Free Treasury of Joy & Inspiration by Editors Of Reader's Digest Page B

suddenly looked up and said, “Mommy, Daddy can’t move his arms anymore.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Dana said. “Daddy can’t move his arms.”
    â€œAnd Daddy can’t run around anymore,” Will continued.
    â€œThat’s right; he can’t.”
    Then he paused, screwed up his face in concentration and burst out happily, “But he can still smile.”
    On June 5 I had my operation. It was a success. My doctor predicted that with time I ought to be able to get off the respirator and breathe on my own.
    Three weeks later I moved to the Kessler Institute for Rehabilitation in West Orange, New Jersey. The worst days there were when Bill Carroll, the respiratory therapist, would test my vital capacity, a measure of how much air I could move on my own. I was failing miserably. To even consider weaning yourself off the ventilator, you need a vital capacity of about 750 c.c.’s, but I could hardly move the needle above zero.
    At about this time I had to decide if I would attend the annual fund-raising dinner of the Creative Coalition, an organization of people in the arts. The dinner was scheduled for October 16 at the Pierre Hotel in New York City. I felt obligated to go, especially because Robin Williams was to be honored for his charitable work.
    Still, I worried about making the trip into Manhattan. It would be the first time I would be in public since my accident in May. Would my muscles go into a spasm as they often did? Would I have a pop-off?
    Dana and I talked it over and decided that the psychological advantages of going outweighed the physical risks. We dusted off my tuxedo, and on the afternoon
of the 16th, I braced myself for the unknown.
    For nearly five months I’d been cruising in a wheelchair at three miles an hour. Now I was strapped in the back of a van driving into the city at 55 miles an hour. As we hit bumps and potholes, my neck froze with tension, and my body was racked with spasms. Once at the hotel, I was quickly transferred to a suite with a hospital bed to rest. The whole experience was more intense than I had anticipated.
    At last it was time for me to present Robin with his award. For a split second I wished a genie could make me disappear. As I was pushed onto the stage, though, I looked out to see 700 people on their feet, cheering. The ovation went on for more than five minutes.
    From that moment on, the evening was transformed into a celebration of friendship. Later, as we bounced through the Lincoln Tunnel back to New Jersey, I was so excited I hardly noticed the rough ride. Back at Kessler, Dana produced a bottle of chardonnay, and we toasted a milestone in my new life. I’d made it!
    I made up my mind—I wanted to breathe on my own again.
    On November 2 Bill Carroll, two doctors and a physical therapist brought in the breathing equipment, took me off the ventilator and asked me to take ten breaths.
    Lying on my back, I was gasping, my eyes rolling up in my head. With each attempt I was only able to draw in an average of 50 c.c.’s. But at least I had moved the dial.
    The next day I told myself over and over that I was going home soon, and imagined my chest as a huge bellows that I could open and close at will. I took the ten breaths, and my average was 450 c.c.’s. Now we’re getting somewhere, I thought.
    The following day my average was 560 c.c.’s. A cheer broke out. “I’ve never seen progress like that,” Carroll said. “You’re going to get off this thing.”
    After that I practiced every day. I went from seven minutes off the ventilator to 12 minutes to 15. Just before I left Kessler, I gave it everything I had and breathed for 30 minutes on my own.
    I’m happy that I decided to keep living, and so are those who are close to me. On Thanksgiving, 1995, I went home to spend the day with my family for the first time since the accident. When I saw our home again, I wept as Dana held me.