The Book of Jack: A Compilation of Peace, Mercy, Reality and Modern Living

© 2011 J. K. Gandesbery. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 2/23/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4520-9904-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-9903-3 (hbk)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-9906-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010918303

Printed in the United States of America

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

To The One That I Love

I have spent many years in darkness, pondering whom I should fight.

And I’m hoping to find me a new life, praying to walk in the light.

I’ve been searching to find contentment, and trying to feel at ease.

Sometimes standing and cursing in question, then falling to repent on my knees.

Often I’ve lived in resentment, never able to find me a break.

While struggling to fight off insanity, wondering how much I could take.

And then like a message from heaven, with value much higher than gold

You were there as swift as an angel, and drew me in out of the cold.

You warmed my heart like a fire, and helped me stand like a man.

Helping to patch the destruction and openly lending a hand.

And although I expected rejection, you showed me that someone might care.

Fighting you with walls of protection, you continued to prove you’d be there.

So, yes now I love you my dearest, with all of the love in my heart.

I shall always attempt to repay you, for the love that you shared from the start.

On Wings of Eagles

Isa 40:29 He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength.

Isa 40:30 Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall:

Isa 40:31 But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; they shall walk, and not faint.

I can recall very little of being younger than seven years of age but I can recall like how things smelled new to me. Do you remember that? Almost like new car smell, only I remember the poignant first scents of leather, plastic, paint, wood and even some foods. Can you recall how strong those smells were to you back then? Do you remember for instance, the smell of young love? I can remember it still today, unused, youthful and fresh like linen air dried near flowers. I remember too, the first big rushes we feel as mankind. Like the back window open and blowing on your face while your parents sped down the freeway. Of course, I can as well, recall how things in life seemed so much bigger than me back then.

I know that some people paint over these awkward memories like a cover to embarrassing stains on wood. However, my memories I nurture because they were nearly eradicated through my death. Yes, my own death. Not just once, but a number of times. Since then I have wondered who I once was. So much so, that I found myself seeking the sparse memories like panning dirty water for specks of gold. I have fortunately found a few memories of me fit to keep.

Some of the favorites I recall were of being at the reins of different go-carts my brothers would build in their quest for optimum land speed. Reins, you know, sort of like on a horse, only with one end tied to each opposing end of the front axle. My brothers made all sorts of them. I recall one attempt was a fair replica of a Model T. It truly captured the body style. Being constructed of wood meant that it weighed entirely too much to push for long. So like the original, it was in no way eligible for modern time trials and this one’s lack of speed eventually caused it to be destroyed for supplies for a faster design.

I remember some of the fastest as well. You see there was no engine for them to use in their designs and so taking turns pushing and driving was the norm for some time. That is until the time trials were moved to a road nearby. It tilted at a great angle and ran for a far distance, making it easier to ride faster than a pusher could run. This was such a huge advancement for us that, we barely even noticed when at great speed we would shoot off of the end of this road right out into a highway. I think I noticed this first. The speed I would reach going down the hill made me fear I would flip over in the flat carts they now designed, hurting myself deeply. I recall noticing the catch twenty-two when I reached the bottom, and looked left. Just seconds away, there it was; a fast approaching car. It seemed like seconds but it had to be longer. I had time to realize my impending ruin, to feel fear, to almost cry, and then… I quickly jumped up and ran back up the hill abandoning the cart altogether. The cart and I were missed by the approaching driver. His few seconds were better used than mine to avoid us.

I recall a few good moments of great excitement. We lived for the quest for speed, other hills and other apparatus, often designed with very little steering controls or brakes. I even recall height and distance competitions off of ramps. A favorite recollection repeated even amongst my brothers, was a time when they had constructed a ramp at the edge of a deep ravine. The goal was to reach the other side of the canyon. I’m sure it was somehow Evel Knievel inspired. The ramp would be adjusted higher and higher with each failed attempt. Like machinery, my brothers; one eight years older and one nine years older than I, would regain their wits from each disastrous crash and begin ramp modifications. Soon the heavy carts were abandoned for a lighter craft, a ten speed bicycle. I smile even now as I remember the important part, the final run. Oh sure, seeing them careen into the other side wall was fun, but the final run, the one that stopped them dead in their tracks, was a run attempted by my eldest brother Gerald.

His approach was swift. He accelerated on the ramp as it was their reasoning that it would be the added boost necessary to succeed. He pulled up sharply at the end as they had previously discussed, and flew higher and faster just like they thought they might. The chosen craft was light, no harsh head wind. He flew. It seemed to be working perfectly. That is until at the moment of truth, when the physics worked their math and the ride tallied its completion. His front wheel forks reached out like arms of their own, setting the front wheel safely on the other side, and then, as though we hadn’t carried the 1, our calculations were again failed. His back wheel connected with the other side wall just short of victory. His impact shook his butt off the seat and momentum carried him forward into the handlebars. With a hard slam his groin met the cross member, and with a few wobbles and swerves he fell over on the other side. He was there, but there was no celebration. I guess that he was there was the justification for seemingly calling the challenge complete, and walking away. But the unspoken reasoning came with the groans coming back from my brother’s heaped body. Goes to show how the male world is so different from the rest of the world because that somehow entertained us for years to come. Recalling the event each time with such laughter at the expense of my brother, I soon learned, was the way with boys. I loved both of my brothers so deeply. I always felt a little bad for laughing at his pain.

Another memory I have sought out with great intention was of a day like no other in the life of little boys. It was a cool evening in October. The day was coming to a close and all that remained was to rush home for dinner. My middle brother, Art Jay, and I sat in the back of the small sport pickup as my mother sped quickly along to catch up with my father who raced ahead of us. He was attempting to return to his auto repair shop. My dad and older brother rushed down the road in a tow truck built by my father’s own hands. He specialized in imports and sport models and the very truck we raced after him in was, as well, his design. It was the first mini truck of its kind, and it was equipped with much more horsepower than was necessary for such a small vehicle. That seemed to make it a lot of fun to drive, or so I was told, although I don’t remember for sure who might have made the fond comments about Peewee as we called it. I was only seven years old and as I said, things were patchy at best. But I remember the cool breeze of that night as it whistled past at great speed. Halloween was approaching and like most boys, I was caught in the paradox of being excited about the pending candy hunt and saddened by the cooling days and early evenings of coming in from playing way too soon for me. On this day it was cold as well and the speeding wind didn’t help. It seemed to cut right through my flesh to my bones. We were behind my dad probably about five miles as we had stayed to accomplish some paperwork at the site of our last stop. Someone was commissioning my father to tow their vehicle to his shop back at our house for some major repairs.

I can remember the big Texas sky beginning to change color as the sun began to slip slowly down the horizon behind big pink and purple clouds. It slowly blended into a soft orange sky with fringes of darkness and shadow. To an anxious young boy it was all hurrying promises of a coming Halloween. I can still remember the cold air beginning to warn of impending dusk as it ripped around us in the back of that small racer. I can remember the sight of my brother, then around sixteen years of age, as he was catapulted over my head, out of the speeding truck, and then darkness consumed my perceptions.

It seems as we entered a tight right turn, there was a large box lying in the road empty and flat. My mother sensing no danger continued in her trek after my father. Until, that is, the box was sucked up against the bottom of our passing truck. Then it slid back into the wheels where it quickly became entangled in the rear wheels and axle of our small speedster. Effectively it acted like an emergency break in the midst of our negotiation of the sharp turn. We were flung sideways around the turn in the twinkling of an eye and then the truck rolled over and over again down several yards of the continuing roadway before slamming down on me once more and grinding to a slow stop yards later, like some kind of ghoulish cheese grater. That part seems to me like it’s in slow motion. But the entire picture lasted only a second.

Within the first flip, the torque threw my brother over my head and out into a field where he was badly scratched sliding along the ground. He somehow came unbroken and alive to a halt near a fence. In the following flip, the momentum threw my mother from her safety in the cab, harshly against the door and out onto the road and into the grass nearby. Somehow she too received only minor injuries, mostly bruises and scratches and like my brother would later be released that same night from the hospital. I on the other hand, was caught up in that crashing metal centrifuge and endured all the remaining flips; each time being crushed beneath the weight of the truck with each smashing impact and then finally acting as a wedge between the side of the truck bed and the ground. I slid with my heavy burden on top of me down the additional flashing yards of grinding pavement. Somewhere there I lost my conscious recording of my damnation and it is all flashy from there.

The story recounts that a motorcyclist had shared our road that haunting night. He was first passed by my father and then just moments later, was passed by us. Now he approached the grisly site in time to see my mother pointing my brother back up the road towards an old farm house to call for help. Seeing the situation and becoming terribly unnerved, the man sped past them towards me. On sight of me, he assumed the worst and sped quickly on towards town to get help. Soon he overtook my father and sped past with tears and fear etched into his face, driving wildly on to town. My dad, sensing trouble slowed and stopped to await our arrival that never came and so, he turned the truck around and came looking. It was he that gathered my twisted frame into his arms and quickly raced us home. Now from here many supernatural occurrences would interact with my dire situation. For instance once home, he called a friend that owned a station wagon and soon she was on the way to us.

You see, strangely enough, she had followed the same daily schedule for many years. She recalled later on how she would ordinarily get home from work and immediately take off her girdle, pantyhose and shoes and recline on the couch for a time of rest in front of the TV. But on this day, she stayed dressed and alert by the phone. I did awaken in route to the hospital. I looked out the glass in the back of the large station wagon to see my father hurriedly pumping gas, throwing money to the attendant and then darkness again. I’m sure he had it all under control, having been a war time nurse on the front lines in the war.

To recall some of the delay is in itself a shock to me. Things were a bit strange and ghoulish for a while. What a surreal shock and unimaginable hellish event it must have been for those riding along and witnessing this strange life unfold. I lay in the back screaming Cut off my legs and throw them in the trash! Please. I begged, They are hurting me so bad. Please cut them off, please. Over and over I screamed this while choking on my tears and passing in and out of consciousness. I remember my father, God bless his soul, crouching over me in tears attempting to reassure me that soon all would be fine, as my mother crouched near and wept as well. The man will always be a hero to me.

He had found me on the road with one leg so badly broken and twisted that it lay across my chest barely attached and my other was broken and twisted down and off at an angle. Art Jay recalled later that I looked like a human swastika. Each limb was badly broken and hanging, my face, knees and one foot almost gone. My back bone protruded out of my lower back and a good percentage of my skin on my left hand and arm was gone as well. My life had just come to a grisly close. It was a long twenty seven miles or so from that gas station in Lampasas to Darnel Army Hospital in Fort Hood, Texas, where I was to spend a lot of my time, both living, and dying for the next few years. Can you believe that I heard that the ambulance was just leaving to come for me as we arrived? Good thing we didn’t wait.

I remember waking up again as the cold stainless steel scissors touched my flesh to cut away my clothes. Having no idea of the extent of my injuries, I protested to the doctors through gasps of mucus and tears Don’t cut my school pants. My mom will kill me. And then off into the darkness once more this time to sleep for several days it seemed. When next I awoke, I was cold and my head hurt but paramount in my mind was the thirst in my throat. As I rubbed my hurting head, I found a newly formed scab above my brow the size of a dime in width and the length of a quarter, being a young boy I began to tug at it, only to meet my first nurse.

A large woman, offensive in tone, approached quickly to stop me. I relented long enough to ask for a drink of water and as she hurried away to get it, I finished tugging it off my head. I don’t recall if I was still awake enough to receive the drink of water but I know I slept again for a very long time. Again it seemed like days had passed and then again I awoke for just a moment. This time I awoke to the sprinkling of water on my forehead. It seems the wound had healed but with my lacking consciousness, small frame and serious injuries, it was uncertain if I would make it out alive.

On one side was a preacher committing me unto the lord and on the other were my parents, all dressed up in their Sunday best. I awoke to the blessed call of my Lord and the rain of His blessing down on me. He was receiving me committed unto Him, and freely returning me to do other work. That was a little scary and so I didn’t want to sleep again, but it was inevitable and so soon enough, I passed into that all too familiar darkness again.

At times, I remember receiving many shots a day, even if they had to wake me up to do it. I recall being prepped and moved countless times from bed to gurney for different surgeries where I would be juggled again onto a different bed, gassed and told to count to one hundred. After some time, I just began to mumble in response to their order and welcomed the unfeeling sleep. Remember that cold that had ripped at me in the truck? It had found me here and remained with me throughout my waking hours. Each time my thin blanket was wrenched away or the cold stainless steel world touched me, I froze to the very quick of my aching and broken bones.

I remember not sleeping deep enough at times too. Once, I awoke during one of my many surgeries only to throw up on the nurse attending me. Another time, I waited until I was in the recovery room to wake abruptly and throw up on the same poor nurse.

As the days passed, I grew stronger and before too long I would be awake for hours at a time. I recall looking around to finally perceive my surroundings. I was in some Intensive Care Unit readily available to surgery areas and cut off from all other humanity. I felt as though I was simply omitted from life and had to wait to reapply for admittance. Even the nursing staff seemed to come from far off to see me and that felt strange and antisocial. Then one day, a nurse actually took time to speak with me, as though my application had been approved. She assured me that soon I would move to another area. In a week or so it came true as I awoke to an area that looked more like a living space and less like a vacant store room for dry goods.

A few more sleepy days, and then a visitor came. My first that I can remember; a young officer of the law whose name I don’t recall. That’s sad really as that man was to become a very close tie to humanity for me. He was an angel of comfort. He would bring me much hope and several comic books. He was seemingly a young man and small in stature. He sat at the side of my bed and rather startled me as I pushed myself from a deep, dark sleep of metallic taste and drug induced darkness. He spoke to me before I could fully shrug off the tight grasp of my coma like sleep and my mind and vision where not yet able to grasp what I was, much less where I was. He spoke as though through a long tube with a strange evil echo that pulled at my mind to listen to the sounds of life. Then half way through his words, I joined him in life and played off my fear of him to acknowledge him, to assure him that he had confused me with someone he knew.

Then he spoke again, apologizing for having startled me. Now I realized that the awakening felt like it took several minutes but must have been much quicker. What was he saying? He sounded like he had walnuts in his mouth. I had to concentrate and play back the words in my mind to understand. Not once but several times. And why couldn’t I speak? Not even a grunt or mumble came out, no sound at all. The weight on my chest was immense. My very jaw was too heavy to move and my head ached. I fought it all off in an elongated blur, in hopes of speaking to another soul. My mouth finally gave way and dropped open and through very dry lips and tongue, I crackled a noise that sounded as dry as I felt. Inaudible tones of pasty, sandy noise and tired again, I slept.

Soon there was another chance to attempt communication with the world. Within a few days there was my mom. She sat quietly next to me reading a book. I awoke faster this time, and my mind reached out to grab her as though I was afraid that if I didn’t signal to her that I was here, she might not see me and simply pass me by. Again from broken breath and dry mouth I pushed. This time a word formed and I crackled the word Mom. She leaned forward and said Hello. I felt safer now and opened my mouth to say more but nothing came out. She looked down and asked almost knowingly, Do you want a drink? To which I nodded yes, with a neck that felt like the unbending trunk of a tree. She poured from a plastic yellow pitcher into a similarly yellow cup the most beautifully clear and appealing water. It was the best I have ever seen. It was like fine silver from the gods and I wondered where she could get such refreshment. She peeled paper from a straw and soon placed it to my lips. It was the finest refreshment this body has ever known.

Yes, though it was metallic in taste, as was everything I tasted for some time, it was the coolest, most soothing mouthful I can ever recall. It served to wake me yet even more. After a cup full, I was able to speak for a short time with my mother and even stay awake off and on after she departed, for the remainder of the day.

From there I recall some very interesting visits. Once when visited by my mom and my dad, I recall them bringing a blow up bumble bee that had written on the side, Bee well soon. It was one of several gifts they brought from their C.B. radio club. I was stoned out of my gourd on some pretty heavy pain killers and with my one free hand waving, I yelled Buzz Buzz Buzz while flailing the blow up figure around in circles. It was then that I noticed that I was held in full traction and that I was being fully suspended, my bottom barely touching the bed. Tugging on one or another of the supporting cables, I could move my own body like a marionette puppet and became quite entertained by that, to my mother’s horror and my father’s amusement.

I recall other visits from my new officer friend, who would stop by in his off time to swap comic books between myself and a young man in the children’s wing several floors above me. When I learned that there was such a place elsewhere in the hospital, it gave me a goal. I wanted so badly to be deemed healed enough to be allowed to travel to the distant children’s wing to stay. The shots continued and the surgeries were as many and as often as minutes in the day or so it seemed to me back then. Then one day I was rewarded with the news that I was going upstairs to the other children and my comic book sharing comrade, who I learned was there as the result of a shooting accident between this boy and one of his friends. I was in great anticipation as I counted down the remaining week. I was to spend my time in solitude, separated by a curtain from a mythical roommate I was told was there but don’t recall ever meeting or hearing. Not one comment over my own screams of pain and anguish in the night was ever made.

That big day came and went and still I had not been moved. Saddened and even angry, I began to plead with anyone who would listen, nurses, my parents, even the officer and finally almost a month later, I was moved. As a prize to me, the flat white walls I watched for such a long time were traded for a large painting on the wall of common cartoon characters. I believe directly in front of me was Donald Duck himself, and colored rainbows. The sounds of other children were a blessing too, even though often times they were crying or screaming. It’s true. To me right then, it was the sounds of life and it brought my heart up for the first month. TV too, wow, man I was in heaven. Of course their cries of anguish eventually began to wear on me, but for now it was music to my ears.

Other visits ranged from a momentary sneak-in visit from my brothers and my sister, to Generals and other military officers who would come in requesting to stand around me long enough to have pictures taken with the record setting seven year old.

Once, I was even visited by a supposedly prepared lady who was to attempt to teach me there at the hospital so that my education wouldn’t suffer more than it had already. She entered and came around my bed and looked down to introduce herself to me. Upon seeing my then open and healing wounded body, and all too familiar to me, smelling that smell of dead skin and dried blood, the poor woman stammered and then threw up on me. She quickly exited my room calling back to me I’m sorry. I’m sorry. The replacement only came once, and there was no replacement after that.

Somewhere around that time I was started once more on solid foods and the intravenous tubes were removed. I remember because I was visited by the hospital cook and dietary secretary to quiz me as to what I think I might like to eat. As a result of my low body weight, I could have anything I wanted. I remember asking the other child in my room what he might like to eat as I had absolutely no appetite what so ever. A list was comprised and the food began to flow. I was served six meals a day and ate very little of the wonderful bounty set before me. I remember feeding the other children with my supply. Some would venture in by wheel chair, crutches, or limp. I also fed some staff as I recall. Well, there was my officer friend and a wonderful nurse. I remember she would make faces through the small window in the door to make me laugh and often this beautiful young lady would join me after lights out to sit up late and munch fruit and watch old episodes of Mission Impossible until I fell asleep. She was truly an angel.

I remember one of the worst pains in my life was as a young man not yet in control of his bed wetting. I would at times wet the bed and soak the linens and the open wounds on my legs. As you might imagine, this would cause a great deal of pain and I would awake screaming in agony. While one old nurse would tell me hatefully to suffer in the mess I had made, I recall my young angel cleaning me up. She would lay dry towels beneath me for comfort and lay towels fresh from the dryer and still warm upon my chilled and shivering legs, soothing me back to sleep. May God find her and give her many blessings as she is what a nurse should be like. I’m certain that angels took instruction on compassion directly from her.

I recall she taught me how to better endure the many shots I was forced to suffer each day. She would rub the alcohol swab on the spot and then blow it dry and then give the shot. She was right, it seemed to hurt less. She and the Red Cross agents brought crafts for entertainment. Visits from a few of the children, and the officer made it better somehow too. There in the cross roads of insanity and life, there were flowers. Lead by God via their heart they were there.

The officer eventually got me moved closer to the window so that I might use the plastic binoculars he brought me to watch the far off auto races and the medic chopper traffic. That man my friends, is what is commonly known as COOL. If you’re a man, be a man such as this. They were my only relief from the hell that was that life. I recall that the other nurse treated me badly, even roughly at times. She refused to admit that warm towels were available much less care to acquire any such comfort for me. In fact, she refused to let the alcohol dry before the prick of the shot, and often squeezed my aches when I complained which compounded my pains. More than once she told me to shut up. While I’m sure that she was satanic and quite evil, she wasn’t the worst.

You see, in the basement there were far worse tortures. That is where I began my physical therapy. There lay a different hell all together. It was supervised by a uniformed maiden of pain as well as a large black man who nicknamed me Screaming Jack. While in their care many times a week, I was soaked in a large stainless steel tub full of warm strange smelling water and then, right in front of that woman, in fact with her help, I was laid out on a cold steel table while they took tweezers and peeled from my body the seemingly miles of dead skin clinging to the edges of the wounds all over my body which was often still attached to very living, very feeling tissue. This to my horror would persist for as long as thirty minutes or so each visit. I would flail and scream for help or pain killers or death until I would pass out from the agony and sleep away the remaining visit. Each time, I would plead to be spared this torture; starting at the bed to gurney change upstairs in my room all the way to my moment of falling unconscious.

In fact my most embarrassing moment in life was in their care. In the last days there I was peeled less and pushed more after wearing a body cast for several months. I had to be forced to learn to walk again. A painful task I despised because to move my legs at all was to inject my thin body with pain that flooded my brain with white light and my mouth with a sick taste of death. The very effort was traumatic and yet necessary to be done. So it was on one such day that I was delivered up to my abuse like this and a shame worse than the taunting of my brother and his bike ride to shame. First I was soaked to the bone in the steel tub and then lightly peeled. Then my naked body was wrapped in a simple linen towel and I was taken to the parallel bars. One could have a hand hold to support one’s frame while passing up and down a small distance of about twenty feet of space to learn to walk again.

This treatment, I’m sure, was to involve the watchful eye of a staff member that should stand close by and not only encourage but also assist the weakened party. I’m certain this is how it’s done when done properly because common sense shares its logic with me in this truth, despite their willful negligence and disrespect. However I was in the company of a large black man with more interest in his social affairs than his duties and there was the all too familiar Mrs. Buss, an older white lady with red hair. She, I believe, was the senior staff member present and was invested not in the fragile task at hand but rather the goings on of her male counterpart. Although they stood there in the front lobby and waiting room with me and my unpleasant task on this particular day, they were both quite absent to me in my time of need.

You see, I had ventured out to the middle or slightly further as was my task in order to be excused for the day when what should happen, but that my small hips should feel the wavier and then release of my flimsy towel garment. I watched in horror as it slipped to the floor. I first felt and then looked to acknowledge the eyes of the waiting community present in that room. I was first in an unbearable flood of shameful embarrassment. Then in a quandary, due to the fact that I couldn’t actually walk, I just stood frozen in quiet shame. I was held off of my agonizing legs only by the strength of my arms and to release my tight grip from the pole meant to crash down on my knees, now full of steel pins and screws. Then my heart felt terrible anger as I wondered where my hired supportive assistant was.

Surely they had received ample payment this last check for their efforts in this manner. It was then that I realized their full inattention. I was in a quandary. Do I yell to these inattentive imbeciles for their assistance? Do I call further attention to my embarrassing condition to the few that still haven’t shared my shame because they were either involved in conversation or invested in a magazine article, in hopes of receiving some attention from the staff? Or do I stand solid and still and hope that less notice will be made, except maybe by those paid to help me? They might note my stopped movement and take time to complain of my lacking effort. Man, the anger welled inside me as I realized that my only way out was to drop on my injuries to the floor where my towel was.

In doing this, the pain overwhelmed my desire to slip away quietly unnoticed and soon I was yelling on top of my piled legs and mangled steel pins. In shock and amazement, I was lifted and dragged to my chair. I was scolded for letting go and possibly damaging the lengthy surgery done on my legs which were still not properly covered I might add. To this day, I say to you in the medical profession and those giving care to children; if you’re only in it for the job, then may God personally render you a good butt kicking! If you’re not in it to help people, well then, damn your efforts to succeed and may you be driven into some other field in order to support yourself.

That was the biggest shame of a seven year old boy’s life and is still the greatest shame I can remember, even now as an older man. To children in this situation I can only say, find and speak to those angels God has given us all in our lives. They are there but you have to look carefully. To children entering or currently receiving a medical procedure, I want you to know that those tragically heartless people that attended me are no longer so common, what with health standards raised a bit higher than they were there in an Army hospital in the seventies. So don’t worry, ok? The ensuing mental challenges for me were far greater than I can fully express to you.

At one point, a doctor’s statement to my parents was that I didn’t have a hope of ever walking again. Another challenge was bending my mind around the realization that I was being given pain in order to heal me. That can be so profound at such an early age. But I don’t want to go into mentioning more now.

From here for me, it was all about success. To be allowed to go to the children’s lobby during the day on my own I had to be proficient with the chair. This was to be my mode of transportation for many months even after my release from in-house care. So I got proficient fast! I had wheelies down to an art and this was more than a decade before the art of extreme bike and board sports. It seems like a millennium to me now. I had this great accidental slip routine that scared the heck out of every one. I could catch myself with my upper body so well that I and my chair would stop mere inches from crashing to the ground and if necessary, I could afford a comedic retreat of bouncing away from attackers now embarrassed for the trick I shared.

I was happy when after so long I was allowed to go home. I believe it was partially because my father was so respected in army medical circles, making decisions for me, and partially because of my parents’ willingness