Copyright 2003 The Press Enterprise Co.
Press Enterprise (Riverside, CA)
May 26, 2003, Monday
SECTION: LOCAL; Pg. B01
LENGTH: 788 words
BYLINE: CHRISTY LOCHRIE; SPECIAL TO THE PRESS-ENTERPRISE

Two years ago, Ronald Blank dreamed of a post-Navy retirement that involved teaching, travel and some quality time with his wife of 30 years.

For four years, he lived that dream. He worked as associate professor for the Loma Linda University School of Dentistry, his alma mater, and had hoped to spend about 15 more years teaching there.

But these days, the 52-year-old Blank has a more immediate goal.

"My goal is to be walking when my daughter gets married," said Blank, seated in his San Bernardino home.

He has been weakened by amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, a disease that slowly takes away its victims' ability to move. His daughter, Cariann Blank, 23, plans to marry in December.

Blank was diagnosed two years ago with the condition, also known as Lou Gehrig's disease. The fatal disease attacks nerve cells and pathways, causing muscle control and movement to slowly diminish. People who have ALS are slowly paralyzed while their mind remains sharp.

More than 5,600 people are diagnosed with ALS annually and have an average life expectancy of two to five years, according to the ALS Association. About 30,000 Americans have the disease, the association estimates.

"That many people a year have their 9-11," Blank said. "It's a death sentence."

DIAGNOSIS

It was Christmastime 1999, more than a year after his 1998 retirement from the Navy, when Blank first thought something was amiss. Stringing Christmas lights on his home and using a hammer fatigued him. For a man who had logged about 20,000 miles in his three-mile-per-day jogging regimen, fatigue came as a surprise.

But it was in Spring 2001 that Blank truly became concerned. While giving a lecture, his words didn't come out quite right, he said.

"Of course, most of us went into denial," said Dr. Heidi Christensen, an associate professor at Loma Linda University.

There were other signs.

"I started to notice he was having difficulty opening doors," said Christensen, 45, of Highland.

Blank, a 1975 graduate of the Loma Linda School of Dentistry who then was department chairman, shared his suspicion with his staff, said Jackie Myers, a department secretary. He was hoping for a Parkinson's disease diagnosis, she said.

On April 11, 2001, Blank's worst fears were confirmed: He had ALS, a disease for which there is little treatment and no cure.

Dr. Daniel Tan, a professor at the school, also was Blank's classmate during his dental school days.

"It really doesn't hit home until someone you know comes down with it," Tan said. "I think we were all kind of stunned."

Blank continued to teach until February, when he retired.

ALS FORCE

Unsatisfied with conventional medicine, Blank took his treatment into his own hands.

"I do not accept that there is nothing you can do," Blank said.

Working with doctors and nutrition specialists, Blank researched his disease. He credits his current mobility -- he still can walk short distances -- to a treatment regimen that includes physical therapy and about 100 pills per day. It costs him about $ 500 per month, he said.

"If you have no hope and you have no part in doing something therapeutically for yourself, than you might as well go buy a casket," Blank said.

He is working to set up a foundation he calls ALS Force, which he hopes will offer financial support to others with ALS.

He hopes alternative treatments lead to a cure for the disease, he said.

His wife, Sandy, a registered nurse, hopes for a cure for her husband.

"If things don't change around, I'm looking at becoming a widow," she said.

OUTPOURING OF LOVE

Blank's chin quivers when he reflects on his life and relationships. He steadies a cup of water between both palms as he raises it to his lips.

"You lose the things that are simple -- pick up a glass, you know, without shaking," he said.

He has been amazed by the outpouring of love from family, friends and colleagues, he said, looking over a binder brimming with letters, cards and photos.

"I will always remember your words of encouragement," wrote Shawn Rusk, a former student who is now a dentist.

The binder was created after Blank's daughter Cariann invited her father's friends, colleagues and family to share with him the ways in which he had touched their lives.

"You have no idea what kind of impact you have on people until they start telling you," said Blank. "I think the lesson learned here is that if you appreciate somebody, tell them along the way."

Blank hopes people will learn from him.

"I would try to savor the moment," he said. "No matter how bad things seem, there's always hope in any aspect of your life."

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