Dear Lance Armstrong
The U.S. Postal Service, loyal sponsor of your cycling exploits, needs you. And this time, it's not about the bike.
Lance Armstrong
On a bicycle
In a small town in France
Or perhaps in Barcelona
Dear Lance,
I know that there are a lot of folks out there who want a piece of you. They want your face on a box, your churning quads on TV, they want your hearty endorsement on the hang tag for a pair of shorts.
And then you’ve got people who need you. Your wife and your kids, of course, but also the legion of cancer sufferers and survivors who hold and burnish with desire your story of beating testicular cancer, of slamming cells that spread to your lungs and your brain, and then trumping the killer with feats of proportional gravity — only better.
You are America’s favorite hope fiend. And you are, in a way, the highest-paid employee of the United States Postal Service, which spent an estimated $6 million this year to sponsor your professional cycling team.
Which brings me to the reason for this letter: The U.S. Postal Service needs you. And this time, it’s not about the bike. It’s about courage, faith, attitude and strength — all of which you happen to have loads of. And it’s about anthrax, which, fortunately, you do not have. (We hope.) Letter carriers, mail sorters — a total of 800,000 workers whose greatest public distinction may be the term “going postal” and the mindless mayhem that implies — are hurting. Two have died, no one knows how many have been exposed to anthrax spores and so far the most salient advice they’ve received from their employers has been the suggestion to wash their hands.
Clearly it is going to be a while before letter handlers see any of the ion beam sterilization devices that the Postal Service said it would buy to kill anthrax (or any other threatening organisms) that might dwell in sacks of mail. And so far, the lion’s share of protection, information and attention has been hard to divert from individuals at risk who occupy political office or have some proximity to Tom Brokaw. (This fact reveals the need for one more commodity: heartfelt apologies.)
Inevitably, a certain sense of desperation — some feel it as abandonment — has set in:
At the Brentwood sorting center in Washington, where anthrax killed two workers and probably infected at least two others, union chief Patricia Johnson, a 29-year veteran of the Postal Service, is trying. “I’m trying hard to believe we should be calm,” she told the New York Times. But clearly she needs backup. “So far I don’t see any baseball caps for postal workers like everyone’s wearing for the firemen and police lost in New York … No one’s starting a fund for the families of the two postal workers.”
Jennifer Foote Sweeney, CMT, formerly a Salon editor, is a massage therapist in northern California, practicing on staff at the Institutes for Health and Healing in San Francisco and Larkspur, and on the campuses of the Alta Bates Summit Medical Center in Berkeley. More Jennifer Foote Sweeney.





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