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Christopher Reeve's Decision

By Christopher Reeve
From "Still Me"

On Memorial Day weekend, 1995, my world changed forever. I was competing in an equestrian event in Virginia when my horse, Buck, decided to put on the brakes just before the third jump.

When he stopped suddenly, momentum carried me over the top of his head. My hands got entangled in the bridle, and I couldn't get an arm free to break my fall. All six-feet-four-inches and 215 pounds of me landed headfirst. Within seconds I was paralyzed from the neck down and fighting for air like a drowning person.

I woke up five days later in the intensive-care unit at the University of Virginia hospital. Dr. John Jane, head of neurosurgery at the hospital, said I had broken the top two cervical vertebrae and that I was extremely lucky to have survived. He told my wife, Dana, and me that I might never be able to breathe on my own again. But my head was intact, and my brain stem—so close to the site of the injury—appeared unharmed.

Dr. Jane said my skull would have to be reconnected to my spinal column. He wasn't sure if the operation would be successful, or even if I could survive.

Suddenly it dawned on me that I was going to be a huge burden to everybody, that I had ruined my life and everybody else's. Why not die, I thought miserably, and save everyone a lot of trouble?

As family and friends visited, my spirits were on a roller-coaster ride. I would feel so grateful when someone came a long way to cheer me up. But the time would come when everybody had to leave, and I'd lie there and stare at the wall, stare at the future, stare in disbelief.

When I would finally fall asleep, I'd be whole again, making love to Dana, riding or acting in a play.

Then I'd wake up and realize that I could no longer do any of that; I was just taking up space.

One day Dana came into the room and stood beside me. I could not talk because of the ventilator. But as we made eye contact, I mouthed the words, "Maybe we should let me go."

Dana started crying. "I am only going to say this once," she said. "I will support whatever you want to do because this is your life and your decision. But I want you to know that I'll be with you for the long haul, no matter what."

Then she added the words that saved my life: "You're still you. And I love you."

I can't drift away from this, I began to realize. I don't want to leave.

Dana and Me

A crisis like my accident doesn't change a marriage; it brings out what is truly there. It intensifies but does not transform it. Dana rescued me when I was lying in Virginia with a broken body, but that was really the second time. The first time was the night we met.

It was June 1987, and a long-term relationship of mine had ended. I was determined to be alone and focus on my work. Since childhood I had developed the belief that a few isolated moments of happiness were the best you could hope for in relationships. I didn't want to risk too much because I was certain that disappointment would follow.

Then one night I went to a cabaret with friends, and Dana Morosini stepped onstage. She wore an off-the-shoulder dress and sang "The Music That Makes Me Dance." I went down hook, line and sinker.

Afterward I went backstage and introduced myself. At the time, I was an established film actor. You wouldn't think I'd have a problem with a simple conversation with a woman. But when I offered her a ride to the party we were all going to, she said, "No thanks, I have my own car." All I could say was "Oh." I dragged myself out to my old pickup truck, trying to plan my next move.

Later I tried again. We talked for a solid hour. I have no idea what we talked about. Everything seemed to evaporate around us. I thought to myself, I don't want to make a mistake and ruin this.

We started dating in a very old-fashioned way. I got to know Dana's parents, and we developed an easy rapport. And Dana was instantly comfortable with my two children, Matthew and Alexandra. It filled me with joy.

Dana and I were married in April 1992. Three years later came my accident and Dana's words in the hospital room: "You're still you."

I mouthed, "This goes way beyond the marriage vows -‘in sickness and in health'." She said, "I know." I knew then and there that she was going to be with me forever. We had become a family.

Laughter, Cheers and Hope

As the operation drew closer, I became more frightened, knowing I had only a 50-50 chance of surviving. I lay frozen much of the time, thinking dark thoughts.

My biggest fear had to do with breathing. I couldn't take a single breath on my own, and the ventilator connections didn't always hold. I would lie there at three in the morning in fear of a pop-off, when the hose just comes off the ventilator. After you've missed two breaths, an alarm sounds. You hope someone will come quickly. The feeling of helplessness was hard to take. One very bleak day the door to my room flew open and in hurried a squat fellow in a surgical gown and glasses, speaking with a Russian accent. He said he was my proctologist and had to examine me immediately.

My first thought was that they must be giving me away too many drugs. But it was my old friend, comedian Robin Williams. For the first time since the accident, I laughed.

My three-year-old son, Will, also gave me hope. One day he was on the floor playing when he suddenly looked up and said, "Mommy, Daddy can't move his arms anymore."

"That's right," Dana said. "Daddy can't move his arms."

"And Daddy can't run around anymore," Will continued.

"That's right; he can't."

Then he paused, screwed up his face in concentration and burst out happily, "But he can still smile."

On June 4 I had my operation. It was a success. My doctor predicted that with time I ought to be able to get off the respirator and breathe on my own.

Three weeks later I moved to the Kessler Institute for Rehabilitation in West Orange, N.J. The worst days there were when Bill Carroll, the respiratory therapist, would test my vital capacity, a measure of how much air I could move on my own. I was failing miserably. To even consider weaning yourself off the ventilator, you need a vital capacity of about 750 c.c.'s, but I could hardly move the needle above zero.

At about this time I had to decide if I would attend the annual fundraising dinner of the Creative Coalition, an organization of people in the arts. The dinner was scheduled for October 16 at the Pierre Hotel in New York City. I felt obligated to go, especially because Robin Williams was to be honored for his charitable work.

Still, I worried about making the trip into Manhattan. It would be the first time I would be in public since my accident in May. Would my muscles go into a spasm as they often did? Would I have a pop-off?

Dana and I talked it over and decided that the psychological advantages of going outweighed the physical risks. We dusted off my tuxedo, and on the afternoon of the 16th, I braced myself for the unknown. For nearly five months I'd been cruising in a wheelchair at three miles an hour. Now I was strapped in the back of a van driving into the city at 55 miles an hour. As we hit bumps and potholes, my neck froze with tension, and my body was racked with spasms. Once at the hotel, I was quickly transferred to a suite with a hospital bed to rest. The whole experience was more intense than I had anticipated.

At last it was time for me to present Robin with his award. For a split second I wished a genie could make me disappear. As I was pushed onto the stage, though, I looked out to see 700 people on their feet, cheering. The ovation went on for more than five minutes.

From that moment on, the evening was transformed into a celebration of friendship. Later, as we bounced through the Lincoln Tunnel back to New Jersey, I was so excited I hardly noticed the rough ride. Back at Kessler, Dana produced a bottle of chardonnay, and we toasted a milestone in my new life. I'd made it!

Moving the Dial

I made up my mind—I wanted to breathe on my own again.

On November 2 Bill Carroll, two doctors and a physical therapist brought in the breathing equipment, took me off the ventilator and asked me to take ten breaths.

Lying on my back, I was gasping, my eyes rolling up in my head. With each attempt I was only able to draw in an average of 50 c.c.'s. but at least I had moved the dial.

The next day I told myself over and over that I was going home soon, and imagined my chest as a huge bellows that I could open and close at will. I took the ten breaths, and my average was 450 c.c.'s. Now we're getting somewhere, I thought.

The following day my average was 560 c.c.'s. A cheer broke out. "I've never seen progress like that," Carroll said. "You're going to get off this thing."

After that I practiced every day. I went from seven minutes off the ventilator to 12 minutes to 15. Just before I left Kessler, I gave it everything I had and breathed for 30 minutes on my own.

I'm happy that I decided to keep living, and so are those who are close to me. On Thanksgiving, 1995, I went home to spend the day with my family for the first time since the accident. When I saw our home again, I wept as Dana held me. At the dinner table each of us spoke a few words about what we were thankful for.

Will said simply, "Dad."

From Still Me

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