From my seat about halfway between the main doors and the altar, I wondered why the pastor was not presiding today. He is, after all, a gifted and inspiring speaker. One would think this would be the day we'd need him. But he was nowhere to be seen, and a priest from a neighbouring parish was here today.
The elderly deacon ambled away from the lectern after proclaiming the gospel. As he did so, the presiding priest confidently approached to deliver his homily.
"On November twenty-ninth, nineteen eighty-four," he opened, "we were all devastated when we heard the news of John's accident." Ah! That's what he's doing here today. He knows John. He was there. "...and I know that in the days and weeks that followed, we prayed, we all prayed so hard, for a miracle for John." I didn't know John back then, but I have no doubt that the prayers were flying. "And thanks be to God, every single one of those prayers was answered!"
What? Answered? John lived twenty-five years as a quadriplegic, Father. What does you mean, answered?
A voice inside my head calmly interjected. Shut up and listen. You know what he means. I took a deep breath. Did you know John over the last seven years, or did you not?
My friend John died suddenly in the early morning hours of Thursday, August 27th, around the time I was tossing and turning sleeplessly at my cottage in Quebec, thinking about our imminent departure and agonizing over the ten hours of driving time it would take to get home.
John had lived with near total paralysis following a bad collision during a hockey game when he was sixteen years old. He had very limited use of his right arm and hand only. His left hand and arm were strapped to his chair, and his immobile legs were set out straight to minimize circulatory problems. John’s respiratory capacity was reduced, as he was able to use only the upper portion of his lungs. With the help of technology, John was able to drive and control an electric-powered wheelchair. He lived in a half-duplex rented to him by my employer, and his near full-time caregiver – who recently became his fiancée – lived in the other half of the duplex. Every morning, one or two nurses visited John’s home to get him out of bed, clean him, dress him and help set him up in his chair.
John was subject to the usual health problems, and more, that plague every quadriplegic. He suffered from pressure sores, despite the advanced and expensive wheelchair and bed he used. A couple of years ago, he became diabetic, even though the disease appears not to run in his family. Chest colds usually developed into pneumonia. One onset of pneumonia, in the late winter of 2008, was particularly acute and nearly killed him. He spent six weeks in hospital and slowly recovered.
But the priest was right. Every single one of those prayers was answered.
The people praying for John in the weeks after his accident got only half of what they were praying for, in literal terms. They were praying for John to survive. They also prayed for a miracle for John, and by times during the last few years, I did too. The requested miracle was that John, through divine intervention or a breathtaking medical breakthrough, would regain the use of his arms and his legs.
But instead of that, John’s entire life became the miracle.
In the seven years I knew John, I never once heard him complain about anything. I have spoken about this with people that knew John, and have raised this topic both before and after his death. Many of them were acquainted with John since the time of his accident. And every single one of them reported the same thing. John never once complained about his situation.
“Two weeks after John’s accident,” the priest informed us from the pulpit, “I traveled to the hospital on the mainland where John was being treated. I expected to meet a despondent, depressed young man, his spirit crushed by his severed spinal cord, and his dreams shattered. Instead, I walked into the room and was met by a cheerful, smiling young man, lying on a hospital bed with wires and tubes all over him.”
It was almost as if John relished the challenges that lay before him. That was certainly the John I knew, but I thought he had to work hard at projecting this attitude. And maybe he did, but right from the beginning, he made it seem the most natural thing in the world.
John traveled all over town in his wheelchair when the weather permitted it. He would not always stop to talk, but would shout, as much as his weak lungs would allow, a greeting across the street to me (or anyone else) as he drove by. John did everything physically possible with the small physical ability he had left. He had a device that fitted under his upper palate with a rod attached to it, which he used to help drive his chair, or type at his computer, or punch the buttons on his cordless telephone. John’s good hand was sufficient to move and click a computer mouse, and with the use of his mouth rod, he transformed himself into a computer whiz. This led to some darker abilities, like those that led to the occasional appearance of a newly released movie in John’s house, playing on a homemade DVD on his computer. I used to joke that if there were a way to view bandwith use from space, there would be a huge vortex appearing on the map over John’s block.
Sharing what he had was important to John. He gave advice and tutorials on computer issues to anyone who asked. He counseled young people who had gone through life-changing events. He and his fiancée took in troubled teens whose parents needed a break from them, and provided a heavy dose of reality to many young people at critical stages in their lives. John loved to joke and laugh, and could be counted upon to provide a lift to the spirits of everyone he met. It was infectious, too. If I heard a good joke, I’d often try to remember to share it with John the next time I met him. My wit never came close to matching his, though.
John’s trademark was gratitude for what he had, and for the people in his life. He was polite and gracious to a fault to medical staff during his hospital stays. During a visit to John’s hospital room in the late summer of 2008, when he was in to treat a relapse of his pneumonia, he told me quietly that he had spoken a little impatiently to a hospital staff member who had come into his room in the middle of the night with a nurse to turn him in his bed. He said he would make a point to find the young lady again and offer an apology. Imagine that!
Many doctors and nurses found themselves in John’s company saying things they might not say to anyone else. In April 2008, I was visiting John in the hospital as he fought back from pneumonia when his respirologist came to check him over and clean his tracheotomy (which was made when he was rushed into the hospital). When the doctor was done, John recounted to him an exchange he had had with a nurse earlier in the day. The nurse wanted John to take an undissolved tablet of some kind, and John informed her he could not because of a problem in his throat, complicated by the tracheotomy. “Sorry,” he told the nurse, “I’m not able to swallow.”
“Don’t worry, John,” the nurse deadpanned. “I’ve never been able to swallow, either.”
There was a pause of about half a second, and then everyone in the room – the respirologist included – fell about the room, howling with laughter. I laughed so hard I cried. John just grinned proudly at having retold the story so well.
That was the way it was with John. You never knew what he was going to tell you, and more often than not you’d laugh yourself to tears.
After being rushed into the hospital the month previous, John hovered near death for a couple of days. When he was able to speak again, he informed his family and the medical staff that he had seen the other side. “What? What did you see, John?”
Only half conscious, John replied, “I saw God.”
“What? You saw God? What did He say?”
No reply. John was drifting in and out of sleep.
“What did He look like, John?”
No reply.
“Was He as good-looking as you, John?” asked one of the visitors who knew John’s sense of humour.
John’s eyes stayed closed, but he smiled. “No,” he giggled.
Over the last eighteen months, John faced challenge after challenge with his health. It should have been obvious to me that he was in a decline, but I suppose I was blind to it. I last saw him early in August before leaving for Quebec. He was outdoors, driving around in his chair, socializing on the street on a nice day. When I talked to him, he was in good humour but he was not happy with the anti-seizure drugs he was taking. They were making him drowsy and slurring his speech. Like every other problem I saw John face, I figured he would find a way to overcome it. I figured he should overcome it. Many assumed the same thing.
Not everyone saw it this way, though. A few months ago, as John was going through a series of surgeries to treat a deep infection caused by a bad pressure sore, his elderly father was overheard having a conversation with a local business owner. He said that by times he wondered if it wouldn’t have been better if John had died following his accident. The hardware store owner reacted with surprise, but John’s dad explained what he meant. “John has suffered terribly over the years. And he is suffering terribly now.”
The evening before his funeral on September first, hundreds and hundreds of people turned out to pay their respects at his wake. It seems everyone in town knew John. And everyone had the same story: they had learned so much about life from John. Do your best. Be generous. Do not dwell on your limitations. Be aware of your talents, and use them. And don’t complain about petty things. John had a lot to complain about, but he never did. So why on earth should I complain about a ten hour drive home from my cottage, for goodness sake? I have a home. I have a great family. I have a cottage. I can drive a car and walk on my own two feet. I’m an idiot to complain about anything.
Every prayer answered indeed, Father.
It’s funny how the great men in our midst teach us the most basic things. John only had 41 years on this earth, but he affected everyone he knew, and to an immensely greater and more positive degree than most who live twice as long. It was a privilege to know him, and it was likewise a privilege to wait two hours to get through the lineup at the funeral home to get the opportunity to say goodbye. I told John’s brother Gerry that at the moment he died, “John got everything back.” Gerry agreed.
I hope there is hockey in Heaven, and that he’s had a chance to lace on a pair of skates again.
Thank you, great friend.
So what is going to happen this time? The Senate's rules require 60 votes to raise the Debt Ceiling. Is the government going to shut down again?
God condescends to use our powers if we don't spoil his plans by ours." -- Venerable Father Solanus Casey
