Uplifting

I was a bit nervous the first time I called out, “Mr. Finnigan?” into the packed VA waiting room. His appointment was supposed to start 50 minutes ago but we’d fallen behind and waiting isn’t one of those things people are usually happy to do more of, like sleeping or eating or taking a vacation.

No response. “Mr. Finnigan?” I try again, doing my best to sound confident, official. “Right here,” he says as his wife sets a magazine on the chair next to her and grabs her coat. Mr. Finnigan grabs the rims of his wheel chair and begins wheeling himself in my direction. A small patch on his black leather vest reads “ICEMAN” and I’m thinking about what Maverick jokes I could make when I notice that the patch is sewn on just above a weathered Purple Heart pinned to the vest and I decide to bag any jokes. He has a stern look about him and I can’t tell if this expression is his baseline or if he’s just pissed about the wait—I would be.

He backs himself into place in the exam room and I introduce myself. He shakes my hand with a firm grip and says good-naturedly, “Call me Levi, or Sergeant. None of this ‘mister’ shit.” His problem is a relatively straightforward one and there has been no change in his condition since his previous visit—as long as he takes his medication, this problem doesn’t bother him. He’s here basically to renew his prescriptions. During the course of our conversation, I discover that he was in an elite fighting unit during the Viet Nam war. He was shot three times and proudly tells me that “he’s living evidence that they couldn’t shoot worth shit.” He lost most of the function in his legs from a grenade blast that peppered him with shrapnel and has had him wheelchair bound for nearly 40 years. A little in-your-face and a lot coarse, this proud recipient of four Purple Hearts is irresistibly likeable and commands respect. Although he’s sitting in his wheelchair, it still sort of feels like he’s the tallest guy in room.

He’s here and he’s only in the Neurology clinic once a year, so I do a few basic neuro exams on him that don’t really have anything to do with why he’d made the appointment. One of those things is testing the strength in his legs. He is able to ride a recumbent exercise bike and says he does so for at least half an hour everyday because “Rangers always push shit beyond what you should.” He can ride that bike and wheel himself around without too much trouble, but because of the damage to his spinal cord, extending his legs at the knee is very difficult for him. Toward the end of my exam, I hold my hand out about 18 inches in the air and ask him to kick his leg up to my hand. He bites down and gives it everything he’s got. His initial kick gets his foot about 8 inches into the air, still about 10 inches short of my hand. He’s holding his breath and pushing with all his might. Sweat beads on his forehead and his face is bright red. After 30 seconds or so, his breath explodes out of his mouth and his foot drops about an inch. He takes a deep breath in, regroups, and keeps kicking his leg in the air. I’m coaxing, encouraging, trying to will his leg upward. He keeps pushing and slowly, very slowly his foot is moving upward about an inch every 10 seconds or so.

“Kick! Kick! Kick! You’ve got this. Keep going.”

His hands are white from the death grip he has on the arm rests of his chair. He absolutely will not give up, so I keep my hand where it is. Finally, his toe reaches it. He exhales and his leg drops to the ground.

I scoot my stool to the other side of his chair, hold my hand out at the same height and nod at his other leg and say, “Now this one.”

“Boy doc, you’re really going to work me, aren’t you?”

“Yep. We only see you once a year so we’ve got to work you.”

With no more than a five second rest, he starts the whole process over, kicking the other leg up. This leg is perhaps a touch weaker, or maybe he’s just tired. Regardless, it takes him a bit longer to kick this one up. He’s sweating, red in the face, and completely out of breath when the toe of his shoe hits my palm. I don’t see it clearly because of the tears brimming on my lower eyelids, but I feel the toe of his shoe hit my hand. These sudden and unexpected emotions really catch me off guard and, in the moment, I have a hard time processing what would, later, make a lot of sense to me.

Part of it, no doubt, is the deep respect I hold for those who serve in the military. But there was also something palpably and uniquely special about this guy. I think it was his simple no-quit attitude that was so moving. This is a guy who’s not afraid to get back into the fray. A guy who simply plays the hand he gets dealt without a lot of fuss. You can shoot him up over and over or nearly blow him apart with grenades, and he’ll keep fighting till he’s dead or the mission is accomplished. I’m certain that it will be the most inspiring leg-lift I’ll ever see, simply because for him, and for me, it was about much more than just lifting a leg.

I love taking care of Vets.