Love always wins.

With ALS diagnosis, Buckingham dad, CB school counselor is living the ultimate lesson: 'Love always wins'

Phil Gianficaro - The Intelligencer

Village Lane in Buckingham is a Rockwell painting come to life.

Well-kept homes overlook leafy trees framing the serpentine street. Neighbors leisurely walk their dogs along the roadside. Two folks chat at a curbside mailbox and smile and wave to a stranger driving by. A homeowner wearing work gloves and a baseball-type cap kneels while tending to her flower garden. Children nearby kick a soccer ball on a manicured lawn. Sunlight sidesteps the clouds and splashes upon the joyous faces of kids pedaling the summer away. In this idyllic setting, one almost expects to be treated to home-baked cookies and lemonade on every block. Life here seems perfect. Until one arrives at 5714 Village Lane.

Bryan and Lisa Rosica had it all planned out. They would continue enjoying mentoring and teaching children in the Bucks County public school system; he as a guidance counselor at Buckingham Elementary, and she as a teacher at Maureen M. Welch Elementary in Churchville. They would retire in their mid-to-late 50s, not to sunny climes, but to this very place they’ve called home for 17 years.

“We always knew we’d never leave here,” Lisa said.

They would marvel at the upstanding adults their son, Brandon, and daughters, Lauren and Olivia, will have become. They planned to host bountiful meals for family on Thanksgiving and Christmas. They had planned to bounce young grandchildren on aging knees. They would tend to the tomato garden in a backyard that appears to roll on forever. Bryan would continue a recent routine of sitting in a white rocking chair on the front porch to watch the sunset. Maybe take naps together on the hammock. Their planned-out future would be one of magnificent simplicity. Their plans were firmly in place.

What they didn’t plan on was ALS.

The college sweethearts who met at Bloomsburg University sit next to each other at a backyard table on the stone patio Bryan helped build. They hold hands but don’t hold back. Time, they’ve long accepted and discuss freely, is not on his side. Nine months ago, after multiple doctor visits and diagnostic and observational tests to learn the source of his slurred speech, their worst fears were confirmed: Bryan, at 49, was diagnosed with bulbar amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, a fatal condition that destroys the motor neurons in the corticobulbar area of the brain stem that controls muscles in the face, head and neck. Median survival time from onset to death: 20 to 48 months.

“When you get something like this, like ALS, you begin to see life through a different lens,” said Bryan, his condition making him sound as if he'd had a few too many glasses of wine at dinner. “It makes you look around and stop and smell the roses. You see what a wonderful family you have, people who love you, and friends who care about you. ALS is always on my mind, I’ll admit that. But my overwhelming feeling while dealing with this is love and thankfulness.”

Daisy, the Rosicas’ 7-year-old Labradoodle, sits on the lawn and stares up at Bryan as he recounts his story. Last August, he first noticed he was slightly slurring his speech, and that his tongue wasn’t working normally. “I had to start moving my finger around in my mouth if I ate peanut butter, to move it around,” he explained. Thus began a series of doctor visits to uncover the mystery. His primary physician, Dr. Robert J. Grabowski, who was a year ahead of Bryan at Council Rock High, examined him, but couldn’t find anything wrong due to his then-mild ALS symptoms. A neurologist believed he suffered from anxiety, but Bryan knew better. Another neurologist ruled out Parkinson’s disease and multiple sclerosis. An electromyography, or EMG, was performed to detect or rule out ALS in October.

“The results came back negative for ALS,” Bryan said. “I felt like I hit the lottery. I raised my arms and called Lisa and my cousin.”

But the source of his speech slurring had not yet been found. There were more tests and more neurologists and more crossed fingers. November brought muscle palpitations and jaw shaking. Dr. Grabowski suggested the Rosicas make an appointment with Dr. Lauren B. Elman, a nationally recognized authority in ALS diagnosis and director of the Comprehensive ALS Center at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. It was 10 days before Christmas. “I just figured she’d confirm it wasn’t ALS, like the other doctors,” Bryan said. “All she did was ask me to open and close my eyes and move my tongue around. Then she told me to get dressed and that she’d be back in a few minutes. When she came back, she said, ‘Let’s talk. I’m concerned. I’m pretty positive you have ALS. It’s ALS.’

"Lisa and I hugged, broke down, and we cried. The doctor said she could write me a note to stop working. I said, ‘Why, because of COVID?’ She said, ‘No, you’re going to want to spend whatever time you have left with your family.’” The hard part would get even harder. “We’re driving home and wondering, Do we wait to tell the kids until after Christmas?” Lisa said. “It would be tough because we wear our hearts on our sleeve. But then we got that big snowstorm and were all together in the house, so we told the kids. Brandon, who’s 21 and a senior at Penn State, and Lauren, who’s 18 and was a freshman at West Chester, kind of understood. But Olivia, who’s now at C.B. East, was the most upset. She knew what this news meant because her friend’s father had ALS. It was very hard.”

Bryan was a sophomore at Bloomsburg in 1992. He and his roommates were playing volleyball outside their apartment as coeds were moving in next door. He suddenly stopped playing and rushed inside his apartment to shave a month-old beard. He knew he needed to look his best. He'd just seen the girl of his dreams. They met, but each were dating others. A few months later, they started dating. Their first dance was to Van Morrison's "Brown-Eyed Girl." "He couldn't dance," Lisa recalled. But he had everything else she was looking for.

Care for an ALS patient is expensive, with estimates at $200,000 per year. Much of it is not covered by insurance. As Bryan's condition progresses, their home will need to be retrofitted. Friends and family have rallied to the Rosicas’ cause. “Chuck Lang, one of Bryan’s best friends who he coached soccer with, took the ball and ran with this,” Lisa said. “This is the kind of support we’ve received. We are so appreciative.”

When speaking to someone living with a death sentence, a questioner reminds himself to tread respectfully. How does one seeking answers ask what it’s like knowing all those golden-years plans of family gatherings, grandchildren, and hammock naps with the love of one’s life will never be realized? Surely they know what the near future holds: the loss of speech, ability to swallow; the progressive weakness of lung function. What is living with the knowledge of death like? Hard questions to ask. The Rosicas detect my hesitation.

“Ask us anything,” Bryan said. “We’re good.” His mental outlook isn’t good. It’s great. “What I hope to do, as a school teacher, guidance counselor, father, and husband, if I have one final lesson to teach, it’s to teach my kids that love always wins,” Bryan said. “This disease can take everything from you. But it cannot take away the overwhelming feeling of love I have from my wife and children. And the love other people feel for us.

“I’m not like, Why me? This is reality, so, now what? The ‘now what?’ is how to show our kids how to do this gracefully and continue to impact people. I would hope our kids will remember their dad never gave up and that love always wins.”

Now, that's a plan. Not as perfect as they would hope, but a plan.