dreamfield

By Mark E Smith

There’s a counter-intuitive nature to adversity that you can’t understand or appreciate unless you’ve experienced or witnessed it. It’s a realm where, as a complete contradiction, weakness becomes strength, heartbreak becomes joy, tragedy becomes fortune. It’s where life sends you a devastating blow, only to usher in unexpected triumphs of the soul.

Two weeks ago, at this writing, I was involved in the still-unfolding story of a 10-year-old boy. On March 9, 2015, his family was involved in a devastating car accident, the jaws of life employed to remove the 10-year-old. While the parents, fortunately, quickly healed, the 10-year-old was left a C-4 quadriplegic.

Many people casually describe such a spinal cord injury as chest, down paralysis, it’s not. It’s truly chin, down paralysis. See, The fourth cervical vertebra is the level where nerves run to the diaphragm, the main muscle that allows us to breathe. It separates the chest from the abdomen, and when it contracts, air is sucked into the lungs like a bellows. No contraction, no sucking, no breathing. People who survive spinal cord injuries at or above this level need ventilators or machines to breathe.

And, so in a scene unfathomable to most, this 10-year-old boy lay in a hospital bed on a ventilator, his body motionless since March. As the boys of summer ramped up for little league, he wasn’t among them. Then, in the most tangible moment to date of how permanent his disability is, two weeks ago, his new power wheelchair was delivered to his bedside.

No, this wasn’t a typical power wheelchair. It was small, built for his childhood stature. It had a ventilator on the back. And, rather than a hand control, a small joystick was mounted aligned to match his chin and mouth.

It took a lot to get him in the power wheelchair – everything takes a lot at that injury level. Tubes had to be routed, his body positioned and strapped in. And, all the while his parents watched with fear and sorrow in their eyes, not knowing what the outcome would be – what it will ever be. It was a scene no parent can even process.

But, then, amidst all of the logistical and emotional chaos, all became still, quiet. And, with a touch of his lower lip on the joystick, the power chair moved – he moved for the first time in months. A world of tragedy and confinement was transforming before everyone’s eyes into hope and liberation. Soon, he was independently driving up and down the hospital halls, a special version of seeing your son rounding third base.

And, as the clinicians and his parents transferred him back into bed, it finally happened. For the first time since his accident, he screamed and cried. No, not because of the extent of his injury or the realization of all that has been seemingly lost. No, he cried because he wanted his power wheelchair back – it was his freedom – and he wanted to be racing up and down the halls, not back in bed.

Indeed, there is a counter-intuitive nature to adversity, where that 10-year-old boy teaches us that weakness can become strength, heartbreak can become joy, tragedy can become fortune. It’s where life sends you a devastating blow, and you ultimately can experience triumphs of the soul.

Comments
  1. mrscripple says:

    An example of how much our equipment really means to us, part of us, more then mobility its part of who we are and the true freedom it gives. That is why it hurts so much to see Medicaid/Medicare equip our people with CRAP equipment, I hope this child can get and keep what he needs to be a true part of this world, he deserve’s it!

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