From the Corvallis (Ore.) Gazette-Times

It was like any other wake, really, when 75 of Allen Throop's nearest and dearest gathered recently at picturesque Beazell Memorial Forest to celebrate a remarkable journey.

They laughed.
They cried.

They waxed poetic about the life of a man who learned long ago how to live.

And then, when it was time to leave one of his favorite places on a planet full of wonder and adventure, they had the most priceless memory of all.

They could peer into Throop's sharp, twinkling eyes and see the imprint of their words.

It isn't every day that a man walks, albeit slowly and carefully, to his own services, but then again it isn't every day in our culture that we face death with such grace, either.

Throop was touched, of course.

He was flattered, for sure.

Naturally, he also responded with the dry wit that epitomizes his approach to a fight he is destined to lose, certainly sooner than he hoped and probably earlier than he imagined in February when he learned of his amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, commonly and ominously known as Lou Gehrig's Disease.

"At my real wake," he quipped to his guest speakers, "you can say what you really think about me."

Throop chuckled Wednesday as he retold the story while wrestling with a spinach calzone at New Morning Bakery in Corvallis, using his hands to hoist lunch to his lips because he can no longer manage a fork and knife.

If it's true that laughter, not to mention self-deprecating humor and a strikingly optimistic outlook, are the best medicine, then Throop is as close to a cure for an incurable disease as remotely possible.

Never mind that he must walk ever so gingerly, mindful that if he fell on a sidewalk today he couldn't stand on his own, the way he did after falling face-first downtown just a few weeks ago.

Never mind that he needs help to lock the red Bike-E tricycle he must use to get around town because he can no longer pedal his cherished touring bicycle and lately even struggles as a stoker on the back of a tandem he rides slowly with a close friend.

Never mind that he must pen his captivating stories for the newspaper's Venture section using voice-recognition software because his fingers refuse to cooperate.

And never mind even that this degenerative disease of the nervous system will get progressively worse, first stealing his ability to exercise and walk, then hindering his swallowing and breathing, and finally robbing him of his life.

"It's not a good end game," he concedes matter-of-factly, "so I'm trying to enjoy the moment."

As he talks, he smiles through his salt-and-pepper beard and his eyes gleam through glasses with a sparkle that belies his body's ravages.

He is unfailingly upbeat in the face of perhaps the unkindest disease known to humankind, an ailment that renders the muscles useless while leaving the mind and soul unscathed and painfully aware.

One could forgive Throop, especially, if he were to wallow in self-pity.

This is a man whose adventurous spirit has taken him around the world to scale high mountains, hike lengthy trails and pedal highways and byways on each coast.

He has worked as a mining geologist and played as an outdoors enthusiast in Tasmania, Canada and much of the American West.

He has looked under virtually every rock in Oregon with the anticipation of a child at Christmas.

On that benchmark camping trip last fall, when his hand went dead on an especially frigid night, he had thought himself near his finest physical shape ever.

At first he ignored the symptoms, even as he grew noticeably weaker. Only when his daughter, Heather, noticed that he was nursing his coffee mug with two hands, was he forced to acknowledge that something might be terribly wrong.

A local neurologist made the ALS diagnosis in January and, in an ironic twist, did so conclusively because Throop was so fit; most people in their 50s and 60s have myriad other ailments to confuse and confound.

A doctor in Portland confirmed the diagnosis in February.

By then, Throop was already bracing for the worst.

Every time he had ventured online to match symptoms with ailments, the cursor kept pointing at the same outcome.

"It kept coming up that ALS was a possibility," he said, "so when they told me I've got it I wasn't surprised."

He took a deep breath.

OK.

Baseball legend Gehrig lived with the disease for two years. Others live five to 10 years. The average is two to five.

Throop was otherwise healthy, so he geared up for a grace period of many months, perhaps even years.

He rode his bike. He continued to take long hikes. He bicycled across Yellowstone National Park.

"I thought it'd be a minor inconvenience for awhile," he said. "I guess I was wrong. It's gone very quickly."

First to go were the hands. Then the legs grew weaker. The upper body has followed.

Through it all, Throop refused to stop moving.

He constantly adjusts and, taking a cue from longtime friend Dale Willey, who maintained a similarly upbeat attitude to his final breath while fighting cancer, vowed not only to stay alive as long as possible, but to live in the process.

"He just maintained an interest in life," Throop explained. "He didn't dwell on it."

Throop climbed the Flatirons above Boulder, Colo., this summer.

Last week, he did a four-mile hike.

Next week, he is planning a trip to Steens Mountain.

"The trick is trying to figure out a week before I can't do it when to give something up," he said. "I couldn't do the Flatirons now. I couldn't do Yellowstone."

He has traversed much of the Steens country, but not this time.

He'll instead sit reflectively and absorb the splendor of Kiger Gorge and the Alvord Desert.

Back home, he'll continue range-of-motion exercises in a swimming pool, where for fleeting moments, suspended in the water, he feels normal again.

He wishes he could climb, hike and pedal again, but he has accepted that he can't with few visible signs of remorse.

"Part of it is being out there, but part of it is being out there with people I love doing things I love," he said, smiling again. "That keeps me going."

Yes, there have been moments of despair.

Earlier this spring, while hiking in the Columbia Gorge, he felt sorry for himself. Then he looked around and, even through those maddening spring rains, saw incomparable beauty.

He hasn't wallowed since.

So if you see Throop pedaling about town on his red tricycle, don't cry for him.

Listen for his dry wit, which will still elicit a chuckle.

Look into his eyes, which still burn bright with life.

From the Washington Post (2/23/04)
For geologist Allen Throop, the aha! moment came on a trip across glaciers in Alaska. "I love land forms," says Throop, whose career had taken him and his family from Pennsylvania to Australia and then to Oregon, where he worked for the state government for nearly 20 years. "It was just awesome," he says. There was one particular place in this endless, untouched black-and-white landscape of snow and rock. "My favorite spot," he says. He'd brought his recorder to play some music on the trip. "I sat there for a while. I played the recorder."

That was the summer of 2001. Throop was 57. Like many people inching toward My Time, he had begun to get restless. "I was healthy. I wanted to do other things. Not that I disliked what I was doing. It was time for a change," he recalls. "So I quit. . . . I didn't have definite plans."

He happily entered a period of second adolescence, a time of letting go and trying new things. He taught some geology classes. He worked on environmental projects in his community. He went on a marine geology expedition. He visited friends. The invitation from a skiing buddy to make the 110-mile trek across the glaciers came out of the blue. At first he thought: "That's preposterous!" A man of his age to take on such a feat of endurance? His next thought: "Of course I want to go."

Throop, an athlete who jogged, swam, hiked and biked, trained for months. The trip took 15 days. The four men—Throop and his buddy and two thirty- somethings—carried 80-pound packs as they charted their course.

If he hadn't retired from his government job, he wouldn't have made the trip. In retrospect, he says, the decision to make the break "was brilliant."

Today Throop is in hospice care. A year and a half after the Alaska trip, he was diagnosed with ALS (amytrophic lateral sclerosis), or Lou Gehrig's disease, a vicious killer that slowly destroys the nerve cells that control muscle movement. Arms, legs and even the throat eventually stop working. There is no cure.

"Life is short for all of us. I've always felt sorry for people who hate what they are doing," says Throop. "Since I retired, I have thoroughly enjoyed all the stuff I've done. And now I'm really glad I did it. If you want to do something else, do it. . . . Don't assume you're going to be healthy forever."

This is the paradox of My Time. Statistically, men and women who are healthy and fit in their fifties can expect to live well for several more decades. But you may not. Diseases such as ALS or Parkinson's can strike no matter how many miles you have jogged, how many vegetables you have eaten.

Throop's story sends a wake-up call to his generation. A sense of urgency dominates this period of life—or it should. "That's what we have and adolescents lack," explains Lisa Berkman, head of the Department of Society, Human Development and Health at the Harvard School of Public Health. "Young people can't see their way to the future. We know what the future holds. Postponement is not a viable option."

Jolts large and small start to accumulate, each one sending a message that time is a finite commodity. They are easy to ignore. Throop missed the first symptom. He was backpacking and woke up one morning to find he couldn't move his hand. The numbness went away as the day grew warmer. A couple of months later, his daughter noticed he was holding his coffee mug with two hands. He recalls her words: "Dad, most people can drink coffee with one hand. You better get someone to look at it."

His disease is aggressive. He has lost the ability to walk. He can do water exercises; a mechanical lift raises him out of the water. With voice recognition software, he uses a computer to communicate. He can't play the recorder anymore because his fingers aren't able to cover the holes.

But his life has been extraordinary since the diagnosis. "This year has been a good year for me," he says.

It boils down to love. The My Time imperative is twofold: Whatever you want to do, do it now. And whomever you love, show that love—now. Throop is surrounded by his wife and family, by friends who make special visits, by neighbors who come by to fix the bird feeder in the yard, by former students and colleagues. "I've had two weeks of wakes," he says. "I've had the opportunity to hear people say a lot of nice things about me."

Without the urgency of dying, that "doesn't happen," he says. "We assume that we could say it tomorrow. We're reticent to use the word love. I've been kissed more this year, and it's okay. The same people would not do it a year before, when I was healthy."

That's why a sense of urgency is the agent of transformation. But why wait until death cannot be denied?

Throop knows his time is being cut short. Still, he has accomplished the tasks of this new life stage by redefining himself in the twin arenas of work and love. He found new purpose in his activities, culminating in the trip to Alaska. He found new meaning in relationships and in the giving and receiving of love.

His health has been stable since Christmas. He is glad that he lives in Oregon and has the option of physician-assisted suicide. "I have started that process," he says. "It is reassuring to know that I can call the doctor and he would help." But he probably won't use it. The hospice care he has been receiving is excellent, he says. Once it becomes too hard to swallow and he can't eat, he will be given morphine to make him comfortable until the end. "That sounds like a better option at this time," he says.

Meanwhile, he is enjoying a full life. "I have no regrets," he says. He's left his mark on the glaciers of Alaska and made a difference in people's lives. He is rejoicing in the intensified closeness with his wife and family.

Throop calls out to those who have not yet awakened in the bonus years: Whatever it is in love and work—"Don't put it off."

(Note: Allen Throop died April 12, 2004)