When I became paralyzed in December of 1996, only 18 months or so after Christopher Reeve’s horse accident, he was a ubiquitous presence in the news. He was in Washington haranguing Congress. He was on stage at the Oscars. In fact, I happened to mention him, before my own injury, to someone I thought would be empathetic. Her abrupt response was, I quote, “Oh, I am so sick of hearing about him, always promoting his own cause. What makes his illness any worse than anyone else’s?” She must not have liked “Superman IV” or Hollywood royalty or life itself.
In my initial stupor of contracting the extremely rare neuroimmune disorder, transverse myelitis, I didn’t originally think of Christopher as a reference. I didn’t relate to anyone who was paralyzed because I didn’t think of myself as paralyzed, though I obviously was. Also, TM is a strange malady. At least two-thirds of those so diagnosed either recover fully or in part. If I was paralyzed, I figured, it was only for a short, unpleasant spell. My neurologist explained that nerve fibers could start working again once the initial spine inflammation began to recede. He assiduously avoided referring to this as a permanent condition. He had seen TM patients rebound and held out the same hope for me.
I was still immensely shocked and saddened by this cruel twist of fate but, strangely enough, felt good about learning the life skills I needed... It was only seven months or so later that another neurologist at a different hospital with all the social tact of a rabid dog announced that I would never walk again. That was a day equally as crushing as the day I became paralyzed. It engendered a whole new round of grief and self-pity. Now, I was acutely aware of both my own physical oddness and every person in a wheelchair, though at that time, most were hidden from view. Except Christopher Reeve. Not since Ron Kovic, the paralyzed Vietnam Vet who started the group, Vietnam Vets Against the War, had there been any disabled figure so public, prominent, and fearless.
As fate would have it, at the very moment I began to see Christopher as a touchstone in my life, I got a propitious call from a man I consider the premiere producer of TV specials and events in Hollywood, Don Mischer. He said he was doing a major TV special for ABC honoring Christopher Reeve – called “Christopher Reeve: A Celebration of Hope” – and asked if I would like to co-write it. If I could have done a backflip, I would have. This was an opportunity of a lifetime to meet Christopher and Dana Reeve, hang out with the likes of Stevie Wonder, Willy Nelson, and Amy Grant, and employ some paralysis quips that had been rolling around my brain for months.
It was a great evening. First, Willy invited me out to his bus to burn one. I demurred. Robin Williams, Chris’s best friend and emcee of the show, went out of his way to sit and chat with me at length about everything but paralysis. He introduced me to Christopher and Dana when they arrived, who were equally engaging, and made me feel, probably for the first time, normal. He even pranked me. In the middle of the show, just off-stage, as he was about to go out to introduce the next guest, he grabbed the back of my chair and started to push me on stage with him. I was sure he meant it and was frozen with fear. Right at the curtain’s edge, he stopped the chair, impishly waved, and went out on his own.
This was the first time anyone outside of myself had seen my condition as joke material. It may seem trivial in retrospect, but between Robin, Christopher, Dana, and Don Mischer's good graces, I had turned a page in my recovery.