Monthly Archives: October 2009
David Martorano – You’re An Ironman!
There are times in life when words just seem so insufficient. For David Martorano, this was one of the times.
At 8:00 p.m. on September 13, 2009 in Madison, Wisconsin David had nothing to say but he had everything to say. In that instant, it was his scream that spoke what words could not express. His arms that for the last 13 hours pulled and swung and balanced his lean body mass across
land and engulfed in water spontaneously rose above his head in triumph when he crossed the banner that said ‘FINISH’. Moments later he was in the arms of his wife.
This is what a man does after pushing himself beyond his capacity against the will of some 3000 other elite athletes – all comrades in a battle of a lifetime, giving all that he has to give and finally, FINALLY, realizing a personal goal that for the last 25 years of his life was just a dream.
“Pure elation,” David said to me. “To this day, I can still feel it.”
It was actually a twist of faith that made this conclusion even more special. You see, a year ago supporting him through all that goes into training for one of these things was his 40th birthday present from his wife (and his family including 4 children). They became team Martorano, changing their pantry to all ‘healthy’ foods, getting dad to bed by 8 p.m. even on weekends, and giving dad that boost when the 4 a.m. buzzer goes off and he didn’t feel like working out.
David looked to them for inspiration. They were his rock. On the really, really tough days,
there was one thought that always moved him to action. His normally energetic voice softened. “I would think of Nathan and Michael and how hard they have it,” he told me. “They don’t get to take a day off and so I couldn’t either.”
Nathan, 14, and Michael, 3, are David and Viki’s oldest and youngest sons. They both have autism.
The dream that almost wasn’t fulfilled.
It was a Saturday morning – one week before his 40th birthday – and David was ramping up his training. The big race was just six weeks away. He and a buddy had already finished their swim in the Houston Woods Lake. They were in hour two on their carbon-framed bicycles, manufactured to be light enough to hold with one hand yet strong enough to withstand the stress of human pressure on road disparities and imperfections.
But the bikes were not meant to withstand one thing. Without warning, a pick-up truck traveling 60 mph pummeled into them from behind and all that stood between the cyclists and the pavement was their helmets. David stares into blank space when he talks about it, wondering out loud why they were chosen to be spared when another mother in another moment lost her son.
The recovery was long, but not too long. After all this is David we’re talking about. Working at the YMCA, he had everything he needed to begin the journey all over again. In the meanwhile he happened to read about a program called Train4Autism that gives people tools to raise money for local work surrounding the disorder. David had a new inspiration.
Another thing you may not know about David is that as the district vice president for the YMCA of Greater Cincinnati overseeing the Clippard Family branch, he, his wife, and staff have started an effort to offer support for families like the Martoranos.
Once a month families of children who have autism are invited to David’s YMCA for free nights where siblings and parents can participate in recreational activities or simply visit with one another. On average more than 200 families attend. Under David’s leadership this year, the Clippard Family YMCA also was approved by the Ohio Department of Education as a private provider for the Autism Scholarship Program – making it one of the area’s few preschools providing students with all of the therapy and other services that are written into their Independent Education Plan (IEP). As part of its expanded all day inclusive preschool, his YMCA branch also operates an Applied Behavioral Analysis (ABA) Learning Center for kids who have autism.
“I know firsthand the challenges faced by families like ours. Most insurance companies don’t cover costs of early intervention and some children require intensive therapy that many families can’t afford,” David said. (pictured at right with his son, Michael)
You can probably guess for whom David set out to raise money. This was the beginning of the letter I received: Please join me in my journey to participate in the Ironman Triathlon on Sunday, September 13, 2009 – Swimming 2.4 miles – Biking 112 miles – Running 26.2 miles while raising awareness about autism and the autism inclusion programs at the YMCA of Greater Cincinnati.
And so, team Martorano was back in training. This time David was leaner and in the best shape of his life. He wasn’t about to waste this second opportunity, and I’m not just talking about the Ironman.
The time had finally come.
It was 6:00 a.m. when David and Viki left their house for Wisconsin, way too early to get the kids up. Their good-byes were said the night before. But as the car was pulling out, the front door opened. It was Nathan. He had some final words he needed to say. “Dad, you have to persevere,” Nathan told his father. It’s pretty hard to describe how words like those affect a man like Dave but I bet you can guess.
On September 13 at 7:00 a.m. David was ready. There he was amidst a sea of competitors. When the gun went off they swam like a huge school of sardines, powering through every stroke two loops around Lake Monona. Then, with only their bare feet, they ran up a three story ramp for a quick change before hopping onto their awaiting bike. David described those first 20 miles as a warm up to the next 40 miles of rugged hills and wind desperately trying to push them backwards. By mile 56 he was still very much in control.
Then the final 19 miles awaited, and ‘it was all into the wind’. “At this point you just want to get off it and get running – after all you’ve been on the bike for over 5 hours,” David said.
In any other race, David would have been ready to call it a day, but this was an Ironman. He still had an entire marathon to do. By mile nine, he said, ‘the doubt, the internal talking really picked up, the demons, can I do this?”
It was about mile 12 when his right calf and hamstring cramped, causing him to nearly tumble to the concrete street. Only the most prepared athlete, someone with team Martorano behind them, would have thought to carry a pair of compression socks for just this situation. A quick stop with help from a race volunteer and David was back on his way…still with half the distance left to go.
They say in Ironman that the marathon is 20 miles of hope and six miles of reality. That reality struck David right in the face. The finish now in his mind, David looked up and saw it. There, along the side of the course where supporters could post messages of inspiration, David read, ‘dad, you have to persevere.’
Nothing, and I mean nothing, was going to get in David’s way now. The crowds grew electric in that final mile. “David Martorano – you’re an Ironman,” were the sounds echoing around him. Then he did it, he crossed that finish line.
Yes David, you are an Ironman. And Nathan is extremely proud.
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A Beautiful Powerpoint With Messages Of Happiness
A Lesson In Friendship
I’m going to break the number one rule of blogging, that is to keep posts short. But, hey, this is my blog and sometimes it takes more than a few paragraphs to make a point. Below is a story I had written for my Hyde Park Living pet column a year ago (with permission). It has special meaning to me and I wanted to share it. (I’ve changed my friend’s name.) Maybe it will inspire you to make friends at a nursing home too.
It was close to dinner time last Sunday, and, as has been the pattern for many a Sundays over the past several years, I was sitting beside a man who I’ve grown to care about very much. We weren’t really talking about anything of great substance. Mostly actually, I was filling him in on my weekend, describing Barnaby’s newest phrase and reminding him of all the people who care about him. Love was surrounding him on that day and for the past several weeks. The birthday cards placarded on walls and shelves in every space, and a flower bouquet from his son and grandsons resting by his bed, each represented someone special in his life. Someone who, in his 77 years, has given him purpose.
When I arrived, Bill was sitting in a wheelchair in his room at the nursing home, his back was to the television and his head was propped on one hand, looking down toward the floor. His other hand lay still on his lap, motionless since a stroke many years ago took its mobility away. A smile came to Bill’s face when he saw me at his door, and in that moment, it was vividly clear why giving up an hour of my time was so important.
I was asked to write about animals and seniors this month, and it got me thinking to when Bill and I first met. How could I forget?
Years had past since I first walked down that hallway. Actually, Chester (my oldest bird) and I came together. We had come to visit with people who were living there. Room by room we went, asking residents about their lives. Seeing Chester prompted many memories of beloved pets, described to me in lovingly terms as one would only use to describe a best friend. There were a lot of smiles, I remember. And, there was this voice. It was loud enough to hear several rooms away. ‘The bird lady is here, the bird lady is here,” a woman yelled, not so much for the attention of others but more just her being excited about having a visitor.
To live in that area, you aren’t well enough to live without assistance. Most are in wheelchairs, many need help to do the most basic of skills. Few will ever experience eating in a restaurant or shopping for a sale again.
It’s hard to put into words how it makes you feel when you know, even for a few brief moments, you brightened someone’s day. I knew we’d return again. And we did, but the next time the woman with the voice was no longer there. She had been replaced with someone else. All of the rooms actually were home to new faces.
Our second visit was much different. This time around, staff had wheeled all of the residents – at least those who could leave their beds – into the main room where Chester and I could talk amongst them. I’m not sure how many seniors there were but I remember the area looking pretty full. If they’d been twenty years younger, they probably would have been catching up on the latest gossip or their grand children, but instead, they sat in silence, each in his or her own thought. If they weren’t asleep, their eyes were transfixed on something. There was no laughter, there were no smiles.
An activity staff person pulled the wheelchairs together in a sort of semi circle while I took Chester out of his carrier. And, as quick as they had fallen asleep, they were now alert. They wanted to talk, not just to me, but to Chester. They told me about their pets. They wanted Chester to know he was awfully pretty and sweet. He had a really long tail, one woman commented. I knelt on the floor with Chester in my hand leading the conversation, sometimes having him step up onto a walker, a wheelchair or a knee. It was a beautiful thing to watch their interaction with him. The fear they may have had toward a bird when they were younger was replaced with a gentle compassion. Chester sensed that. (I was extremely watchful and careful of his body language and anyone who may potentially scare him.)
Bill was behind me on that afternoon. His wheelchair had feet rests to hold legs that could no longer take him where he wanted to go, and a piece rising above the back to support his head. One arm was resting on his chair, the other lay across his legs, its hand curved slightly at the wrist. He was quiet but he was very focused, his eyes locked on a green bird perched just beyond reach, the sign of someone acutely interested. When I turned and spoke directly to him, I saw in his smile a genuine tenderness.
Chester too must have felt something because he stepped onto Bill’s hand without hesitation. I watched as this man of few words suddenly had a lot to say. I half held my breath as Bill raised his hand to his face, rubbing Chester’s soft body against his age worn skin. When Bill’s unsteadiness caused Chester to flutter to the ground, I picked Chester up, returning him to the human perch that was a place of comfort. “I’m sorry Chester, I didn’t mean to do that,” Bill told him.
As I asked Chester to go into his carrier, Bill turned his attention to me. “Thank you for giving me a friend,” he said. I smiled back and walked out the door, fighting off the tears until I got to my car. This time around, we were back in a week, and just about every week since (although I had to stop bringing Chester with me about a year ago).
It was wonderful to see Bill’s response. Research gives scientific record of the benefits of animals on seniors, but I didn’t need the studies to know how much good Chester’s visits were for Bill. Without even realizing it, he began using his hand more to hold out seeds. He was talking and interacting more. His expression when he saw Chester spoke volumes for what any words could say.
Just this month when I wanted to wheel Bill outside, I asked about his feet rests that were missing. Staff had removed them from his chair because he was using his feet. Now that was reason to smile.
Life gives us so many lessons from which we shape who we want to be. They teach us about what is most important and leave us a little bit wiser in the end. Bill isn’t the only person to have grown from our visits.
The past several years have taught me about the value in simple pleasures like the satisfaction of knowing you made the world a better place for one person. They’ve shown me the beauty in unconditional love, and gave me an even deeper appreciation for the companionship of pets. If you have a pet, then I’m sure you too have an understanding of what I’m talking about. Why not share that love? It very well may be the best gift you can give.
NOTE: Surrounded by children and grandchildren, Bill celebrated another birthday a couple months back. He is doing incredibly well these days. It’s great to see.
