The Power of Faith When Tragedy Strikes

by Chris Norton

  As my recovery sped up and I was able to handle more in therapy, I enjoyed staying busy because it helped keep my mind off the future. I’d get caught up in the present and what I could do now, so the constant activity kept me focused. When it was just my dad and me, one of my favorite things was to hear stories about his childhood. My grandpa, his dad, was very tough and determined, and I drew strength from knowing his blood ran through my veins.

  At the very beginning, I didn’t really trust my nurses, PT, or OT with my body. With every day and through every session, I became more comfortable with what we did, and I developed an essential comfort level with them. It didn’t happen overnight—it took closer to a month—but they definitely earned and upheld that trust. Eventually, whenever they wanted to do something different, I set my nervousness aside and did whatever they recommended because they knew what was best for me and I trusted them completely.

  One of the things I enjoyed the most was being able to do the arm bike portion of the RT300 when my shoulders weren’t really stable enough to support themselves. The first couple of weeks I spent using the arm bike, I was belted into my chair around my stomach with my shoulders pinned to the backrest of my chair because my core was so unstable I would fall to the side. The electrical stimulation increased the range of motion in my arms and really helped keep my muscles strong. I hated how my muscles shrank and I went from having a toned, muscular body to losing a lot of weight because of muscle atrophy. Being able to work my muscles and fight the atrophy felt fantastic and made me feel normal.

  I wanted to be in top physical shape for the RT300 bike and eventually the Lokomat, which would help retrain my nervous system and simulate walking. Due to the long setup time for the Lokomat, I needed to be able to stand for at least fifteen minutes. It took forever to get my body used to not feeling nauseated whenever I’d go from a sitting to a standing position. We used a standing frame to hoist me from sitting to standing. I’d go up, and then my blood pressure would drop so I’d have to go back down. I’d go up again, and I’d have to go back down. We just kept repeating the process until my body got used to being upright.

  Whenever they raised me up and I passed out, it was almost as if a light switch went off. On a few occasions, I passed out on the standing machine because the drop in pressure was too sudden. I woke up back in my chair with my legs propped up and my dad, the PT, and the gym tech hovering over me with worried faces, asking if I was okay. It took a few seconds before I knew where I was or what had happened. One time they cranked me to the upright position, and I immediately went down. I passed out another time while being raised up into the Lokomat. My grandma was present, and she nearly fainted because she was so upset about me losing consciousness.

  * * *

  “I had no idea how strong mentally Chris was, how courageous Chris was, and how determined Chris was.”

  ~ Connie Norton, Chris’s Grandma

  * * *

  Controlling my blood pressure was the first step in getting me ready to stand or walk. The therapists continued to put Ace bandages around my legs and chest to help me tolerate being upright. I was never able to withstand being in the upright position for extended periods of time, but the Lokomat’s harness helped keep my blood pressure up long enough to save me from passing out. I had to fight the nausea that lingered whenever I was upright, but it felt wonderfully normal to stand and move my legs in the walking pattern. Using the Lokomat was an important step in my recovery and fueled my desire to walk, but it wasn’t the only device that drained me both physically and mentally.

  I got sick a couple of times while using the leg bike, so I had the PT set a garbage can beside the bike. I needed to work hard in order to get better, and pushing myself to the limit was what I’d always done. I’d spit up into the garbage can and just keep going. I’d gotten sick maybe once or twice from football conditioning, but I was never a big puker.

  During my senior year, while doing two-a-days, our drills included running across the field and back a bunch of times. It was exhausting. One day, I’d stupidly eaten at a Chinese buffet earlier, but that didn’t stop me from pushing myself hard. I was the first one done every time, but at the end, my lunch made a return appearance. I caught some serious flack, but I just drank some water and moved on to the next drill.

  In rehab, whenever I passed out or got sick, I did the same. I got some water and then tried again. Getting sick or passing out never made me want to quit. We’d figure out a better or slower way to get me upright, I’d take a minute, and then we’d get right back to work. I couldn’t afford to miss a whole PT session because I’d gotten sick or passed out. I had work to do.

  The nurses, therapists, and doctors seemed very impressed by how hard I worked and how much better I got based on where they thought I should have been, considering my injury. The way they cared for patients seemed pretty back and white, so I think my attitude changed their outlook on the possibilities of recovery being based on the patient’s work ethic, attitude, and determination.

  Perhaps watching me work so hard while maintaining an upbeat attitude gave them a sense of encouragement and a feeling of satisfaction in their work. When they saw miracles happen as my strength returned and I got better, it gave everyone a sense of hope that spread to other patients. Hope was a determining factor in the recovery of all patients, myself included.

  When I first got movement back in my arm, I didn’t think much about which hand I could use because I just wanted to do something on my own. My coordination was off, but I was happy I could move something. Despite having more movement and control in my left arm, it felt foreign as a right-handed person to have to rely mostly on my left hand.

  One of the bigger milestones I reached in therapy was being able to use my arm to scratch my cheek. That was huge because trying to describe to someone where I had an itch without using my arms was quite difficult. “My right cheek,” I’d say. “To the left a little bit. No, more to the right.” Having people touch my face was annoying, so being able to do it myself felt wonderful.

  Lifting and curling a half-pound weight seemed laughable, but everyone, including me, got excited the first time I accomplished it. I was thankful and happy, but after thinking about how much I used to curl when I was in top shape, feeling excited about curling half a pound seemed ridiculous. I fought the urge to compare my prior life to my current state, because curling any amount of weight was a big step and I tried not to feel discouraged.

  We worked in OT on using adaptive computer equipment. We tried the Dragon dictation system where the computer learned my voice commands. While frustrating, it did help me become a little more independent. I could direct the mouse to open programs, but because I didn’t speak very clearly or well enough for the computer to recognize all of my commands, the system didn’t always do as I instructed. I yelled at it a lot. We tried other adaptations with a little sensor I put on my head where a light controlled the mouse. It all helped, but the learning curve was steep. In RT, we eventually figured out how to play video games on the computer, and we later took a field trip, or what was commonly referred to as an “outing,” to the movies.

  I made good friends in rehab. I met a guy from Iowa who got hurt three weeks after I did, and we became good friends with him and his family. We could relate to each other, and I really appreciated talking to someone who was going through the same kind of situation. I also met another guy a year older than me who didn’t have much family support. My family and I tried to visit him and have him hang out with us as much as possible.

  Another patient had already been at Mayo for eight months. He was injured in a car accident that messed up a bunch of internal organs and broke his neck in a way so he couldn’t swallow. His situation made me realize things could always be worse. It was humbling for a lot of people to see me, but it was also the other way around when I realized there were others who had it worse than me. Going through therapy with him and reading about other people’s hardships on CaringBridg
e definitely made me appreciative and thankful for what I had.

  My friends in rehab and I developed a brotherhood because we were there at the same time, going through the same things, and we could relate to each other by facing similar hardships. I felt comfortable and normal around them, but outside of the hospital, I felt uncomfortable because people stared and I felt different from everyone else. When I was with them, I just felt normal and accepted.

  In order to stay positive and not get frustrated with the pace of recovery, I thought about all the good things I had to be thankful for and focused on the good parts of my recovery. I watched a lot of TV shows and movies when I needed a distraction, and I trusted God and relied on my faith by believing that God would someday reveal the purpose and reason for the accident.

  I never had any regrets about how I lived my life before my injury and that brought me a lot of peace. I had experienced a lot, and I was pleased with the effort I put forth during those experiences. Eighteen years with a fully functioning body was not that long, but I felt I’d maxed those years out the best I could.

  I really wanted to have success at the college level, so not being able to see how far I could go as an athlete was disappointing. Being an athlete was a part of my identity because I’d always participated in sports, was very competitive, and loved playing sports for fun, but I never felt I lost my identity after my injury. My circumstances had changed, and even though I never thought I could live without being active, I still knew who I was, where I came from, and what was important in life.

  I tried to take one day at a time. I thought about what I could do on that day in order to get better and just stay goal oriented. I wrote out actual workouts that my PT and OT put together and asked my parents, my family, or my dad to do extra workouts with me.

  My therapists encouraged me to work on my own time because there was so much work to do, and I only had so much time in therapy. The doctors made sure I understood the difference between my nerves and my muscles, and that nerve fatigue was different from muscle fatigue. If I worked out hard and burned out a muscle, there wouldn’t be any harm, but burning out a nerve might stop the signal for a while and I couldn’t afford to have that happen. Rest was key.

  Their guidance was essential because I was willing to do anything I could and maximize every opportunity. A clock in my head was gunning for that six to nine month range, and I didn’t think I’d get any movement back after that time frame had come and gone. My dad told me over and over again that I was being tried by fire and that I’d come out as steel. I definitely felt like I was tried by fire, but God knew I could handle it. I did handle it, and I felt stronger because of it. Having something completely alter my life helped me keep things in perspective and made me numb to some stresses. Life’s little dramas and occasional ups and downs didn’t bother me anymore. I was able to take a step back and look at the big picture in order to determine what was important and what I should let go.

  At about five weeks in, an unfamiliar sensation occurred in my left big toe. My legs felt like they were in an invisible cast, and I could sense the cast everywhere but my left big toe. It was as though it had broken free from the cast. Something was happening; I didn’t know what, but it felt different. My dad got excited, my family was thrilled, and I was eager to tell my doctor.

  Something good was happening. I didn’t know if what I was experiencing was normal or if it was something he could explain, but either way I was excited to tell the doctor. He responded that often times people with an injury as serious as mine believed and hoped in something so much that they tricked their mind into thinking it was real. He called it a “phantom feeling.” The whole time he was talking, I kept thinking, Are you serious?

  “Can you just check it?” I asked him. “I can feel it. I think it might be a muscle firing.”

  He explained the whole phantom syndrome, adamant that it was all in my head. I was devastated, and it must have shown on my face, because when I looked at my dad, he had tears in his eyes. The strongest man I’d ever known had his teeth clenched and was fighting back tears. That really threw me back as that was the first time I’d ever seen him cry.

  As soon as the doctor left, my dad turned to me. “Do not let anyone tell you what you can and can’t do. You’re going to beat this. I don’t care what they say. You’re going to beat this, and we’re going to do it together. I’ll be here with you, and we’re going to prove them wrong.”

  Hearing the conviction in his voice and seeing the tears in his eyes made mine water up, but that was exactly what I needed to hear and see. Exactly. I vowed to never back down, and never let anyone tell me what I could or couldn’t do. I responded to the doctor’s answer with even more determination and hope. When he told me I couldn’t move my toe, and my dad said not to let anyone—even a doctor—tell me what I could or couldn’t do, it made me want to do it even more.

  On Thanksgiving morning, just a few days later, I felt an even stronger connection with that big toe. I concentrated really hard on moving it and jerked back in surprise when I saw the sheets move.

  My sisters had spent the night in my room, so I called for them. “Alex! Katie! Pull my sheet back and watch my big toe.” I moved it again.

  They both started screaming. “Do it again! Do it again!”

  I kept moving it, watching in disbelief. I’d proven the doctor wrong and flung the door wide open for hope. It was an unforgettable moment.

  * * *

  “It was one of the greatest things I have witnessed, yes something as simple as a toe wiggle is by far the greatest thing I’ve seen- it was a sign of hope, answered prayers, and of a positive upcoming future.”

  ~ Alex Norton, Chris’s sister

  * * *

  We wanted to surprise my mom and dad, and we thought of the perfect way to make it happen. My dad did this quirky thing where he’d pull my sheets back over my legs and yell at my feet, “Move, feet! Talk to me! Come to life!” So when my parents got to my room, Katie and Alex encouraged my dad to try talking to my feet again.

  He pulled the sheet back. “Talk to me!”

  I wiggled my toe, and he stood upright, looking shocked. “Did you just do that?”

  “Yeah.” I did it again and again.

  He was stunned speechless, and my mom immediately started bawling.

  “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” she cried. She was happy and mad that we didn’t tell them right away. “Why did you wait?”

  My nurses came in and I did it for them, to their surprise and amazement. Megan happened to be working that day in PT, so I asked the nurses to get her. She was thrilled at seeing the movement, and she felt happy for my family and me. I wanted the nurses to get the doctor who’d told me I couldn’t move my toe, but he wasn’t on call that day and was home with his family for Thanksgiving. I’d never experienced so much exhilaration before in my life. It was one of those moments where I felt on top of the world, like I’d just scored a game-winning touchdown. I felt like the Hulk; I wanted to rip open my shirt and have “Dr. Phantom” come into my room so I could tell him, “Phantom this.” It was an awesome moment and a great start to a special day. My whole family on my mom’s side moved Thanksgiving to the hospital, and we had a huge Thanksgiving feast in a big conference room with all my cousins, aunts, and uncles.

  That unbelieving doctor rotated off the floor, and the next time I saw him was two months later when he came in to watch a physical therapy session. At that time, I’d gained even more movement and strength in both legs. After my therapy session, he congratulated me on my progress. He said he was wrong, and that he was very glad that he was.

  Defying the odds by moving my legs brought even more attention to my recovery. As word of my injury spread, I received a lot of requests for interviews from newspapers and local television stations. My first time around a TV camera was kind of uncomfortable. I didn’t know how to act, so they told me to pretend they weren’t there. I tried to go about my normal business, but
it still felt different. I actually liked it when the media came around because I tended to have my best therapy days whenever I was in front of the camera.

  Even though I didn’t find my story that newsworthy, after the stories aired, people reached out and sent letters. I didn’t mind being public about what was going on when people seemed to find inspiration and hope from my story. I worried I was showboating or coming across as arrogant, but my dad said it wasn’t showboating when people were inspired and it was something they wanted to hear. My dad thought it was best to be as vocal and outspoken about it as possible, and that helped me turn a corner and take the interviews in stride.

  I never wanted or asked for the media’s attention. I never read the articles or watched the videos. I never liked the sound of my voice, and I already knew the story. I did get irritated whenever the media only mentioned the facts of the story and neglected the intangibles like my family, friends, faith, determination, and my work ethic that was in place before my injury. In fact, when I got hurt, it was just a repeat of everything I’d already done, but just on a different level and with a bigger audience.

  I didn’t recover alone, and working hard was only a small part of my recovery. If I didn’t have faith, family, and friends, I don’t think my hard work would have paid off or I’d have recovered as much. The story wasn’t about my injury, but about how and why I was able to keep going and the strength of my spirit.

  * * *

  I have been involved in sports all of my life and have watched people who talk the talk, but don’t walk the walk. They use words like “heart,” “competitor,” and “winner,” but what I have found is that we all look good and sound believable when things are going well. It is easy to talk about these things when things are going our way, and we are “front runners.” But where these words really have meaning is when things don’t follow our plan, when things don’t go like we want them to, or when we are truly faced with adversity and the wheels are falling off.