Real Superheroes

hero, heroine n.  A person known for brave or noble deeds.

Hero is a word bandied about all too commonly.  There are childhood heroes, perhaps a teacher; sports heroes, usually the person who scores or prevents the scoring of game-winning points; police; firefighters; war heroes, soldiers who risk their own lives to save those of others.

All of these heroes have had training that enabled their heroism.  All have undergone rigorous and repetitive exercise in preparation for a myriad of contingencies, so that when a situation arises that calls for heroic action, they are able to respond automatically and reflexively.

We are also fast becoming familiar with the term "superhero," thanks to Hollywood's incredible financial success with bringing Marvel and DC comic book characters to life on the big screen.  Here men and women with impressive martial arts training, inventive genius backed by limitless bank accounts, or genes altered by space, arachnoids, chemicals, gamma rays, etc. defeat the forces of evil, always in color and often in 3D.

These are, of course, fictional.  There are, however, real superheroes among us.  I know a few.  And after you've thought about it, you will realize that you do, too.

My definition of a superhero is a person who possesses all the qualities of a hero but lacks the training, skills and resources normally expected in their application.  Instead, my superhero confronts life and death situations with neither mental nor pysical preparation and responds heroically regardless.

Joe was my lunch buddy when we were stationed together in Taiwan.  Practically every day we would leave work around noon and walk over to the dining hall.  I know, I know--in the military, dining facilities are called "mess halls."  Nowhere else that I'm aware of would this name be more of a misnomer.  Year after year our dining hall either won the Hennessy Trophy awarded to the best in the Air Force or finished second.

Anyway, the dining hall had two lines, a regular one that served full meals (steak, chicken, ham, pork, potatoes, vegetables, whatever), and a short-order one (hamburgers, cheeseburgers, hotdogs, French fries, chili, onion rings, etc.).  Joe would first go through the regular line.  After finishing off his plate, he'd go through the short-order line.  Next came a trip to the dessert counter for cake or pie, and lastly to the ice cream box, where he'd rummage around for a vanilla or chocolate cup.  I often found myself looking under the table to see where he was putting all this food, but if he had anything like a hollow leg or a doggie bag I was unable to discover it.

I would bet my paycheck that when Joe left the dining hall he weighed less than when he went in.  I'd put on five pounds just walking by the place.

Earlier this year Joe was diagnosed with Stage 3 ALS, commonly referred to as Lou Gehrig's disease.  Stage 4 is a certainty; it's only a question of when.

I can only imagine the life-changing impact of that diagnosis.  Literally between one moment and the next he and his wife, JoAnn, went from a future of watching grandkids grow and ongoing enjoyment of retirement to one of pain, heartbreak and, finally, loss.

Suddenly confronted with the unspeakable, JoAnn has proven undaunted, undeterred and unwavering in her support of her husband.  When lesser mates would have succumbed to the pressure, the inevitability, and the temptation to throw up their hands in submission, she has taken over the management of their household, learned what she needed to know to guide him through a labyrinth of medical and administrative bureaucracy, and kept his spirits buoyed with her "we'll get through this together" attitutde, all the while keeping her own despair in check.

Yes, I know a few superheroes.  I know JoAnn and a couple of others just like her.  They are my role models, those whom I hope I can emulate but wish I never have occasion to.