Superhero

by Chris Nickson

  “Somebody’s got to take that leap,” he said. “Somebody’s got to stand on the edge of the Grand Canyon and say that with a good enough running start we can jump this thing and cure spinal-cord and other neurological problems.”

  It wasn’t a case of lobbying in the faint hope that it might cause a miracle cure. Chris firmly and truly believed it was possible, that with a push and some government help it could all happen.

  By the end of November Chris had reached the point where he was able to breathe unaided for more than eleven minutes at a time. The Kessler Institute had done virtually all it could for him. Any greater recovery, if it happened, would come with time and work. Although he still took some nourishment through a tube, the doctors believed he was about ready to eat solid food for all his meals. It was time to think about moving on, to start rebuilding his life outside the four walls.

  The date for his homecoming was set for Wednesday, December 13. Six and a half months had passed since he’d fallen off Eastern Express in the horse trials. His life had changed in more ways than he could ever have imagined. Now it was time to really begin looking to the future.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The first time I pulled up the driveway, I had a moment when the tears let loose. There was a Rip Van Winkle effect. I had been away for so long, and there I was, home again, but under very different circumstances. I couldn’t walk up the steps. But day by day, you get used to it. You say, ‘Wait a minute. So I’ve got a ramp. It’s not the end of the world.’”

  Coming home, strange as it seemed at first, was a huge boost to Chris’s morale. Being out of Kessler, marvelous as the place had been for him, really made him feel like he was on the road to recovery, and his spirits soared. Not only his, but Dana’s and Will’s, too. With his father at home again, Will could finally relax. During Chris’s first days in the hospital, Will had kept riding a broom, and falling off, in his own attempt to understand what had happened. Maybe Chris couldn’t play the way he once had, but his fears of dad never coming back were all banished. In fact, Chris said, “Now he uses me as a jungle gym. He climbs on me all the time.”

  At first, the doctors felt it might take Chris some time to adjust to his surroundings, that he might even be depressed, being in his house again and not being able to do the things he once had. In fact, it had the opposite effect. Not only was he emotionally happier, but his blood count, blood pressure, protein count, and oxygen levels had risen, and he was able to breathe for fully fifteen minutes without the respirator.

  Already he was busy, more determined than ever that nothing was going to slow him down. In Kessler he’d given his first interview, to Barbara Walters for ABC’s 20/20 program.

  Walters had requested an interview not long after the accident, and never received a reply. Eventually, though, Dana called, “saying he was going to do an interview and that he had decided to do it with me,” Walters said. “And I really didn’t believe it.”

  She spent three days with the couple, and announced later, “I think this interview had a greater effect than anything that I have done in all the years at ABC, because there are not that many times when you come across that extraordinary true, shining love that Chris and his wife have for each other.”

  Another thing that impressed her was “the message that you are your mind, you are your intelligence.”

  “She made us feel unself-conscious,” Chris noted. “And that allowed the television audience to see two people as they really are … . Barbara gave us room to … talk about how much joy, hopefulness, laughter, and love remain in our life.”

  She was so moved that she made a Christmas donation to the American Paralysis Association in honor of Chris, and in her Christmas card, urged others to do the same.

  While not strong enough to attend himself, Chris sent a video copy of the interview to the hearings of the Senate committee in charge of appropriations for the National Institutes of Health. At that point, a cut in research funding seemed likely, but after viewing the tape, the politicians relented and actually increased the funding, another victory.

  Chris was taking on as much as he could, accepting a prestigious nomination to the board of the American Paralysis Association. He’d also been contacted by Joan Irvine Smith, a California philanthropist and ardent equestrian. She’d followed everything that had happened to Chris since his accident. What truly moved her was the fact that Chris bore no rancor toward Eastern Express. The horse had been sold, but that was simply a matter of expediency and finances; Chris still loved horses.

  What she proposed to Chris was a Reeve-Irvine Research Center, to be based at the University of California, Irvine branch (known as UCI). It would, a press release stated, “support the study of trauma to the spinal cord and diseases affecting it, with an emphasis on the development of therapies to promote the recovery and repair of neurological function.”

  Smith, through her Joan Irvine Smith and Athalie R. Clarke Foundation, was willing to donate $1 million to fund the center if UCI could raise another $2 million. But even there she was willing to help, donating the proceeds of the Oak Falls Classic, a top-flight equestrian event held annually in San Juan Capistrano, California, to the fund. And at the September event she’d host the awarding of the Christopher Reeve Research Medal.

  “The courage and perseverance Christopher and his wife Dana have shown over the last several months are truly extraordinary,” Smith said when the center was announced on January 10, 1996, “and I’m honored to do what I can to help him and the thousands of other individuals suffering from spinal-cord injuries.”

  With Chris’s friends in the entertainment industry, the money UCI needed—and even more—was quickly forthcoming, to make the dream a reality.

  And during January Chris took another big step, forming the Christopher Reeve Foundation. The idea had been brewing during his time in hospitals. Research needed all the financial support it could get, from any and every source. There were things the government couldn’t give money to, but a more private fund might be able to help.

  People wanted to help, that much had been clear from the massive outpouring of sympathy he’d received. A charitable foundation would give them a way to offer tangible help, to know that any money they contributed would go to the right places. It was something he felt might make a difference. And there was more: While much of the money raised was given to research, Dana coordinated other funds to be used for advocacy for the disabled, and equipment and home care for those who couldn’t afford it alone.

  While he spent a lot of his time looking at the outside world and the future, Chris also needed to focus on himself and the here and now. Being home was exactly what he needed mentally, but physically he needed constant attention if all the progress he’d made in Kessler wasn’t going to come to nothing.

  He had to undergo breathing exercises two or three times a day, and his lung power was rapidly increasing. From fifteen minutes just after arriving back in his Westchester County house, he’d zoomed up to ninety minutes at one stretch without the respirator, even if he did still need it when he was speaking. His legs were exercised with a StimMaster cycle, which offered electrical stimuli to the muscles in his legs, as well as other electrical stimulation to the leg muscles. And finally there was the tilt table, which he’d been using for months.

  Obviously, Chris couldn’t do all this himself, and while Dana did everything she could for him, she was physically unable to move a two-hundred-pound man from one piece of equipment to another. A nurse lived with the family to give assistance, and be on hand in case of any small emergency. Chris’s personal assistant came in every day, too, to work with him on business and fund-raising matters.

  One matter nagged at both Chris and Dana day and night, however. All the therapy was expensive, totaling some $400,000 a year, with a cap of $1.2 million. Even then, he knew he was luckier than the millions of Americans who had no health insurance at all.

  “It’s terrifying,” Dana admitted. “At thi
s rate, our insurance will run out in three years. And since Chris has a preexisting condition he won’t be able to get more insurance.”

  However, it seemed that a financial savior was at hand. A London paper, the Daily Star, reported that Robin Williams had told Chris he would cover all his medical costs once his insurance ran out (although other sources would later refute this story). Supposedly the two had made a pact while still at Juilliard that whoever made it big first would help the other. If it was true—and there was little doubt that Williams could easily afford the amount, given that his net worth was in the region of $100 million—then it was something of a godsend to Chris and Dana, one huge worry lifted from their shoulders.

  Were it not true, however, they’d have plenty of problems, as Chris told the Washington Post.

  “A year or two ago we seemed to be well off. Now my picture has changed. And there are so many people whose positions are even worse.”

  He began lobbying hard to raise the insurance cap to $10 million, writing to every senator, and in fact, Vermont Republican James Jeffords, who was Chris’s friend, actually attached an amendment to a health-reform bill with just such a provision.

  Immediately there was opposition from the powerful insurance companies, even though Chris was able to cite a study showing that the higher cap would cost just an extra eight dollars a year in expenses to consumers on their insurance. It was something he believed in fighting tooth and nail on, recording a radio spot that played almost constantly in Washington, urging people to support the amendment. USA Today weighed in on his side in an editorial. But in spite of all the efforts, the Jeffords amendment sank in the Senate, outvoted 52—46.

  It was as if, now that he was home, Chris was determined to make up for his lost months. He pushed himself physically and mentally with political work, and even ventured out to the circus with Will. Perhaps it was inevitable that he’d encounter a few setbacks.

  The first came on January 16, just a few weeks after he’d returned to the house. He had to be rushed to Northern Westchester Hospital Center, suffering from autonomic dysreflexia, which had resulted from a urinary infection. His blood pressure had soared dangerously high, and although it was quickly stabilized, he was still kept as a patient for a few days for observation.

  Home again, he still refused to take it easy, although he admitted that “I feel weak and tired at the moment.” He concentrated on increasing the time he could remain off the respirator, breathing through his nose, managing up to thirty-five minutes. It was, he said, “like walking up a steep hill. It was a nice success for me. Whenever I have a setback, I demand more of myself … . I look for ways to challenge myself so that when I’m up and going again, I won’t have lost my approach to life. If you give up once, you could become one of those people who sit and stare out the window.”

  Obviously, Chris wasn’t about to let that happen; indeed, the whole prospect seemed to terrify him, but he was someone who’d always been active, both mentally and physically. He needed to fight against the whole idea of becoming a burden, a dead weight.

  By early February he could feel that real progress was being made. In a sitting position, he could regularly breathe off the respirator for ninety minutes at a time. Tests showed that 75 percent of the sensation is his left leg had returned, and there was a marked increase in his shoulder movements. It was as if, very, very slowly, his body was healing itself. How much further it would go, no one knew, but he would keep pushing it for all he was worth.

  And the opportunities were coming in for him to push it a long way. There was a rather sad irony in the fact that Chris’s accident had returned him to the kind of celebrity he hadn’t known since the beginning of the 1980s. He’d been in magazines and on television, and the offers were still coming in, far more than he could feasibly handle. Warner Brothers was planning a major animated feature, and was interested in him providing one of the voices. Studios were pleased to suggest directing jobs.

  And there were any number of speaking engagements. Chris’s courage, his refusal to meekly accept what fate had handed him, had landed him quite rightly in the inspirational category. Soon he was a part of that circuit, making up to fifty thousand dollars for a single appearance. Maybe it wasn’t what he got into acting to do, but he would be the first to admit that he needed money, and other big-cash parts wouldn’t be forthcoming anytime soon.

  In the meantime he organized a benefit for the American Paralysis Association, to be held at Radio City Music Hall in New York on March 22. Anything that occupied his time was welcome, and when it was an event like this, supporting his cause, he was pleased to use his clout to get things organized.

  His first foray into public speaking came in March, when he traveled to Green Springs, Ohio, where he was set to open an $18 million wing of St. Francis Health Care Center, the facility to specialize in the treatment of spinal-cord patients. Going any distance was arduous, particularly on a plane, but he needed to get used to it; he’d be doing plenty of it in the months and years to come.

  In fact, another trip was planned for just two weeks after, this one a little longer, taking him all the way to the West Coast. Chris had been invited to the Sixty-eighth Annual Academy Awards, to be held on March 25. Perhaps the organizers were surprised when he accepted, but he knew this was a chance to appear in front of the most powerful people in Hollywood and raise his voice for better roles for the disabled. Not only would they be listening, but literally all over the world people would be tuned in to the show. The old Chris wouldn’t have missed such an opportunity, and the new Chris wasn’t about to let it slip by, either. However, when he received the invitation, in January, and agreed to appear, “I put the phone down and said, ‘What have I done?’”

  Transporting him was almost like a military operation in its intricacy. The logistics were coordinated by Neil Stutzer, who was president of Access of New Jersey, a company which arranged travel for the disabled. For Chris to attend the Oscars, Warner Brothers had supplied one of their corporate jets, which helped, but even so there were plenty of problems to be overcome. Chris had to fly in a prone position, which meant the wheelchair was little more than baggage. There were backups and precautions for any and every medical emergency that might happen in flight, all written in a seventy-five-page manual that Stutzer had prepared himself—he even came along to make sure everything went smoothly. And Chris needed to be attended, not only by Dana, but also a doctor and nurse. Whether in a van or a plane, every bump sent him into spasms. The ventilator had to remain connected; his blood pressure had to be constantly monitored for spikes. It wasn’t so much a journey as an ordeal.

  Word of his attendance at the Oscars was kept secret. Beyond the organizers, only a very few people knew he was in Los Angeles. He and Dana checked into the Beverly Hilton on March 23 under assumed names, staying in the Presidential Suite. Staff security even cleared the halls as they went to their room so no other guests would see him. After dinner with Robin Williams and his wife, there was a quiet evening with some friends from the profession, including Emma Thompson, with whom Chris had worked in The Remains of the Day.

  The theme he planned to address was “Hollywood Tackles the Issues,” and his sole insistence was that a clip of Coming Home, the film that starred Jon Voight as a wheelchair-bound Vietnam veteran, be shown as part of the video montage. He cowrote his own speech with producer Susan Winton.

  It was a big night, a major event, both for the awards and for Chris. The Creative Coalition dinner five months before had been one thing, but that seemed like an almost informal gathering compared to this.

  Early in the evening, radio stations managed to leak the news that he’d be at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, but it didn’t matter; by that time most of the guests had already arrived.

  Everything seemed to have been perfectly stage-managed, but there were a few inevitable last-minute glitches. Just twenty minutes before he was due onstage Chris informed Quincy Jones that he didn’t want the orche
stra to play the theme from Superman as he entered.

  But music was hardly needed; the mere fact of his appearance would be dramatic enough in itself.

  It was timed as the virtual climax of an evening which had seen its share of emotion, as Kirk Douglas, recovering from a stroke and unable to speak properly, received a lifetime achievement award from his sons, and Gerda Weissmann Klein recounted in chillingly matter-of-fact fashion her memories as a Jew during the Holocaust.

  Chris was the crescendo of all that. Directing his wheelchair by sucking and blowing on the straw, he rolled onto the stage. As they had at the Creative Coalition, the audience stood as one, applauding. Chris was one of them, a man who, to all intents and purposes, had come back from the dead, and they were happy to celebrate his return.

  “What you probably don’t know is that I left New York last September and I just arrived here this morning,” Chris joked as the ovation finally died down. “And I’m glad I did because I wouldn’t have missed this kind of welcome for the world.”

  “I saw so many warm and accepting faces,” he said later. “It felt like a homecoming.”

  And everyone, those there in person and the billion people tuned in around the globe, listened raptly as he introduced brief clips from Norma Rae, Thelma and Louise, Platoon, Philadelphia, and Coming Home.

  He pointed out that the film industry had the ability to make these kind of films and have them seen by millions of people.

  “Hollywood needs to do more,” he said in conclusion. “Let’s continue to take risks. Let’s tackle the issues. In many ways our film community can do it better than anyone else. There is no challenge, artistic or otherwise, that we can’t meet.”

  Later, the event over and emotions calming, he and Dana went to the Governor’s Ball to celebrate what had been another little—or in this case, big—victory.