In 1987 I was a young person, going to school to become a social worker and taking life lightly. In addition to my full class schedule, I worked full time in the field of mental retardation. Like most college students, I existed on little sleep and was always tired. Looking back on that time, it is easy for me to see the progression of the disease, but at the time I shrugged off the symptoms blaming them on my full schedule. All of that changed when difficulty breathing became respiratory arrest. From that day forward I began a life journey far different that the one I envisioned in those early years. The disease hit hard and fast. It quickly robbed me of any meaningful life. Long hospital stays wore heavy on my relationships with others and all but my closest friends disappeared from my life.  

In 1994 I had been dealing with what was diagnosed as Myasthenia Gravis, a rare neuromuscular disease for almost seven years. Treatment had not been affective, and the disease had hit again, this time robbing me of the will to live. A friend of mine had tried to find an agency to place a service dog with me, but agency after agency turned us away. It seemed that these agencies with their long waiting lists, had developed guidelines which often excluded those they deemed too disabled or not disabled enough. I spent much of my life at that time respirator dependent. The answers from the agencies were always the same, there were others who had more ability than I, others they felt their dogs would assist in reintegration into the community. One agency accepted my application and placed me on their waiting list. Eighteen months later they called to tell me they had a match, and they sent a woman out to see what tasks the dog would need to learn. Two weeks later I received a letter in the mail, “We are sorry” it said, “our agency guidelines prohibit the placement of service dogs with people who use ventilators.” Prior to the meeting I had allowed myself to feel a little hope. It was exciting to think of a dog that could at the very least, allow me some time alone, the dog being able to accomplish many of the tasks my personal care assistants did. When that letter came, I gave up all hope. I had often thought of ending my life. In fact, I had saved enough morphine to accomplish the task easily. When I looked at my life all I could see was death, a long slow death, with each day robbing me of some little pieces of ability I had held the day before.

When I look back at those times, I now refer to as the days of death; it saddens me that I lost such a large chunk of my life. I also see how lucky I was. I had a close friend who refused to watch me die. She drug me from place to place looking at puppies, trying desperately to get me to once more cling to life and to find again the courage to fight for that life. I had no desire to get a puppy. In my opinion, I couldn’t care for myself, how then could I train a puppy? I am not sure what happened that wonderful day that my service dog entered my life, but he looked at me from the back of his pen and the magic began. I took that 30 pound, black bundle of fur home and gave him the name ‘Ben, My Courage and Friend’. Today, he IS his name and so much more.