Nothing Is Impossible

Ann Godoff, at Random House, did me the great honor of approving this book without delay and editing it herself. Sunshine Lucas was an excellent liaison between us, answering questions tirelessly and—befitting her name—cheerfully throughout the process. Jennifer Walsh, my literary agent at William Morris, represented both the book and me personally with the utmost integrity and professionalism.

The original idea was to compile excerpts from speeches and interviews I’d given from 1995 through 2002. I want to thank Sarah Houghton, Diana De Rosa, Maggie Goldberg, and Shyrlee Greenberg for the countless hours they spent transcribing my spoken words and their gracious acceptance of the fact that I found 99 percent of them unusable. Now I know that improvised remarks don’t always translate well onto the written page.

I want to thank Rachel Strife, Karen Gerwin, Liza Cohen, and especially June Fox and my assistant, Laurie Hawkins, for all the time they spent sitting next to me at the computer, patiently waiting for the next sentence. I’m also grateful for their invaluable comments and suggestions as we proceeded.

I’ll be forever grateful to Therapeutic Alliances, Inc., for the ERGYS 2 bicycle; to Pulmonetic Systems, Inc., for the LTV Pressure Support Ventilator; to Nellcor for the Pulse Oximeter and computerized carbon dioxide meter; and to Bioflex, Inc., for the FES Stim Machine. That equipment has kept me (and I hope will keep others) in good health and out of the hospital.

My nurses and aides work incredibly long hours and have honored our whole family with their skill and commitment. I would especially like to mention Dolly Arro, Eileen Adams, Bill Bernhey, Sue Citarella, Maggie Choa, Henry Ryan, Marlou Sanchez, Shelley Griesinger, Patrick Connors, Chris Fantini, Rob Clarke, Jim Hartigan, Greg Coyle, Mark Pawelec, Frank Palmer, and Mike Ricci.

Dr. Harlan Weinberg and Dr. Steven Kirshblum have gone way beyond the call of duty to help and advise me since my return home. The X-ray and ultrasound technicians at Northern Westchester Hospital are terrific; however, I hope to see them less frequently in the future. The same goes for Doctors Howard Levin, Oren Kahn, Steven Bernstein, David Bank, Eric Johnson, and Eli Abemeyer, who have all helped to keep me in one piece. Dr. John McDonald and his associates at Washington University pushed me to the limit in conducting their study. Dr. Linda Schultz, his indefatigable assistant, deserves tremendous credit for making it happen.

I want to thank everyone at the Christopher Reeve Paralysis Foundation and the Christopher and Dana Reeve Paralysis Resource Center, all of whom continually renew their dedication and efforts to help people living with paralysis. My publicist, Wes Combs, has done an outstanding job of communicating our message to the public. Special thanks go to Michael Manganiello, director of government affairs at CRPF, for his extraordinary loyalty to me and his fierce dedication to the cause.

Finally, I want to thank my extended family—all the Reeves, Johnsons, Pitneys, and Morosinis. Above all, I want to say thank you to my wife, Dana, who is also my best friend and most helpful critic. There is not enough room on the page for me to list all the unique characteristics and accomplishments of Matthew, Alexandra, and Will. I hope this book will give you some idea of how much they mean to me.

W
hen I made those comments in 2001, it was no longer difficult for me to say to anyone that you have to believe in your worth as a person. But in the intensive care unit at the University of Virginia on June 1, 1995, I had no such belief. Far from it. On that day I regained consciousness to find myself lying in traction, a heavy metal ball suspended behind my head attached to a metal frame secured by screws in each temple. I learned that as the result of a fall during an equestrian competition I had broken my neck just centimeters below the brain stem, and that my chances of surviving the surgery to reattach my head to my spinal column were 50/50 at best. Even if the operation was successful, I would still remain paralyzed from the shoulders down and unable to breathe on my own. I heard the whooshing sound of a ventilator as it pumped oxygen into my
lungs through a long tube inserted into a hole in my neck. I’ve lived with that sound for many years.

The moment I understood the gravity of my situation my immediate reaction was that such a life was unacceptable, even though I knew absolutely nothing about living as a vent-dependent quadriplegic. I realized that there was no cure for spinal cord injuries like mine and that I would forever be dependent on others for the basic necessities of daily existence. My role as a husband and the father of three children would be severely compromised, because paralysis had suddenly transformed me into a forty-two-year-old infant. I thought it would be selfish and unfair to remain alive.

I remember going over my life, taking an inventory of all the cuts, bruises, broken bones, and illnesses I had weathered, ranging from mononucleosis to malaria and mastocytosis (a rare disease that destroys red blood cells as they emerge from the bone marrow). At age sixteen, I developed alopecia areata, a condition that causes patches of baldness in an otherwise healthy head of hair. Fortunately I was able to comb over the spots, and there were long periods of remission when the baldness disappeared. I was a survivor; I always had been. A part of me insisted that this situation shouldn’t be any different; another part acknowledged that this time I had gone over the edge and was free-falling into the unknown.

The month I spent in the intensive care unit was an emotional roller-coaster ride created by my own inner turmoil and contradictions coming from those involved in my case. The critical care was nothing short of miraculous. Dr. John Jane—arguably one of the best neurosurgeons in the world—achieved the nearly impossible feat of reattaching the base of my skull to my spinal column with wire, titanium, and bone grafted from my hip. Under his watchful eye, a team of internists and pulmonologists cured me of ulcers and pneumonia. By the second week I was able to turn my head about half an inch from side to side, and I could raise my shoulders slightly. Dr. Jane was confident that before too long I would be able to move my deltoids, which might lead to the functional recovery of my right arm. Perhaps I could learn to feed myself, and someday be able to drive a specially adapted car. My spirits rose.

In the third week of June I was visited by Dr. Marcalee Sipski, director of the Spinal Cord Injury Unit at the Kessler Rehabilitation Institute in West Orange, New Jersey. My wife, Dana, and my younger brother, Benjamin, had surveyed rehab centers from Georgia to Colorado and concluded that Kessler was the best choice, because I would receive the highest quality care without having to go far from home. Dr. Sipski gave me a thorough examination and then told me point blank
that my injury was “complete”—meaning that the cord had been severed at the second cervical vertebra (known as “C-2”). Signals from the brain would never be able to get past the injury site. Without any direction from above, the spinal cord would remain useless and the skin, muscles, bones, and tissues of my body would begin a steady progression of atrophy and decay. All I knew about the regeneration of cut or damaged nerves was that it was possible in the peripheral nervous system but not in the central nervous system.

I asked questions about the spinal cord and why the nerves inside it could not regenerate. Usually I had these conversations late at night with the residents and nurses on duty in the unit. (The days were filled with family, visitors, and the routines of necessary care.) Nobody claimed to know for certain, but the prevailing explanation was that it had to do with evolution. An animal paralyzed by a spinal cord injury would most likely be a ready-to-serve meal for another animal higher on the food chain. Even if nerve regeneration in the spinal cord was possible it couldn’t happen quickly, so the injured animal would still be easy prey. Without medical intervention the victim of a spinal cord injury—animal or human—usually dies within hours or days, depending on the severity of the case. Almost every one of these late-night discussions ended with the conclusion
that I should just consider myself lucky to be alive. I wasn’t so sure.