When my brother was sixteen, he was an incredible athlete and being eight years younger, I thought he was invincible. Little did I know, I would soon see that superhero become completely dependent on others to sit, eat, and move. The day remains vivid in my memory as I answered the phone from the South Bend Police and flew with my family to the hospital, where we were met with a chaplain. What I didn't realize on my way to South Bend Memorial is that day would forever impact my life. My brother would first fight to save his life, then weeks later fight to save his leg, and a year later would fight to learn how to stand from a wheelchair. In fourth grade, I witnessed first-hand a PT seemingly satisfied and unaffected by my brother’s lack of improvement. I watched with hopeful eyes, the passionless and passive treatments until the therapist told my parents my brother wasn't going to walk again and this was our "new normal." Fortunately, my parents assured my brother (crying and devastated) that he deserved a second opinion. They traveled an hour each way many times a week to a "Manual Physical Therapist" who looked at my brother and said, "If you are willing to work, I am willing to as well." I witnessed a change in my brother. Someone believed that he might be able to walk one day if he was willing to work--- and that he was. The passionate and skilled therapist implemented manual techniques and by the end of the session was dripping with sweat, almost as much as the patient himself.

 

There were many tears shed from pain and frustration, along with many falls because he would get sick of us trying to help and would attempt to stand on his own. My big, superhero brother, resorted to army crawling around our house on days that he just wanted to be independent. Unfortunately, he couldn’t feel his feet, so a trail of blood followed him from where he rubbed the dorsal aspects of his feet raw. I will never forget when I heard my brother screaming at the top of his lungs because he was able to move his big toe. The family gathered, only this time not to watch him score a touchdown or make the winning basket, rather to cheer him on, as he wiggled his toe ever-so-slightly.

 

Almost two years later, I watched my brother, Senior Class President, walk onto the graduation commencement stage and announce the graduating class of 1989. I am not sure there was a dry eye in the packed gymnasium, but I knew at that moment I was dedicated to becoming a passionate, hard-working Manual Physical Therapist so that I too could have this kind of impact on others.