Twelve Lessons From Paralysis

Thud! The sound of the impact was the only sensation. I instantly lost feeling and movement below my chin. My eyes darted around the murky water and spotted my lifeless arms. Air escaped my lungs. I had just broken my neck in a diving accident. Friends came to the rescue and kept me floating. Paramedics rushed me to the emergency room, where an MRI confirmed a C5 fracture. Manual tests of each limb confirmed quadriplegia. Surgery commenced on the morning of July 27, 2019. 

A week later, surgeons told my parents that I had an incomplete spinal cord injury and added, “he might be able to walk in a year.” It was nebulous what function would return, and when. I couldn’t move or feed myself; my arms and legs laid idle. Nonetheless, I resolved to achieve a full recovery, and that I was ready to fight for my life. My battle began in intensive care while on life support, just trying to lift my right foot.

After two months of inpatient rehabilitation, I could walk a short distance before collapsing, and was discharged from the hospital. I was still severely limited and required living assistance. Nonetheless, I created my own regimen to target my goal. Over the two years that followed, despite the pandemic, I trained to not only walk but run, sprint, return to sport, find new employment and travel to five different continents.

Like the recovery itself, combing through the hundreds of lessons from my experience is an imperfect exercise. Here are a few that stood out.

We must begin where we are.

Many have asked how I ever managed to run again, which certainly isn’t part of the spinal cord injury syllabus. I make the analogy that my recovery was like building a skyscraper out of Legos. It was slow, tedious, and painstaking. Progress only became possible through mass iteration and failure.

To walk, I first had to fail at standing, then take baby steps while suspended from harnesses, then learn to use a walker, then walk a few feet independently with spotters. For a year after that I made The Tin Man look like a gazelle, but never wavered in my goal to run, and fell many times in the process.

My hands and arms were more frustrating by comparison. I would grit my teeth and envision them moving, trying to force the action I wanted. It took several failed attempts before I was finally able to tie one shoelace in ninety minutes, which was one of the most exhausting things I’ve ever done.

Progress only happens at the margin, which is true of any goal we set out to accomplish.  My task was to meet each moment with the entirety of my effort and do so with consistency. Over time that input accumulated, and I beat my prognosis. Today, I love to lace up my shoes and go for a jog.

I also learned that there is no such thing as a comeback, the world changes during the process and so do we. Our only starting point is the here and now. Most of the time the window of opportunity comes before you’re fully prepared.

Everything you want is on the other side of fear and pain.

Recoveries, career changes, great investments, and other positive shifts often begin in discomfort.

One of my first tasks in intensive care was to simply endure two hours in a seated position, which nurses used harnesses to place me in. The pain induced hallucination. Clearly, I wasn’t walking anywhere soon. I hated the chair and knew well in advance that the pain was coming. Nonetheless, I started spending extra time sitting. Pain was part of the process.

After my hospital discharge, I found that this concept applied to life more broadly. I was required to establish and then give up a series of comfort zones, moving ten times in total to find care, seek optimal environments, and avoid pandemic lockdowns. Once I felt strong, I began to test myself in nature, first by hiking in Utah and then by traveling the world. Entering and leaving each of those phases was accompanied by fear and doubt.

I was initially hesitant to share my story, but reasoned that if I could help someone else, then going public would be worthwhile. After a year of silence, I wrote an update to friends and family. Six months later, an unexpected message arrived in my inbox: someone had read my letter, used the resources I did, and had regained their ability to walk after being unable to do so for five years. It was a reward unlike any paycheck I’ve ever received.

Your loved ones are your lifeblood.

Intensive care felt like attending my own funeral. I was motionless, but friends and family filled the hours with laughs and encouragement. Thanks to them, I had less time to ponder my circumstances and instead channeled my thoughts towards everything and everyone that I had to live for.

When I first tried to stand, my therapist, Brianna, ordered my body to be hoisted from my bed and then lowered into a wheelchair by a mechanical lift. Her instructions were explicit, “I’m going to wrap my arms under your shoulders and on the count of three, I’m going to pull as hard as I can. See if you can push through your legs and stand.” I gathered a few breaths. “One, two, three!” She pulled with all her might. I focused all my energy, willing my legs to push. Nothing. We tried again. Nothing. Then my mom walked into the room; she had slept in the chair by my bed every night under fluorescent hospital lights. We tried a third time. “One, two, three!” Brianna grimaced, pulling with all her might. For two glorious seconds, I stood, wobbled, and fell back down into my wheelchair.

A month later, my left hand was experiencing its first signs of movement and I was trying to use it to pick up a bead and drop that bead into a container. I couldn’t do it. My eyes burned with hatred for that one menacing bead. Twenty minutes worth of failed attempts passed in futility. Then two friends I hadn’t seen in years entered the room. Smiles all around. On my next attempt, the bead dropped into the bucket.

Call it love, call it supernatural - our connections to those dearest to us bond us to the world we live in and give us the strength to be our best.  

Be grateful for what’s given.

I’ll never forget my first breath of fresh air, my first sip of water, my first taste of real food, my first visitor, my first trip outside for some sunshine. With those ingredients we can create just about anything, but we often take them for granted.

I was immensely lucky to spend nearly two months at Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital in Boston. Some patients at Spaulding would voluntarily give up their therapy sessions, opting instead to watch tv. I would accept the extra hours every time. If we aren’t grateful for the present moment, then we won’t seize it and grow.

For two years my recovery took precedent over everything else in my life, but gratitude was just as paramount afterwards. Suddenly I had to face choices on where to live, work assignments, relationships, traveling, and keeping it all in balance. At times that was daunting. In those times it was important to be grateful for what I had, and to remember that I couldn’t do everything at once.

Recently, I faced abundance of choice on the opposite side of the Earth, as a solo traveler in Istanbul. I found myself at the crossroads of Europe and Asia with access to dozens of dream destinations. I meditated and opted to visit long-lost family in Lebanon. I had a beautiful experience – celebratory shots on election day, towering Roman ruins, a day in a seven-thousand-year-old city, and in that city a thought that struck during a Catholic mass held in Arabic – be grateful for what’s given.

I certainly didn’t set off on this journey intentionally, but I am immensely grateful for the lessons, new friendships, and unexpected opportunities that it’s provided. I still take a minute to appreciate my first sips of coffee in the morning, and a breath of fresh air. We may only get today.

Dance and enjoy, remember the time you couldn’t.

Injuries and setbacks can be devastating, but they can’t take our capacity for humor. My journey was filled with laughs of all varieties. Self-deprecation was often a useful form of levity. We can always make a joke out of things, and we should, because the same joke will get old, and then we’ll learn the lesson. When I could first dance awkwardly, I resolved to never stop.

I learned to slow down and embrace my journey, and often refer to a Spanish phrase, "sin prisa, pero sin pausa," which means, “without rushing, but without stopping.” It was important to enjoy the process.

A piece of advice I always give to fellow survivors is not to put too much pressure on themselves, which tends to make things rigid and unpleasant. We have a tendency, born from our need for narrative, to force meaning onto impactful experiences. Those answers arrive with time; don’t stop living.

Milestones large and small became cause for celebration. While my world travels were driven by curiosity, they were also an acknowledgment of how far I had come. I recently opened a pickle jar for the first time in years and was ecstatic. I can still be found dancing in New York City jazz bars.

Stay open minded. Try things. The solution you need might be right in front of you.

Some of the best resources I found during my recovery came through chance encounters. My first trainer came by word of mouth. I attempted a yoga class at a local YMCA, and while I couldn’t get up from the ground, I found a practice that eventually enhanced my flexibility and mindfulness. My most trusted physical therapists also came by word of mouth. I embraced acupuncture as a form of active rest, a way to work while I wasn’t moving.

The arrival of the pandemic changed everything but my end goals. I lost access to occupational therapy for my hands but found a Pilates instructor with valuable knowledge; who would have thought? For a while, leg exercises were replaced by marching up my boiling building stairwell in Miami. Intent on running, I asked around for a phone number for a local track coach; Shawn Anderson of Oceanside High answered the call and we stumbled until it happened.

I started streaming live dance classes into my Manhattan living room, bumped into the desk a few too many times, and realized I needed to try something else. I moved to Miami to train with Barwis, where the team applies techniques developed for professional athletes to people with spinal cord injuries. I only knew about Barwis because of an Instagram feed that was first shown to me while speaking with strangers at the beach.

Be present, keep your eyes and ears open, ask around. If we slow down and look, there are little bits of positivity and information everywhere.

You only get one body.

The human body is incredibly tough, but not to be taken for granted. If you listen closely, it will tell you everything you need to know. Do what makes you feel good, and get a good night’s sleep.

The world is a hard place. Be kind towards others and yourself.

As I was discharged from intensive care, we were warned that thieves will sometimes attack weakened patients to rob them. One of my nurses was deep in debt from paying for her medications to treat a chronic illness. I witnessed a teenage girl take a step who was never supposed to walk, but her insurance ceased payment the following day.

Our environment is tough, but our superpower as humans is to connect. Throughout my journey, I was astounded at how many times kindness opened doors and lit the way forward. As I progressed, I felt a sense of mastery that came along with giving back, whether it was through fundraising or working directly with spinal cord patients. Helping others aided me in cementing my own recovery.

We often have no idea what someone else is going through. In one instance, I was struggling with shaky hands to hold on to a few items at a Rite Aid and placed them on the counter next to a man who nearly assaulted me. I don’t know what might have happened to him that morning.

We also need to remember to be kind to ourselves: accidents happen, we sometimes make bad choices, we need to forgive ourselves to make the best of what we have.  

Journal.

Like running after paralysis, these lessons didn’t arrive on paper after a few hours of writing. They were found combing through years’ worth of journals.

After I was discharged from inpatient rehabilitation, I knew that progress would not come easy, so I decided to keep a log of my activity to ensure that I was adhering to my plan. My log forced me to show up on days when I wanted to stay at home. Measurement led to accomplishment.

Later, I broadened my writing to assist with making key decisions and to keep track of my journey in real time. Especially when we get stuck or have a major life event, we can get distracted by focusing on minutiae or the pain of the present. Journaling kept me focused on my long-term goals.

Daylight is coming.

If we can hold on through the hours, days, and months of pain, it will eventually subside. My moments of darkness were many – awaiting Byzantine insurance approvals, feeling stuck, lostness, coping during the pandemic, trying to find home again.  

The pain ultimately relented every time, and growth took its place. In a moment that sounds scripted, I walked alone to the Cape of Good Hope in South Africa two years after my accident. It was cloudy overhead. I walked past ostriches and spring bucks up to a lookout at Cape Point. Everyone had vacated and the park had closed. Then to the West, a gaping hole opened in the clouds and sunlight burst though, setting over the Atlantic. Many trials had led to that moment, but I felt the makings of a new beginning.

Make your own rules. Trust your instincts.

Spinal cord injury, work transitions, ten moves to find care and navigate the pandemic, world travel - my path had so many unexpected plot twists that I eventually came to realize the uniqueness of it. As much as I appreciated outside input, it was ultimately up to me to make difficult choices that oftentimes left others wondering. I second guessed myself and pondered alternatives but trusted my intuition. Only afterwards did certain choices make sense.

We can always say no, and change course if need be. If it makes sense to you, it doesn’t have to make sense to anyone else. Only you know 100% of the facts. We must own our outcomes, separate those outcomes from decision quality, accept that we won’t get it right 100% of the time, and put our best foot forward.

What mattered at the end.

Immediately after the accident, I had about thirty seconds under water that could have been my last. It took only a few to realize what had happened, and that I was running out of air. My first thoughts went to my friends and family; I was grateful to have known and loved extraordinary people. Next came a satisfaction that I had lived a full life of experiences and adventure, it hadn’t been dull. In preparation for crossing to the next realm, I thought I had aspired to decency, but without specificity acknowledged my faults; I hoped I was ready.

Much later on, I was struck by a thought that there are several currencies in life: time, health, money, knowledge, relationships. Time goes one way. The others diminish without health, which also happens to be our only way to buy time. Money is like oxygen; we know when it’s running out and we use more of it in pursuit of our goals. Knowledge improves our ability to enjoy the others and enhances our ability to replace money. Our relationships are a result of how we allocate the others, and in turn are our greatest asset and source of joy. It’s best if we can get them all working in concert.