Thirty-two years ago, I shattered my spine.
Paralyzed chest-down after surgery—
doctors fused two steel Harrington rods
to hold me together.
Rehab followed: physiotherapy for arm strength,
occupational therapy for sitting, transfers,
daily living skills.
Wheelchair independent, they said—but needing hands
to lift from bed, shift bed-to-chair, chair-to-car.
No sensation below chest, no pain felt—
fistulotomy, polypectomy without anesthesia.
But above? Agony in arms, shoulders, scapulae, neck
from endless lifting.
Pain and I, constant companions.
Tolerance grew; analgesics faded.
Unbearable? Movies, books, music, writing.
Exercises worsened it—muscles soured,
transfers clumsy, graceless, a nightmare dreaded.
Life drags on; I struggle day to day.
Despair strikes? Roosevelt’s arena calls:
“The credit belongs to the man actually in the arena,
face marred by sweat, dust, blood;
who strives valiantly, errs again and again;
knows great enthusiasms, devotions,
spends himself in worthy cause;
wins and tastes high triumph,
or fails—daring greatly—
never with cold, timid souls
who know neither victory nor defeat.”
Those words arm me for another day, then another.
