No, Carson isn't going back to school......yet. But I am. In fact, I am learning about a great many things these days. I am receiving my doctoral education in suffering, compassion, charity, faith, generosity, and love. I'm obtaining good grades in some courses, and barely passing in others. Winter semester has been grueling but I've had outstanding instructors. Let me introduce you to the curriculum with course descriptions:
Course: Suffering/Perseverance 800: Instructor: Carson Tueller (and many others and parents gone before)
I've learned in this class what Aristotle said about suffering: "Suffering becomes beautiful when anyone bears great calamities with cheerfulness, not through insensibility, but through greatness of mind." I asked Carson what his goals were in rehabilitation. His response: "I want to set new records for achieving the best function I can with what I have currently." New Records?, I thought to myself, that sounds familiar. I have learned to never attempt to dissuade this young man in his goals, and I'm certainly not going to start now. When Carson was only about 4 he thought he could catch birds, believing that if he was stealthy and fast enough he could succeed. I would watch this with fascination and tell him that the birds knew he was always there and that he wasn't quick enough to get them. Big mistake. Even at that age he countered that if he tried it long enough he would be successful. He would then ask me how fast a Cheetah could run, and at one point when we lived in Alaska, had me let him out of the car to see how many miles per hour he could sprint. I asked myself, What is up with this kid? Carson is incredibly focused and brings a certain element of intensity regarding his own self expectations. In 23 years I've never seen him regularly watch television or just "kick back" as we often say. Instead, he is driving himself toward some achievement or goal in school, music, athletics, or with people. I've tried to slow him down, but he is usually off to go somewhere, to see someone, to do something---spit on a hot stove. It's almost like he needs some element of a challenge in order to thrive. Now he is in the deep end of the pool, and his perseverance looks familiar. His blood pressure recently fell to an all-time low-----54/24 (120/80 is normal) and he couldn't complete his physical therapy because of passing out, but he kept coming back for more in the following days despite eyes rolling up in his head at times with fatigue, always pressing the limits of his body in all regards. In a recent KSL interview, the reporter asked him, "What is easy for you to do at this point?" to which Carson replied, "It's easy for me to be self-motivated." Sheesh....what an understatement. Dragging around lifeless legs, head bobbing up and down because he has no stomach muscles to help balance, and trying to figure out a new method of working his body is hard to observe. His suffering, tears and frustrations are confined to alone time (until recently) when he contemplates the challenges of the future, but I can see it in my son's eyes--I've always been able to. It's a slightly worried look, and I can see his brain working some angle on the problem, making a plan, a strategy of approaching and defeating the current barrier. The physical trauma and survival mode are wearing off. Invariably this will usher in a nasty emotional coping phase, and the specter of reality regarding physical limitations will send its ugliest messenger, discouragement, to inflict damage on my son. We won't have it---he won't have it. He's up to the fight and we are too, but it will come with a price tag. Carson grew up moving around in the Air Force for 21 of his 23 years, and I remind him of the Military Code of Conduct which hangs in our house, Article II, that reads, "I will never surrender of my own free will. If in Command, I will never surrender the members of my command while they still have the means to resist." Carson will never surrender, nor will we.
A young man decides to walk into the room to see Carson, hearing about the injury and blog from a friend. I don't know him and neither does Carson. We welcome him in and he tells us he is a C4 injury survivor from a cycling accident two years ago, suffering complete paralysis for nearly a month and the years of continual work to gain what he has now. He then proceeds to educate us on his experience, replete with his tenacity in rehabilitation that obviously paid monstrous dividends. Remember, I said he walked in, and he has resolve on his face. You can tell he's come to deliver a message of hope and it is clear that this guy is cut from a different cloth. He provides guidance and experience. I listen to his story with fascination, thinking that is all......but he isn't done yet. He then shares that one of his young daughters has a disease that will be terminal, but that she has beaten the odds of survivability. I think, This guy was not only paralyzed and crawled out of the pit of despair, but now he survives to watch his daughter slowly suffer and eventually pass away. Where does he get his strength and faith? I immediately realize that I am a boy living in a man's world regarding perseverance, spirituality and perhaps being able to see the bigger picture, but my learning curve is steep at this point and I sponge it all in. He delivers his experience and contact information, slowly rises from his chair in considerable nerve pain that hasn't subsided since the accident, and walks down the hall with a noticeably irregular gate, but very clearly walking. His courage inspires us.
Course: Grief 810: Instructor(s): Adversity?....Life?
My appreciation for grieving people has permanently been transformed. Despite many years of book learning and experience listening to countless clients, their family members, and those others who have dealt with profound loss, coupled with my own losses of having family and friends pass away in a variety of ways, the dirty stinking hell of war and its toll on people, working in prison systems, the entire spectrum of substance dependence slavery, suicide, homicide, the chronic mentally ill in despair.....the list is nearly endless hearing/seeing people suffer. I thought I was "dialed in" as they say. Oh, but this experience is dramatically different. Different because it's up close, in my face, and very personal. I can't believe the contrast between having someone else close to you suffer and having one of your own suffer. It is the difference in brightness between the sun and the moon. No more being in the chair of assisting for me; Psychologist, heal thyself, I hear myself mockingly mutter. Now the same verbal pill I've provided others I have to gag down, and it's the size of a football. Choke it down, Steve. I appreciate what it feels like to have heart pain that can only be described as an intractable, persistent aching. I have greater clarity when clients tell me that physical pain is much more desirable than emotional pain. Amen. Carson asked me how I was doing the other day. I told him that I was having a hard time separating myself from his injury. I told him that intellectually I know I can go out and walk and ride my bike, run etc., but emotionally I can't get rid of the sadness for his losses since they feel like mine. He looked surprised. It's even guilt producing to think of enjoying things he can't in the future. No wonder people get depressed and can't move on when they experience loss. They feel like they have to suffer with the person out of respect or compassion, as if they don't have the right to feel joy. The problem is compounded by the fact that I can't do anything about his injury, and it was this way from the beginning. I think males in general tend to be directive and notorious “fixers.” We see problems and want to fix them or take some sort of action, and when thwarted, become frustrated and agitated. This often doesn't help the situation if vocalized. I realize I can't fix my son's spinal cord. So now I'm needing to listen very carefully and enter into an emotional journey of helping him cope. I know how to do that. Even in the seconds following the injury I could only muster verbal comfort to my son as his eyes became increasingly and frighteningly bloodshot, breathing labored, body unnaturally motionless. “It’s going to be okay, dad” he says to me while paralyzed in the pit. “I love you,” he follows with. And finally, “This is the next step”, he boldly announces after being placed on a spinal board. This is the coupe de grace for me emotionally. What is that supposed to mean---the next step? It certainly can't be a next step in any positive direction. What is he talking about? He will fill you in on the meaning better than I. But I am grateful I was in the pit with him and the first to physically touch him, desperately trying to figure out words to say that would provide some element of comfort. I now have a greater understanding of the feelings of helplessness that people describe when tragedy is out of their control and the strange guilt afterward that crushes you like a bulldozer. I'm reminded of a big Marine combat veteran I worked with who was part of a casualty affairs team in Iraq, and his description of having to pull charred bodies from a burned out APC (Armored Personnel Carrier) because the other members of his team were too incapacitated to assist due to the smell, nausea and condition of the bodies. He described faces locked in the final death scream, limbs breaking off upon movement, having to prepare their bodies for shipment home and going through their personal effects---photos of wives, family and children, and wondering what their loved ones were feeling like at the moment of notification. He kept telling me over and over how helpless he felt, that there was nothing he could do for them. Now I relate to this helplessness at an emotional, rather than clinical level.
The grieving process is fascinating and sometimes complex. The psychiatrist, Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, described the 5 stages of death in her seminal work On Death and Dying (1969), and to a lesser extent, these stages can be a framework for grieving loved ones as well. As most know, the stages are Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and finally Acceptance. These are general categories, and one thing is for certain, no two people grieve the same nor do the stages proceed in order. Some stages aren't even experienced. More important is what people say or do when in the various stages. As examples, some of my children want to be next to Carson physically, while others stay safely at a distance. Neither is wrong. Some want the physiological facts about the injury and other clinical information in raw form while others can only handle the details in chunks. Some visitors provide personal words of wisdom while others provide inspiring stories. Some attempt to provide intellectual explanations for the injury or rational coping skills, while others try and make spiritual sense of the incident. Humor also has a unique place in this whole healing and grieving process and this has helped Carson tremendously. I'm not sure there is a standardized approach to grief and there are often no answers for why something happens---there doesn't have to be. Carson recognizes that the beauty of people is how they make him feel, not necessarily what they say. I can truly say that there are people who have visited who innately have the ability to "mourn with those who mourn" and possess such a deep ability for compassion that it exudes from them. What a marvelous spiritual gift. Their faces and eyes give it away, and sometimes they have nothing to say at all, but it is clear what they are feeling for my son, and he can feel it. I suppose all of us have a certain role in this grief process both for Carson and for each other. I'm confident that with time this will hurt less, but totally accept that a part of my heart is relegated to scar tissue, and that's okay.
The grieving process is fascinating and sometimes complex. The psychiatrist, Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, described the 5 stages of death in her seminal work On Death and Dying (1969), and to a lesser extent, these stages can be a framework for grieving loved ones as well. As most know, the stages are Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and finally Acceptance. These are general categories, and one thing is for certain, no two people grieve the same nor do the stages proceed in order. Some stages aren't even experienced. More important is what people say or do when in the various stages. As examples, some of my children want to be next to Carson physically, while others stay safely at a distance. Neither is wrong. Some want the physiological facts about the injury and other clinical information in raw form while others can only handle the details in chunks. Some visitors provide personal words of wisdom while others provide inspiring stories. Some attempt to provide intellectual explanations for the injury or rational coping skills, while others try and make spiritual sense of the incident. Humor also has a unique place in this whole healing and grieving process and this has helped Carson tremendously. I'm not sure there is a standardized approach to grief and there are often no answers for why something happens---there doesn't have to be. Carson recognizes that the beauty of people is how they make him feel, not necessarily what they say. I can truly say that there are people who have visited who innately have the ability to "mourn with those who mourn" and possess such a deep ability for compassion that it exudes from them. What a marvelous spiritual gift. Their faces and eyes give it away, and sometimes they have nothing to say at all, but it is clear what they are feeling for my son, and he can feel it. I suppose all of us have a certain role in this grief process both for Carson and for each other. I'm confident that with time this will hurt less, but totally accept that a part of my heart is relegated to scar tissue, and that's okay.
Course: Support/Generosity 850: Instructor(s): Friends, family, leaders, .........people
Our family, including Carson, are collectively stunned by the outpouring of support, but perhaps more accurately perplexed. Carson has even used the word confused. We keep thinking, We don't deserve this. There are others in so much greater need! My wife and I met recently with Ann Smith, whose son Tyler passed away some 20 months ago from cancer. It was comforting to hear similar feedback about the outpouring of help from people. We could feel of her faith, guidance and knowledge of what we may be experiencing even though our son's circumstances differ. She and her family are veterans of the pain process in every regard and there is a universal language of loss conveyed. It is impossible to name or thank everyone individually, and she recommended that the best approach will be to position ourselves in such as way to pay this forward when a situation occurs in another family. We will be ready. Shortly after Carson's second surgery when people began to respond to the blog, visit, and write letters, I visualized my son at the tip of a wedge of numerous human beings behind him---friends of his, friends of ours, family, extended family, leaders---all with swords drawn to the ready, prepared for battle. I don't know why I visualized this (obviously it has its military influence), but I believe it was a symbolic reminder of the goodness of people who are willing to sacrifice themselves in numerous ways for a friend---our son--and it is truly sobering. To those who have made monetary contributions or coordinated help through various organizations, I am compelled to make an accounting of where these contributions are going in the future, and I will. I am doing my best to cover items related to house renovations because I want any money given to go to Carson exclusively. He will need all of it. I can't emphasize enough to those of you who have contributed how much pressure it removes from our family. Sadly, these situations are expensive I feel horribly guilty. Please forgive my pride.
Course: Faith 825: Instructors: The Lord, Scriptures, Inspiration, Prayer, the Spirit
The Apostle Thomas of the New Testament and I would have been great running buddies. We want the evidence---the proof that something exists. I have sworn to myself over the years that if any disaster struck my family, I wouldn't ask the common questions about the purpose of any event, why the lord lets things like this happen or for what benefit, or try and navigate the labyrinth of suffering and a million other issues that make my brain cook on simmer mode. My personal motto: Be grateful for everything, and expect nothing. But I want my son healed, not because of my faith, but because of his---something for something. Isn't that the way the bargain (covenant) works? Bargain? The fact is the Lord doesn't owe us anything. But aren't we taught that if we have the faith of a mustard seed we can move mountains? Could the lord heal my boy? Absolutely. Should he heal my boy? I don't know. Mental gymnastics---to complex for my dinosaur brain. I find myself making back room bargains with the lord (there is that bargaining stage), perfectly willing to have him take whatever I have and give to my son. Perhaps I wouldn't be man enough to handle it, so it stays where it is. Who knows? Maybe this is a test for us. Test? I don't want any more of these kinds of tests. Why can't I just have a pop quiz every now and again to keep me humble and get my mind right? I learn quickly, I promise. I'm already pulling in C- in this Faith course! I accept that we live in a world filled with accidents, imperfection, evil, disease and suffering, and that is that. Good people die and bad people thrive. There is no such thing as "fairness." I stand in my $60 dollar New Balance Shoes in Afghanistan while little kids stare at me through a fence, barefoot, herding their goats when its 40 degrees out. Fair? Their homes are nothing more than mud. Did my son volunteer for this in the pre-existent world by raising his hand? Did the rest of us as a family raise our hands in quick succession thereafter to support him? I'm not sure I want the answer. All I know is that I need to take care of my son. We made him and we raised him, and he is my responsibility. As I recently told Carson when he was in a moment of acute distress, "Now what are you going to do?, quickly followed by, "What are we going to do?" "Do" is emphasized here. Neither Carson or us as a family are interested in what we have called in the past "spiritual paralysis" (a cruel term now that this accident has happened) where the transmission is placed into neutral while waiting for spiritual guidance or direction. The lord has given us brains to use and expects us to apply them. As a family we know what we have to do. We will put the transmission into drive and press on the accelerator, knowing that if we have the faith necessary and are properly tuned in to the correct spiritual frequency, and LISTEN, regardless of how long it takes, we will be given course corrections as the lord sees fit, ultimately recognizing the purpose to this disaster as the origami unfolds. We certainly can't be arrogant enough to think calamity isn't going to visit us, because it has, and it will. The fact is there aren't answers. I personally hate to "yield" to anything, and have always thought the best defense is a good offense. It has served me well in many circumstances, but hurt me in others. When I was with my 93 year old father and Carson in the hospital, I thought, Look, three generations of stubbornness! It brought a smile to my face for a moment because that is the fire in my boy that will serve him well in the battles to come. But it is time to submit to things beyond our control. The AA serenity prayer is compelling. You admit you are powerless and have to rely on something bigger than yourself when the war is forced upon you, be it anything. You have to control what you can and leave the rest in the hands of he who has descended below all.
Stephen Tueller
