving the viability of the original embryo--even then, the very same number of embryos will be destroyed. But it won't be the bloodthirsty stem-cell researchers destroying them. No, it will be the same people who are doing so right now, today, under our noses.

That's the comforting thing about silence. Like Blanche DuBois did, you can fill it with any sort of pretending that you wish. And if we think pleasant thoughts, we won't have to dwell on the hundreds of embryos destroyed this week. Destroyed for nothing.

So we are retreating from our technological edge, from our ability to create high-paid American jobs, and from the dawn of a new generation of healing medicine. To retreat to the land of pretend.

If the argument about saving embryos does not wash, what about the other objections to this proposal?

One is that adult stem cells are the more ethical alternative. Adult-cell supporters say their way is more successful, that adult cells have actually produced results, while embryonic cells have not. Claims that are disputed by embryonic-cell supporters, who say embryonic cells are more promising. Who's right? Doesn't matter. Pursue both. Adult and embryonic cells are on parallel but separate tracks. You don't do science with one eye closed. Besides, some competition between the two can only be beneficial. Competition got us to the moon awful quick.

The other counterargument I hear is the Snowflake babies: those discarded embryos adopted and born to other couples. President Bush was flanked by several of these children while he vetoed the stem-cell proposal. It's a nice, heart-warming idea. But there are tumbleweeds blowing through Snowflake Station, and the turnstiles are creaky from lack of turning. Of the hundreds of thousands of available embryos, less than 150 have been adopted as Snowflakes. Come on, you Snowflake boosters, let's get adopting! Those freezers are cold!

These are emotional appeals. None holds up under scrutiny. Like so much policy lately, they do not stand when followed to their logical conclusions. But who wants to think that hard, when it feels better not to?

Instead, opponents talk around the uncomfortable truth and congratulate themselves as if they've done something, but they've not. They set themselves on a moral high ground, and talk down to the rest of us. But their pedestal is made of sand. It's phony. As Senator Arlen Spector of the president's own party remarked, the next generation will look back in disbelief that we even had this debate.

Simply, it doesn't matter where you stand on stem-cell research: by killing this bill, not a single additional life will be saved. Not one. And by passing this same measure, not a single additional life will be claimed. Not one.

Either way, tens and hundreds of thousands of embryos are thrown away each year. Perhaps 1,000 since you woke up this morning. Down the toilet. Most unsanctimonious. Did you yell any about it?

It's like ignoring an elephant in the middle of the room. Everyone can pretend the elephant is not there, but it is.

By the way, that stench you smell may be elephant dung. But it may be something else.

It's been a busy week, and the blogging's been scaled back. But the new column is up at TheWheeledWonder.com.

It's part three of the laser eye surgery, and all is well. These more detailed how-to articles aren't as popular, but I like writing them because there always turns out to be a handful of people that needs this kind of specific information. That makes it worthwhile.

So, if you are considering LASIK, read on. If not, you may want to skip until next week. I'll try to do something with Brad and Angelina.

From GOOD EYE: WEEK FIVE OF LASIK SURGERY SUCCESS:

Now I am tuned for monovision. One eye set for nearsightedness, the other for farsightedness. This should delay the need for reading glasses an extra five years. (The doctor guesses around age 50.)

At first, monovision sounds like a perverted arrangement, like having eyes from two different drawers. But as the doctor had assured me, I adjusted in no time at all. Every so often I must stop and refocus on detailed objects. It's my first taste of what I'll be dealing with as I age. But again, it's manageable, and more so as I learn to use them. For example, when focusing close-in, I concentrate more with one of my eyes, I forget which. You know, like how Steve Austin would squinch his human eye and cock the eyebrow of the bionic one. Boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop.

In fact, I've even taken to making that sound. Boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop. People give me space now in elevators.

The Abe With the Laser Eyes is up at TheWheeledWonder.com.

It's the first of a few on the laser surgery and follow-up. If you're not interested, you may want to skip these. But I'm getting enough questions to want to set this down as a reference, at least.

The peepers are doing great, by the way.

Abe, good to hear from you - as always. For myself - I think my death is between God & me. I want to live until I die & I will trust my own definition of what constitutes living. After a month caring for my 99 yr. old Mother in law & her 100 year old love I have a renewed appreciation of the right to life for each individual. Mother & Paul are so in love, so connected to family, home, community & also to pain, disability & other indignities associated with advanced age. When asked how long they want to live they said, "As long as God gives us" & quickly added that they don't want to outlive the other.

Three years ago today I was in Anchorage, Alaska at the Native American Hospital where my son Tim had been taken following being struck by an SUV going 50 MPH. He was hit on June 15, I got there the 16th and on the 24th I had life support removed about noon. Tim died with me taking final breaths with him at 5PM. When I had the machines turned off I told Tim that there were worse things that could happen than dying & that he was not going to go through it alone - I would help him & so all afternoon we breathed together with my nose next to his until I took a breath & he didn't. In that last breath as life & death met I knew we were not alone, it was the most powerful experience of my life. I never wanted to see my son die but it was such an honor to be with him & to know that something divine had taken place.

So I want to live as fully as I can but there is no fear of what comes after life.

Jeanne

"It was pretty long-winded," she said about this week's column, "and I think it's ironic how you give a pass to Daley, when his actions are so much worse than the people in your column [Bode Miller et al.]." She thinks that too many Chicagoans like me laugh off the corruption of Mayor Rich Daley as "business as usual."

The column is too long, almost twice the length it should be. A typical column is 800 words.

About that other thing, I was trying to point out that those misbehaving Olympians were taking physical talents and blessings for granted. Corruption is bad, no doubt, but I was talking about taking good health for granted. It is primarily a disabilities column, after all.

But that's not what the Harvard author did. Though she did take her blessings for granted.

As you can tell, I wasn't completely clear on the thought, so I said nothing in my defense. Often it's better simply to listen.

However, nice response to the column! Thank you all.

One reader told me of her friend who endured four major back surgeries in only six months. She fought back through extensive therapy, and has now returned to volunteering and mentoring homeless clients to become independent again. Wow! Talk about an enduring vision.

Another spoke of her late mother, who fought and fought like my grandmother, but her Lord called her home. She had a huge heart to the end, but her body grew tired and needed to rest. Rest in peace.

Finally, my cousin said I hit a home run. I don't know if I did, but it felt nice hearing it, plus she can probably take me. Thanks, Cuz.

I'm grateful to you all for sharing your stories with me.

... After two months of protein and outpatient therapy, the doctors opened her up again. This week, they removed what was only a temporary hip, implanted for the period while the infection cleared. In an eight-hour surgery--troublesome because of her lingering weakness and age--they implanted a permanent hip replacement joint.

Only, the surgery took five hours, and better doctors. Grandma came through with flying colors.

She bucked all the odds, the germs and the agony. Her reward is not a gold medal, but a titanium hip, and most importantly, more precious life.

That's my hero for you. Long may she walk.

Read Are You a Grandmaist? at TheWheeledWonder.com