My writing pal Robbo is giving me writing assignments in the hopes of generating some poetry.  To get the ball rolling, he asked me to come up with an idea of who or what inspires me.  I'm embarrassed to say it took awhile to come up with an answer.

My mother inspired me when she was fighting a losing battle against cancer; my father inspired me when he struggled back from a stroke to walk again.  Carol, my best friend from high school and college, inspires me because she goes on living day after day even though she’s practically immobilized by multiple sclerosis, raddled by pain and seizures. Other than that, I don’t have very many examples of inspiration to keep me going -- at least not big ones.

Maybe it’s just because I’m damn lucky.  Yes, I’ve lost my parents, but that is the natural order of things.  But I just don’t know a lot of people who have had it tough enough so that their lives were inspirational.  The problems we struggle with are all part and parcel of living in the world today – unhappy marriages, monetary problems, kids run amok, looming old age.  We’re all pretty healthy and solvent here in our little world; we don’t face poverty, disease or misery on a grand scale, the type of problems that create a Mother Theresa or a Gandhi.

So maybe it’s the little, everyday battles that make my heroes proportionate to scale – little heroes, if you will.  Like Georgia, my friend from high school, who has taught kindergarten at a parochial inner-city school for the last 30 years now.  She’s seen generations of kids pass through the doors of her classroom, grow up, and now she’s teaching their kids.  For years we’ve tried to persuade her to hang it up, move to the burbs, even open her own daycare; God knows she’s got the experience.  And she bitches and moans, but still goes on teaching – all-day kindergarten to as many as 30 kids, many who don’t speak English, some who have learning disabilities.  She’ll do it until she drops.

Or Eileen, my oldest friend, who I met when we was in kindergarten.  In grammar and high school, she was always the loudmouth who never took crap from anyone.  She was married to a doctor for over 20 years, living in a nice house in Hinsdale, raising their two sons and pretty much swallowing whatever grief he gave her, all for the sake of peace in the family.  Over the years she got tired of the dismissive way he treated her and filed for divorce.  Now she’s living in an apartment in Darien and life for her is uncertain.  But she’s rediscovered the loudmouth who never takes crap from anyone, and she truly enjoys life, probably now more than ever.

Then there’s Kristi, a Canadian writer of fine horror stories with a comedic edge.  KAC as I call her is formally educated in comparative religious studies who does her research on the French revolutionary period in the original language.  She’s conversant in everything from Québécois punk rock to the worship of Kali, the goddess of destruction.  She’s got a wacky sense of humor that encompasses everything from life to death because she knows it’s all one, anyway.  She also has Crohn’s disease and has had part of her intestines removed, with an ostomy device attached to her belly.  It doesn’t stop her from being the sexy blonde punkette she is.

Oh, and I can’t forget my cousin Rosalie.  She’s the daughter of my Uncle Albert, my dad’s brother, one of the funniest guys I knew, who was lucky enough to drop dead in his 80s at an Italian festival, surrounded by his family.  Rosalie and her husband Carl have been married since 1964 – I was the “junior bridesmaidâ€� at their wedding.  Rosalie and Carl were like our very own Jack and Jackie – beautiful people who had two beautiful children and lived a charmed life in Barrington, although none of their blessings kept them far from their Old Neighborhood roots.  Several years ago Carl had a stroke, followed by a series of smaller strokes that left him crippled, confused and barely able to talk.  Rosalie and her grown son and daughter take turns caring for Carl along with Rosalie’s mother Mary, who is pushing 90 and has Alzheimer’s.  They quite simply take care of their own.

And then there’s Carol, who was my closest friend for many years.  She was diagnosed with MS when she was just 21.  The disease remained dormant for many years, except for the occasional flare-up; but as she grew older, Carol developed more problems, mostly affecting her ability to walk.  There were times when she was able to get around fine, and other times when she walked stiffly and with difficulty, like an old woman.  It was understood that MS is a mysterious disease that is unpredictable in its progression.

But then several years ago Carol had a seizure, characterized by a blackout that wiped away many of her motor skills and a lot of short-term memory.  Although she was on medication to control it, the seizures kept coming.  Now she lives during the week with her elderly parents because her husband has to work.  She comes home on weekends when he or one of her three sons can keep an eye on her.  She can’t read a book because she can’t put it down and remember what she read when she picks it up again.  She can hardly walk up or down even a few stairs.  She uses a walker on level surfaces and needs to be supported with one of us on each side of her.  There are times she is despondent and wishes it would all just end – and this is a religious woman who used to attend Mass every morning.

But there are also times when we laugh like the idiot high school girls we once were, remembering silliness that happened years ago.  The disease has given her a blunt honesty that she didn’t have when she was more physically blessed; she has the wisdom that comes when the hours and days we’re allotted has suddenly become finite.  She is the most accepting, non-judgmental person I know.

Finally, there is my son Doug, who has a mild form of autism known as Asperger’s Syndrome.  He’s 10 now, a tall, rangy blond with blue eyes and glasses. He’s in the fourth grade and works well in a regular classroom with an aide.  I have no idea what will happen to Doug when he gets older.  I hope he will be able to live independently.  Ordinary things are sometimes a struggle for him; he has problems with both receptive and expressive communication.  It’s hard to get through to him, to have a real conversation.  But it’s been happening more often lately, and that indeed inspires me.  Helping him with his piano lesson and seeing how he is gradually taking to music inspires me, too.  The most important thing is I feel we are finally getting through to him, and he’s getting through to us. 

Getting to know Doug is like opening a door to a dark room and thinking it’s empty, but as your eyes become accustomed to the darkness, realizing it’s full of wonderful things – full of potential.  If anyone inspires me, it’s probably him.

I suppose I could have racked my brain and come up with some more grandiose examples of inspiration – something you’d read about in Reader’s Digest or hear about from the pulpit in church.  But these little heroes are my inspiration – and when I think about it, I realize they’re all just as valiant and inspiring as the ones who get holidays named after them.  In fact, instead of one big quasar, I have a constellation of inspirations surrounding me with their pulsing, sporadic brilliance.  I hope I never have to live without their light.