As he helps people strengthen and tone their muscles, former bodybuilder Robert Goldstein is well aware of the cruel paradox at play, watching helplessly as his own once-chiseled physique wastes away.
Goldstein, 76, continues to show up for work as a personal fitness trainer–first using a cane, then a walker and most recently, a wheelchair. His once booming voice, now raspy and fading quickly, requires him to use a microphone as he leads exercise classes at the Glenview Park Center.
Only 14 months have passed since the strong, lean, physically active Goldstein, who once had cannonball-size biceps, went to the doctor with a limp, and left with a diagnosis of the incurable neuromuscular disorder commonly known as Lou Gehrig’s disease.
Friends call him a courageous role model, but Goldstein says he has his own reasons for having his caregiver help him out of bed, brush his teeth and get dressed so he can make it to the gym by 5:30 or 6 a.m.
“People come up to me and say, `You’re such an inspiration. You’re so brave,” said Goldstein, who is retired from the construction business.
“This is my therapy. This is my support group. It’s unbelievable.”
Dozens of co-workers and clients from the center are rallying around him, forming a team that will participate in a fundraising 5K run for research into ALS, or amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, the formal name of the disease.
The May 21 run follows on the heels of National ALS Advocacy Day, when advocates will gather in Washington for a candlelight vigil May 9, one day before meeting with legislators to seek their support.
For 54 years, Goldstein was a bodybuilder who took a fistful of vitamin pills a day.
In the center’s fitness room, a plaque on the wall honors him for outstanding service and dedication.
A photo collage beneath it includes a youthful picture of Goldstein flexing a bicep.
“17 3/4 inches. No steroids,” he said, bemoaning that his arms are like “spaghetti” today.
In Glenview, Goldstein leads senior fitness classes on Friday mornings, using the microphone.
Just weeks ago, that same voice sang out a litany of show tunes as he marched his class around the gym.
“He’s really touched many, many lives. He’s truly a role model in the fitness industry,” said Kathleen McInnis, fitness manager for the Glenview Park District.
Goldstein treats his illness as an enemy but keeps his sense of humor, complaining that he has a small potbelly for the first time in his life.
“We talk, my seniors and I, and I say, `What’s going to happen when I can’t talk?'” said Goldstein, who has never missed a day of work.
“They said, `We want you here.'”
He knows the voice soon will disappear entirely as the illness attacks his throat muscles.
It is a torturous disease, in which the mind stays sharp but degeneration of the nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord result in muscle weakness and atrophy.
About 5,600 people are diagnosed each year, with about 30,000 Americans affected at one time.
“There’s only one drug that has proved to have any effectiveness against ALS, and it’s just treating the symptoms,” said Maura Junius, with the ALS Association’s Greater Chicago Chapter.
In Goldstein’s case, friends have been especially shocked at how quickly the disease has attacked the man who used to sing them “Happy Birthday” over the center’s public address system.
Yet few have treated him any differently, saying that Goldstein–who cursed up a streak when he first revealed his diagnosis to co-workers–would never have it otherwise.
“He’s stubborn as a mule and that’s probably one of his greatest assets,” said another personal trainer Mark Sich, 27, who affectionately calls Goldstein “Dirt,” as in, “old as dirt.”
Goldstein had to stop driving a few weeks ago, after his leg muscles became too weak to operate the brakes.
Last Monday, a 24-hour caregiver moved into his Niles condominium, after Goldstein realized how quickly he was losing strength.
“I’m laying in bed this morning. I’m trapped. I can’t move. I envision jumping out of bed. I can’t,” said Goldstein, describing the daily frustration.
He is still trying to “wrap his head” around what’s happening to him, he said.
Despite bouts of anger, tears or depression, he remains a positive influence on the people around him.
On Fridays, two dozen seniors surround him on mats, hoisting hand weights and doing leg lifts as Goldstein encourages them from his wheelchair. With the microphone, he prompts his class with gestures, jokes and comments like, “Get ’em up, my dears.”
“From the bottom of my heart, I love them all,” he said aloud during one class.
“We love you too!” a woman answered from her position on a floor mat.
Goldstein’s son, Andy Goldstein, 45, a Chicago attorney, recalled his father planning his work schedule around visits to the gym.
After Andy’s mother died seven years ago, his father took a tailspin, he said.
“My constant advice to him was, get yourself involved in something,” his son said.
At that point, his father began working for the Park District, eventually receiving a trainer’s certificate so he could be a personal coach.
“He was a changed man,” his son said. “It filled a void.”
Robert Goldstein began dating Karin Zaslavsky, 64, while he was still healthy.
Four months into the relationship, the disease was diagnosed.
“I sat her down and said, `This is where it is. This is where it’s going. You better get out,'” he said.
Zaslavsky chose to stay. Now she takes over when Goldstein’s caregiver takes a day off. She likens the disease to a lightning bolt, a death sentence.
“Up to now, I didn’t want to believe it,” said Zaslavsky, a widow, who said the couple had hoped for a new beginning when they first met.
“I like to push it aside, but it’s getting too hard to do anymore,” she said. “What he used to do in a few minutes now takes an hour.”
Goldstein describes himself as a God-fearing man, and says he can’t help but focus on the negative some days. “Better to get hit by a bus,” he grumbled one morning.
His job has become his lifeline, he said. He takes great pride and personal interest in the people he has helped to shape up–bragging about clients such as Joe Slattery “the voice of Jewel Foods” on TV commercials.
Jack Egan said Goldstein helped him adapt his workouts after Egan’s illness was diagnosed as Parkinson’s disease three years ago. It has been painful to watch his friend suffer, he said.
“He’s given me the encouragement he needs right now,” Egan said.
“The only thing that hasn’t been affected is his heart. It keeps getting bigger.”
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lblack@tribune.com
