One in a Million?

by Rebecca Rosen

Numbness.  That was all my grandpa could feel.  No more life flowing, no more joy, just numbness.  It was as though he entered a cold, dark world where no one could feel anything.  The date was August 3rd, 2009 and it started out like any other day would.  My grandpa had been suffering from pains in his hip for a while.  He checked into the hospital for a routine epidural back injection just like millions of people around the world do every day.  The doctor had told him that everything would be fine and he shouldn’t worry about anything.  My grandpa asked, “What is the chance something goes wrong?” The doctor’s response, “It’s a one in a million chance, I do this every day.” My grandpa just happened to be that one. 

        Helplessness. My mom had gotten the phone call at about 7:30 pm on August 3rd.  “Karen, your father has no feeling from the legs down, but the doctors say he will regain feeling; it’s common, no need to worry.” Naturally, being the voice of reason in my family, I had told my mother and sister that there was nothing to worry about and that Poppie would be okay.  They believed me. Unfortunately, I didn’t believe myself.  Another day passed with no feeling, and another, and another…  the doctors finally pronounced my grandpa paralyzed from the waist down after three days.  My grandpa, paralyzed? No, this had to have been a mistake; there was no way! Not my grandpa who spent countless weekends, holidays, birthdays, weddings, and anniversaries with me. Not my grandpa who would do everything in his power to make sure that his little girl was happy no matter what. “Not my grandpa,” I said, “It has to be someone else.  It’s a mistake!” But no matter how much I wanted not  to believe it, I knew my crying grandmother wasn’t lying to me.  I had never seen her cry before, which just made it all the more real.  This was actually happening and there was nothing I could do about it.           

        Disbelief. After my grandpa was pronounced paralyzed from the waist down, he needed to be air lifted from the hospital where the procedure had been done into a rehabilitation center.  No more time for emotion; this was about my grandpa, not the way we felt about his condition.  The intense training commenced then and there.  For about a month and a half my grandpa had to endure hours of physical therapy.  “Sorry Karen, tell the kids that Lenny still is not allowed to have visitors.” This was what hit me the hardest:  not being able to see my grandpa for a moth and a half. The grandpa who I used to spend every other weekend with wasn’t allowed to see visitors.  Ridiculous, these doctors were ridiculous.  First, they changed my grandpa’s life and now, they wouldn’t even let me see him?

        Acceptance.  The reality of the whole situation finally started to sink in.  My grandpa would be in a wheelchair for my bat mitzvah, my wedding, my sister’s bat mitzvah, his 50^th wedding anniversary, forever, and that was the bottom line.  “He is still the same person Rebecca” my Nana used to tell me, but both of us knew what the other was thinking.  He was not the same person, how could he be? His life and the life of the people around him would never be the same.  The chairlift was installed in his house, the room I had spent countless sleepover nights over the years turned into a room for his new medical bed, and his bathroom was totally redone to accommodate his needs.  Everything was completely falling apart at the seams and I couldn’t fix the tapestry. 

        What if?  What if my grandpa had chosen not to go in for the procedure that day? What if he decided he would just let nature do what it needed to do and heal his hips naturally? What if he had woken up that morning and didn’t feel well and decided to skip out on this “minor procedure”? What if when the doctor said, “It’s a one in a million chance,” my grandfather still realized that there was a chance something could wrong? What if my grandfather had not gone in for the procedure?  The answer?  Sure, he would still be able to walk and everything would have stayed the way it was, but he would not be the man he is today. 

        My hero. Had my family and I ever stopped once to realize how my grandpa was coping with all of this? No, we did not.  While we were all very busy worrying about him and how different everything would be for him, no one stopped to ask him how he was feeling about all of this.  When we finally got around to doing so, we asked him, “Lenny, how do you feel?” His reply? “I’m lucky to be alive, that’s all I can say.” Lucky to be alive.  Now, why didn’t we think of that?  My grandpa is still here, sitting in the living room, eating a sandwich with my mother and I, and I don’t have the right to complain that he is in a wheelchair.  I think of all the kids my age who don’t have any grandparents they can talk to about anything at all. Mine is still here, still talking to me, still breathing, still living, still loving.  He is still mine.

        My hero.  It has been two years since the accident now and my grandpa is still doing very well.  He is stronger than ever and has the most positive attitude about everything and anything.  He is my hero.  He has spent the last two years living his life up to its full potential and I hope to do the same in my future. Even though actions that used to be a no brainer, like coming up to my house and ringing the doorbell are hard for him, he still manages to brighten up anyone’s day.   He has taught me that no matter what life throws in your way, there is always that little shred of hope to cling on to.  My grandpa has taught me to find that hope and hold onto it for dear life no matter what obstacles are put in your way.  In life, we must see past the negative and strive for the positive because without it, we’re not really living at all.