the courage of john chewning

For several months, John Chewning sensed in his heart that something was very wrong. A former college soccer player and a 4:30 high school miler, he was accustomed to rushing headlong through each day, getting by on caffeine and adrenaline, and shouldering the responsibility of several able-bodied people.

Now, as the summer of 1995 rolled into autumn, he was tiring easily.  By late afternoon, he was often out of gas.  Occasionally, he needed a nap to replenish his flagging energy. Middle age was catching up with him, he figured, but deep down, he knew better. Try as he might, he couldn’t wish away the malaise that was enveloping him, and besides, his legs just didn’t feel right.

Two years earlier, he had broken his left ankle playing pick-up soccer with some guys on the JV team he coached at Collegiate. He thought, perhaps, that there might be some residual effect that was causing a subtle change in his gait that had sent him sprawling a couple of times, so he returned to his orthopedic surgeon who took x-rays. The ankle was fine.  The mystery continued.

He visited his family doctor who referred him to a neurologist, but the initial check found nothing wrong. Then, one fateful Sunday morning in late October, he was standing in the narthex at First Presbyterian Church, waiting with five colleagues to collect the offering. As he moved toward his spot, he fell suddenly and without warning. The ushers rushed to his aid and helped him into a chair. As always, he smiled.  He thanked them for their kindness. Everything’s fine, he told them.  It’s no big deal, but he knew at that very moment that his life had changed forever.

Chewning was no longer simply worried.  Now, he was truly scared, scared of the unknown, fearful that the cancer which had attacked him in the form of melanoma a decade before had returned. The next day, he called his neurologist – Dr. Robert Cohen – who admitted him to St. Mary’s Hospital for tests. Over the next few days, he underwent eight hours of MRI’s. Then, he had a spinal tap, the final determiner.

The diagnosis was as Dr. Cohen had suspected: multiple sclerosis. Chewning received the news philosophically, but the full force of the revelation would not hit him until later.

“I was relieved it wasn’t cancer,” said the 1968 Collegiate alumnus who graduated from Lynchburg College, earned an master’s degree in math from Wingate University, and taught at Norfolk Academy and Charlotte Latin School before returning home in the fall of 1985 to join the Upper School math department and coach soccer.

“I didn’t know what MS was, what caused it, how to cure it.  They’re still trying to figure out the cause, and they don’t have a clue how to cure it. “I had no idea what my life would be like.” He quickly found out.

“I’d say that 90 percent of the people I’ve talked to who’ve just been diagnosed  – and I was one of those people – think that it’s something they can overcome without too drastic of a change,” he continued. “You learn to live with it.  You make your peace with it. You watch what you do so you don’t overdo.”

Chewning was assistant head of the Upper School and guru of scheduling at the time of his diagnosis.  Though his teaching load remained three classes, he relinquished some of his administrative duties to marshal his strength. Reluctantly, he gave up coaching. He could no longer work out regularly as he had just a few months earlier. 

“It’s interesting,” he said.  “They told me I could work out but I couldn’t sweat.  I’ve never figured that one out. “They say I can swim, but they don’t understand that people are sweating when they’re swimming.”  

Chewning has what is known as relapsing-remitting MS. “What that means,” he says with typical good humor, “is that if I go out and do too much, it can bite me real quickly. “This disease waxes and wanes very quickly.  I can be having a great day, but within an hour go downhill pretty quickly. I have to work to get home, but once I get there and rest a couple of hours, I’m much better.”

He controls his symptoms with Avonex, a drug which he self-injects once a week, usually on Friday night because for about 12 hours it creates flu-like symptoms. “My Friday evening cocktail,” he said with a chuckle. “I feel like rubbish for a while.  That’s why I don’t do it on a weeknight. “It does keep the disease at bay, though, and helps reduce the number of exacerbations I might have.  I haven’t had to go back in the hospital since June of 1996, so something is going right.”

In the decade since his diagnosis, Chewning has found plenty of ways to remain as active. He performs a series of stretching exercises every day. He reads prodigiously and includes in his summer reading all the books required of his 10th grade geometry students. Away from school, he savors the time he spends with his family – Blair, his wife of almost 32 years and a Collegiate Lower School teacher, their daughter Cameron, 26, and their son Craig, 29, and his wife Erica.

“I couldn’t be where I am right now if it wasn’t for my family,” he said.  “They all understand my situation very well, they’ve done beautifully with it, and they’ve helped me through some really rough spots.”

In the time he’s on campus, Chewning shares many a moment with colleagues and is always willing to talk to students, those needing help with math or those who just stop by to soak up his wit and wisdom. He attends as many Collegiate sporting events as he can, often wishing his health allowed him to coach but finding joy in watching our athletes compete and reflecting on the experiences with them afterwards. He also conducts a monthly support group at St. Mary’s for the Multiple Sclerosis Society with Arnie Snukals, whose son Dixon is a junior at Collegiate.

“About two or three weeks after I was diagnosed,” Chewning recalls, “I got a call from Arnie.  He said he ran a support group and I was welcome to come. “I did, we talked, and we became good friends. “Arnie has been an inspiration to me.  He was also asked to deal with this condition and has helped me understand that how you react to the challenge will define who you are.”

Most mornings, I meet John Chewning on my walk from the parking lot to my office. His briefcase hangs from his shoulder.  He has a cane in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other.   There is never a complaint, never a hint of self-pity. He invariably wears a smile, even at this early hour.

“Some days are better than others,” he said, “but with MS, you take each one as it comes. “Something has been decided that I have to help people understand what this disease is all about.  There’s no teacher like dealing with it, and dealing with it has just been another chapter in who I am.

“It challenges your faith. I don’t understand it, but there’re a lot of things I don’t understand. “I just know that He has a plan for me.”