-Review by Martin Owens
mrj82387@aol.com
E-mail me with any questions or comments on any of my reviews.
This is a collection of stories from his own life, interweaved
with excerpts from speeches and interviews he has given . . . there are also moving pictures, taken by his son Matthew.
Reeve contends that we are all capable of overcoming
seemingly insurmountable hardships . . . also, he teaches us
that life is not to be taken for granted--but to be lived fully
with zeal, curiosity and gratitude.
Reading this had me laughing at times . . . yet it also
had me teary . . . I do recommend it . . . strongly.
There were many memorable passages; among them:
* Occasionally I hear from people with spinal
cord injuries who have been sitting in a wheel-
chair for as much as twenty-one years. Some
tell me that there is no point in searching for a
cure; others even say they are happy with life
the way it is and don't want to be cured. It's
difficult for me to understand their point of
view, but I completely respect those individuals
as long as they don't try to interfere with
progress. Less than a generation ago it would
have been almost irrelevant to ask a patient
with Parkinson's, Alzheimer's, diabetes, muscular
dystrophy, ALS, or a spinal cord injury not to
stand in the way of progress, simply because
there wasn't much. Today all that has changed.
Since the time of my injury, scientists all over
the world have been steadily moving forward,
although they are not progressing as rapidly
as many patients would like. At least they have
been saying publicly, and most of us believe
privately, that it is no longer appropriate or
necessary to use the word "impossible."
* I remember thoroughly embarrassing another
nurse her first day on the job. I had been treated
for a skin breakdown in the sacral area, which had
plagued me for months but finally healed. Lying on
my left side I asked her, "How's my butt?" She replied,
"It looks great to me." I said, "I know that. But what
about my skin?" She turned crimson. For a moment
I thought I'd lost her, but thankfully she came back
for her next shift, and after all these years she's still
here checking out my butt on a daily basis.
* We spent most of the time talking. I quickly realized
that we'd never really done that before. When Matthew
and Al flew over from England to be with Dana and
me for at least a part of every vacation, I usually picked
them up at the airport in Boston. Then it was a three
hour drive across Massachusetts to our home in the
Berkshires. I remember listening to the radio together
on one of those trips when they were about nine and
five. We tuned in to a variety of stations that played
classical music, rock 'n' roll, contemporary top forty
and oldies. I asked them to identify the meter: Was the
piece in 1 / 2, 3 / 4, 4 / 4, 6 / 8, or something else?
How would they describe the tempo of the classical
pieces: adagio, andante, allegro, or something else?
In the rock 'n' roll and contemporary pop selections
could they distinguish between the main melody and
the bridge, also known as the middle eight? Somewhere
along the mass Pike, Al piped up in her chirpy English
accent. "Do you know, Daddy," she said, "this is the first
time in such a long time that we've had a real conversation
about something?" I realized that she was right. Not that
we didn't talk, but usually it was while doing something
else. Now I gave them my full attention, and I soon learned
to listen more than talk. That began a process of discovering
that, in bringing up children and relating to others, some-
times being is more important the doing. I was also to
learn that even if you can't move, you can have a powerful
effect with what you say.
One special day in Will's life is a good example. When he
was six, he was still afraid to ride by himself without the
training wheels on his bike. Dana spent hours killing her
back as she bent over to hold his seat as he pedaled
around timidly in front of our garage. I decided to see if
I could help. I told him to start with his left foot on the
ground and to set the right pedal in the fully raised
position. I told him to grab the handlebars, push hard
on the right pedal, and then put his left foot on the other
pedal and keep going, being careful not to over-steer. I
said if he kept his hand steady the bike wouldn't wobble
so much. He listened carefully and got into the ready
position. Then he froze, afraid to make that first push.
I told him to take his time, but added that I was prepared
to sit in the driveway all afternoon until he did it. I
reminded him that I would never ask him to do anything
too scary of too difficult. He didn't complain; he just sat
there for quite a long time assessing the situation. Then
I announced that on the count of three he should start.
I made it a long count, but after three I said, "Go," and
he did it. He pushed down, the bike moved forward,
he got his other foot on the pedal, and off he went. On
his first run he made a complete circle around the
driveway. As he came past my chair the first time, his
face was a study in fierce concentration. The second
time he came by, he was smiling. For the next fifteen
minutes he kept riding around our circular drive, gradually
picking up speed. After that he wanted to go down the
steep hill toward our mailbox, but we saved that for
another day.