Those We Neglect to Thank in Life

I’m easy enough with giving everyday thanks, and you probably are as well. It’s an easy thing to say and brings a smile when you thank a waiter or a check-out girl at the cash register.

But I never thanked my father for taking me out into a violent thunderstorm on his shoulder, and pointing out the beauty of lightning flashes, joy of pouring rain and wind whipping through our hair.

Yet it’s a memory I’ve carried though life, and told that story many times. If you want to find me when I’m gone, look to thunderstorms. I’ll be there.

You see, my mother was raised in Iowa and grew up with tornadoes and storm shelters. She was terrified of bad weather and my dad didn’t want his son to grow up fearful. I cherish that memory but never thanked him as an adult. I wish I had.

When I was eight years old, I was thrown from a hammock and shattered my left elbow.

We kids were hanging out in the backyard, swinging one another round and round until one of us fell off, a typical kid-game and those things sometime go wrong. As I came flying out, I reached out in panic and hit the ground too hard. Not a clean break, but total destruction of the elbow. Mom hustled me into the family car, and doctors at three hospitals told her an amputation was necessary. “Not my son, you’re not going to cut my son’s arm off” she said and drove on to St. Francis Hospital in Evanston.

There was a young surgeon there, James Fahey, not long out of medical school. It was 1943, and most young doctors were in the military. “He won’t lose that arm, Mrs. Freeman. It may not work perfectly, but we will save it.”

Sixteen weeks in traction, another sixteen in a body cast, but I have an arm useful enough to have been drafted into the Army twenty years later. Fahey went on to become a world renowned orthopedic surgeon, past president of the American Orthopedic Association and taught at Northwestern University, retiring from St. Francis Hospital as Chairman of the Department of Orthopedic Surgery.

Both my luck, the young doctor, and my mother’s determination saved my arm, but I never thanked Fahey when I became old enough to do so, and I wish I had.

And then, seventy years later, my right hip gave out.

It was both sudden and completely unexpected. No longer able to walk my lovely Labrador a mere block away to the park near where I live, in Prague, the prospect of a hip replacement loomed. I must admit I looked upon that possibility with some trepidation, picturing a steel hip and a life of WD-40. In good health otherwise, as I am today, a friend recommended a book, titled Pain Free. I note here that I have thanked that friend many times, and given away at least a dozen copies.

The story of its author is worth telling. Pete Egoscue is a Vietnam Marine vet and was severely wounded in that war. During evacuation triage on the hospital plane, Pete heard the doctors say, “don’t bother, we can’t save him,” as they passed from wounded to wounded. He couldn’t speak, but said to himself, “to hell with that, I will damn well live.”

He did live, but remembers, "I had done everything all the good health care professionals had asked but still wasn't doing well." He had a range of motion limitations affecting his left side, making him walk with a limp. He bought an anatomy book and became fascinated by the body's symmetrical and balanced design. "It occurred to me that if I could match my body sides up, so that my left side could do what my right side could do, it might be interesting to see what happened. I did just that, and it worked."

For over 50 years, the Egoscue Method has helped thousands, including extending Jack Nicklaus’ career, but that’s another story

As for myself, I was taking four or five Ibuprofen just to sleep at night, and pretty much willing to try anything to avoid a hip replacement. I began Egoscue’s method for hip pain, and the relief was immediate. After my first at-home session, lying on the floor and needing nothing more than a kitchen-chair for equipment, I slept that night without pain and no pain-killers.

Twenty years later, I walk my current Lab to the park, pain free. My 15-minute daily exercise keeps me in pretty good shape for my age, and sure, I have a few aches and pains. But I’ll be 90 in five months and am still able to run for a tram. A bit winded, perhaps, but on board safely.

Pete is 80 now…and I have thanked him. But one out of three isn’t much of a batting average, and I wish I had a few more pitches to swing at…

…who knows, perhaps I will have.