1. By Brian Estadt
Editor
Ever the flirt, Andy puts his left leg up on his coffee table, leans back
a bit in his chair and breaks into a grin as he talks into the phone to Alia.
"I told you to get rid of that husband of yours and get over here," he
says, speaking like she were an old friend from high school.
In many ways, it's vintage Andy Nodaros. The flirting. The casual
pose. The laugh behind his words.
But in so many other ways, the brief exchange perfectly illustrates
how much Andy's life has changed over the past year.
To put his left foot up on the table, Andy must reach down, pinch the
loose material of his warm-up pants and drag his leg up to the table's
edge like a mother dog dragging a headstrong pup.
Though he'll BS with anyone at any time, the woman on the other
end of line is calling from Boston for a reason. Although Alia Rieker
loves how a few words from Andy can brighten her day, their paths never
would have crossed if not for her role as an employee of the ALS Ther-
apy Development Foundation.
And the chair in which Andy sits? It's his motorized, joystick-controlled wheelchair. It's rela-
tively comfortable, state-of-the-art and shiny. And day by day, it increasingly feels like a prison on
wheels.
* * *
A year ago, Andy merely limped through his daily routine. Since his diagnosis with Amyotrophic
Lateral Sclerosis — also known as Lou Gehrig's Disease — last November, the limp has worsened to
such a degree that his accessories have advanced from cane to walker to wheelchair and scooter.
Visitors to his Brentwood home find wooden ramps covering the front steps so he can get in and
out easier. Step into his backyard and you'll see where the wheelchair lift will be installed next to the
porch, which itself will be transformed into a bedroom suite complete with accessible bathroom facili-
ties.
And over in the corner of his driveway sits his immaculate Blazer. A year after anguishing over
the sale of his Cadillac, Andy glances over to where his Blazer sits unused in the driveway.
The Blazer rarely sat outside when there was even a hint of a percentage of a chance of rain.
These days it's there round the clock. The garage now holds a gorgeous new van. A van that, for the
time being, is as immobile as Andy.
Customized to accommodate Andy's disability, the van sports a steering wheel with a screw-in
knob for easier turning and hand controls for the brake and gas pedals. Andy was supposed to be driv-
ing it by now. But he puts more mileage on the motorized lifts that shuttle him between the three levels
of his home.
Andy had looked forward to driving the new van for months. Eager to still work but finding it
increasingly difficult to drive the truck, he bought the van. And, since he still plans to keep his job find-
ing employment for mentally disabled adults — for now he's handling his duties over the phone — the
state-funded Occupational Vocational Rehabilitation program picked up the $17,000 cost of outfitting
the van to accommodate him.
ONE YEAR AND COUNTING
From limp to cane to walker to wheelchair, Andy’s first year with ALS
“One Year and Counting” — the
fifth installment of “Living Without
a Cure” — was published Dec. 25,
2002, in The South Hills Record.
Copyright 2002 Trib Total Media.

2. Last month, he and his wife, Carol, traveled to Johnstown so he could be certified to drive the
van. They came home disappointed.
It wasn't because of the disease, at least not directly. It was a shoulder injury that, for now,
makes it impossible for him to turn a steering wheel more than 90 degrees.
Rather than try to con his way through the exam — which is automatically failed if the driver
lifts the left hand from the brake/accelerator control to help the right hand steer— Andy called it off in
the middle of a practice drive. He simply couldn’t do it.
"That really hurt, not being able to drive,” Andy says. “As depressed as I was for a couple days, it's
just par for the course.
"It's a depressing disease."
* * *
It’s depressing in many ways. While the physical limitations are a blow to this former body-
builder’s ego, the worst — at least for now — is how new weaknesses manifest.
His shoulder problem is a byproduct of the disease. He was injured while trying to catch himself
when he lost his balance and fell.
That fall wasn’t the only one. He’s fallen several times throughout his house and he fell in a
parking lot, banging his head of the pavement and giving himself a concussion.
“That’s the biggest threat right now — falling and hurting yourself,” he says.
The fear of falling has changed his workout routine. He now avoids his basement gym and only
uses free weights in his bedroom and does stretching exercises.
"To be honest, I'm afraid I won't get up off the bench," he says about his downstairs gym. "If I
fall down there, I'm done. Done."
There are other problems.
Andy has trouble getting up from a chair. It’s a struggle to sit up in the morning. To change his
position in bed, he’s forced to manhandle his legs and use an anchored clothesline.
If that weren’t bad enough, there’s the trouble with bathrooms — everything from using a
shower to maneuvering around a toilet.
Andy thought he was prepared for awkward situations when, while traveling with two ALS pa-
tients who have little use of their hands, he had to help them zip up after a trip to an airport restroom.
He wasn’t.
Before the diagnosis, Andy’s mother used to visit once a week. Now she’s at his house every day
at 10 a.m. to help out. One morning she arrived to find him on the toilet.
After having sat down shortly after Carol left for work that morning, he realized he simply didn’t
have the strength to get up.
“I just sat there for two hours,” he says. “I was talking to the plant, making friends with the ants.”
His mother couldn’t help. Andy had to call his daughter-in-law to come help.
"Embarrassing?” he asks rhetorically. “How about this disease being humiliating?"
* * *
All is not bad news, though. Despite his increasing limitations, Andy relishes his ever-expanding
role as an advocate for ALS patients and the organizations that are fighting the disease.
While there’s nothing he can do to prevent the progression of the disease, Andy refuses to let it
turn him into a recluse.
“I'm not going to let this disease rule my life. I'm not going to let it dictate to me. I'm going to
dictate to the disease what I'm going to do, rather than it tell me to crawl in a shell and stay in the
house.
“I'm doing the opposite because it gives me a reason to live."

3. The key, he says, is keeping busy.
"As long as I have something to do, I'm fine," he says. "Helping somebody is the biggest thing in
the world for me."
If so, the world might not be big enough for all the help Andy's trying to dish out.
He’s already talking about taking part in a trip to Washington, D.C., next year to lobby officials
for more funding to research the disease.
And if he's not doing something for the Muscular Dystrophy Association — speaking at its an-
nual Ball and Chain gala, visiting an MDA camp for children, and appearances on the Labor Day
telethon and on the MDA float in last month’s “Celebrate the Season” parade — he's helping the ALS
Association of Western Pennsylvania, which has invited him to serve on its board.
Or he’s helping the ALS Therapy Development Foundation (TDF) in Boston. Or any other or-
ganization that researches the disease or provides care for people with ALS.
Though he’s more than eager to help any of the organizations, he’s most optimistic about the re-
search going on at TDF, which has a goal of developing treatments to slow the advancement of ALS in
today's patients.
Last month, he helped raise nearly $4,000 for TDF through a shopping promotion at South
Hills Village.
That’s what he was talking to Alia about. And as thrilled as she was on the other end of the
phone, Andy isn’t satisfied.
But part of him likes it that way — it just means there’s more work to do.
“I know (TDF is) going to come up with something,” he says. “But I’ve got to do more for them.
“It’s just not enough. I’ve got to something else for them.”