Getting tired of working? Be careful what you wish for this Labor Day

September 3, 2007
By Jerry Davich Post-Tribune metro columnist

On Jan. 15, 2003, Bill Schmitt retired from his job as a manager for a rising telecommunications company after more than 25 years in the industry.
He was 51. He didn't want to retire. He was forced to retire.

Two weeks earlier, he was diagnosed with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, or ALS, Lou Gehrig's disease.

Specialists at Mayo Clinic gave him the straight dope: The prognosis was bad. Statistically, he'd be confined to a wheelchair in six months and bedridden in a year. Statistically, he'd be dead within three years, like 90 percent of all ALS patients.

Schmitt, who respects statistics, took the prognosis at face value. He quit his job almost immediately. It wasn't easy.

"I always worked," he told me last week at his Valparaiso home. "Since I was 16."

And worked he did, as a paperboy, a part-time truck mechanic, a small business owner (Bill's Home Crafts), a master cabinet maker (his e-mail is BillCabinetMaker), a telecommunications specialist, and the list goes on.

"It's what I did, I worked," he said. "It's who I was to a certain degree."

It's who we all are to a certain degree.

So today, as we celebrate the 152 million workers in our country's labor force, I wanted to introduce you to Schmitt, a stand-up guy who's having a harder time standing up these days.

He wears braces on both legs, and uses a cane for balance. He's weaker than he was last month, and he'll be even weaker next month.

ALS is called the "devil's disease" because of the evil way it strips people of their lifestyle one precious moment at a time. For most, like Schmitt, it also strips away their livelihood before it strips away their last breath.

Schmitt has had four years to accept this while outliving his statistical prognosis.

His day job may have been as a telecommunications specialist, but his God-given talent has always been to build things from scratch with wood, sweat and tears. His home is filled with his intricate handiwork through the decades: tables, cabinets, jewelry boxes, a grandfather clock, you name it.

One of his most beloved creations is the bedroom set he built for his 11-year-old son, Ryan. Schmitt built it after he was diagnosed with ALS and he's not ashamed to admit that tears rolled down his face while he worked on it.

"I'm losing the battle, and at an increasing pace," he wrote in a journal earlier this year. "I asked God to let me complete a few things."

And, so far, God obliged.

Schmitt spends every possible minute with his son, wife, and family. He's volunteered time raising funds for the Les Turner ALS Foundation. And he's forming a team again this year for the ALS Walk4Life event this coming Saturday. Think of it as yet another part-time job on his lengthy labor days resume.

But there's one final wish-list job that Schmitt still covets.

He's always wanted to volunteer for Habitat for Humanity. With his love of carpentry and mastery of woodwork -- and trust me, he's a master -- he always hoped to retire and use his passion to build, well, habitats for humanity.

Of course he did retire, albeit earlier than planned and for all the wrong reasons. Ever since, he has quietly resigned himself to the fact that his ALS will cost him this last part-time job, too.

"My goose is cooked," he told me without a hint of self-pity.

Statistically, it's an understandable prognosis: His body is failing him. His hands are weaker. His arms are weaker. Maybe his dreams are weaker, too. I don't know.

But I guarantee he still has much to offer, and I'll bet he can still swing a hammer, sand a wood plank or stain a cabinet.

So if anyone has any connections with Habitat for Humanity, please let me know.

Before I left Schmitt's home, I asked what he missed about working. He replied, "I miss having a project to do, a job to get done. And the sense of accomplishment that it brings."

Schmitt speaks for many of us job-holders, I say.

Sure we complain about having to work, our commute, our coworkers, our bosses, or being overworked and underpaid.

But on this Labor Day, maybe we should admit that our work provides us more than a daily headache, a weekly paycheck and a career of complaints.

It many ways, it defines us, defends us, and decorates us.

If you don't believe me, I know a former paperboy, cabinet maker and communications manager who can only dream of returning to work on Tuesday.


Contact Jerry Davich at 648-3107 or jdavich@post-trib.com
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