Machine Gunner Grandpa

In memory of Old Papa

By Katherine A. Kimes

My 85 year old grandfather, George Rankin, sat in his favorite chair, which was strategically positioned directly across from the TV. Hi feet were propped up on the ottoman. He smiled at me and opened his World War II scrapbook. I leaned over the side of his char with my hands cradled on it’s arms and my knees firmly pressed against the carpet and patiently waited for his story to begin. 

He turned the pages to a picture of the crew of Eighth Air Force, 390th Bombardment Group, 571st Squadron. It was the picture taken after completing the group’s third combat mission, but it had only been my grandfather’s first. There were five enlisted men and four officers in the picture. All nine men were smiling.  My grandfather quickly asked me if I could pick him out. I laughed and said he was the only enlisted man who had a hat on.  It was his lucky hat; the hat he always wore in combat.  This hat kept the beating sun off of his already balding head.  He was 29.

He pointed to an eager looking young man, who stood to his right.  The man’s face beamed with an accomplished smile, his hair picture perfect. He told me that this was the left waist gunner, Warren Weisert. Warren a.k.a. “Shorty” was his buddy, a relationship which bloomed because of their stationed positions in the aircraft. My grandfather had been the plane’s right waist gunner and Warren was his counterpart, the left waist gunner. To the left of my grandfather stood the co-pilot, Lieutenant Winford Alfred, his hat positioned slightly off center. Standing next to him was Frank Becay, the top turret gunner, who was also the plane’s engineer.  He squinted at the camera with his head cocked to the left.  A dimpled, blonde hair, Burless Dye, the ball turret gunner was next in line.  He wore a grin from ear to ear.  The last man standing in the row was Lieutenant Ted Archuleta, the bombardier. He stood perfectly straight with his head held high. 

Three men squatted in front of the six standing men.  All balanced on the balls of their feet with their elbows propped on their knees. The first man, Lieutenant Gerald Ritcher, was the pilot. Know by his crew as Rick, he named his aircraft, the Rick-o-shay.  Ritcher’s features looked odd, strange. A curious smile detailed his face.  He peered at the camera from the corner of his eyes. His hat casted a shadow over his face. He more readily faded into the ranks of the whisker-free, enlisted men with his boyish face, rather than with the three mustached, older looking officers. To the left of Ritcher stood the navigator, Lieutenant Carl Fannin.  He was the only man who wore sunglasses. Besides Fannin was Bill Holland, the radio operator, who dramatically leaned forward, a lit cigarette pressed between his lips. He was squinting, forehead creased, which emphasized his bushy brown eyebrows. He held in his right hand a dagger, while his left hand caressed the blade.  All the men help assorted “souvenirs” from their three day “stay” in North Africa, everyone except my grandfather, George Rankin, whose hands were empty.

From my grandfather’s center a cleansing breath expanded his thoughts. His eyes shone with remembrance; images that had not yet faded, but only made temperate through time. His passionate words led me to his journey into human history, World War II, the raid on Regensburg, Germany.

August 17, 1943 4A.M. A clerk from the 390th Squadron Commander’s Office came into the soldier’s barracks and turned on the lights. The men were jolted awake. As they got dressed, complaints were exchanged concerning the early wake-up call, but once they got suited, the men  were off to the mess hall for breakfast: fresh eggs, bacon, toast, coffee and biscuits, “a hearty last meal.” Afterwards, they were order into the conference room, where they were given their mission assignment. They were to bomb Regensburg, Germany. The target was Messerschmitt, a German aircraft plan where 25-30% of Germany’s single-engine fighter plans were produced. This manufacturing plant was the second largest of its kind in Europe. The Regensburg mission would be the first attempted at a shuttle mission to North Africa. The designated route of the  formation was to fly over France, into Germany, drop the bombs, enter Italy by way of Switzerland, cross the Mediterranean Sea and arrive at their final destination, the air base, Telergma in North Africa. From their home base in Framlingham, England, ten men boarded the Rick-o-shay and put on their oxygen masks. The planes took off and attempted to form the standard aerial, three-squadron format, a flying format which resembled a triangle. The Lead Squadron formed the apex of the triangle, while the Low and High Squadrons formed the two base points of the triangle. The Low Squadron was positioned to the lower left of the Lead. The High Squadron was positioned towards the Lead’s lower right. There were ten planes in each of the three-squadrons. The 390th dispatched 20 aircrafts that morning. The Rick-o-shay was positioned in the High Squadron, first in line to the right of their group’s lead plane. Unfortunately, a delay in establishing the standard aerial formation over England cost the B-17s gallons of precious fuel.

When they reached the coast of France, the men were on the look-out for German fighter planes. Their orders were to keep a diligent watch for the enemy. The flight over France was smooth. It was a clear day, bright sunshine, but this unfortunately gave the enemy the advantage. They could see the B-17s coming from miles away and there were no fighter escorts to secure their safety. No noise. Only silence inside the aircraft. All the men dreaded the inevitable, but there was no time to dwell on their predicament. Each man had a job to do. This prevented them from ever thinking about the chance that they might not make it back alive.

It was -30 degrees as my grandfather stood at the 3 x 4’ opening at the side of the aircraft over the right wing. Despite this, however, he was not cold. He was bundled up in long underwear, fur-lined pants, jacket and gloves, and an electrically heating flying suit. This piling of clothes, however, did not hamper his movement. Instead it kept the bitter temperature and wind chill away. A long obtrusive 50 caliber machine gun was positioned on an undercarriage on the base of the opening. Its barrel was over three feet long. The gun pivoted and could be quickly maneuvered into different positions: up, down and side to side. The machine gun was stabilized by a stand that sat inside the aircraft; therefore, my grandfather wasn’t burdened with supporting the gun’s heavy frame, while simultaneously engaging in combat. This gave him leverage. As he stood at the opening, he wondered whether his basic training at Biloxi, Mississippi and his simulated combat fights at gunnery school in Wendover, Utah had actually prepared him for what lay ahead. All the while he hoped that things would not be too bad.

Holland announced sightings over the radio via headsets. “Enemy at 3 o’clock high.” “Enemy at 12 o’clock high.” The sky, once filled with fear, was now filled with German fighter planes. Before the single-engine fighter planes attacked, the German pilots flew by and saluted the American soldiers. The Rick-o-shay crew consecutively saluted the enemy, but after this courteous exchange the fighting officially began. German fighters strategically came out of the blinding sun and flew through the formation, trying to break it up, but the German efforts failed. Therefore, in order to make their tactics more effective, they sent out newly-assembled fighter planes on the opposite side of the main attack. These planes were used as decoys to distract the B-17 gunners.

Fighters were all over the formation.  The Rick-o-shay was attacked from multiple angles. Its tail was chased all the way to the target. My grandfather, Rankin, had to move into action quickly, but it was difficult.  He had to fire at one fighter plan, while simultaneously lining up another one out of the corner of his eye. He scanned the clear blue sky and moved into action. With his gun perched and aimed, he fought off the foray of German planes, nearing 50 to 75 feet from his post. The Nazis came in high and dove under the Rick-o-shay’s tail, but the ball turret gunner Dye got them, my grandfather eagerly explained, “just like the movies”; the fighter planes exploded in mid-air while Dye was still shooting.

The enemy ceased attack once the Rick-o-shay was over the target because the German fighters could not risk being hit by the ground artillery that was being sent up. The sky that was once filled with fighter planes was not filled with flak, antiaircraft artillery.

All my grandfather could do during this time was stand at the opening with his gun positioned and watch the clear blue sky become bombarded with flak. He silently hoped and prayed that their plane would not get hit by a shell. The plane was silent. No one spoke or left their post. Ritcher flew the plan straight and level so the bombardier, Archuleta, could accurately drop the bombs on the Messerschmitt target. The aircraft leveled from a flying altitude of 28-30 thousand feet; no evasive action. In the 30 plane formation two B-17s were lost in the target area, but the Messerschmitt at Regensburg was literary washed off the map.  

As the Rick-o-shay left the target area, it was pursued by over 100 planes. The men fought it out plane for plane. Ritcher ducked the B-17, the Flying Fortress swiftly and smoothly between the German fighters. He preformed some beautiful piloting. It was the roughest few hours my grandfather had ever had or ever hoped to have.

The B-17s remained in formation over Germany and were under steady attack nearly to the Alps, but as soon as the enemy discontinued contact, it was “every plane for themselves.” Once plan want down in France, while another plane’s engines knocked out over Switzerland.

Staff Sergeant Rankin’s adrenaline poured through his veins. He looked back and saw the tail gunner’s limp body crawling up the tail. Ingersoll had taken off his oxygen mask and earphones; a shell had exploded on his chest plate. His legs were shattered and his abdomen was badly injured; the bomb nearly blew off his arms. Neither man spoke a word. Rankin rushed over to Ingersoll’s aid and pulled his semi-conscious body to the waist of the plane. Rankin placed his oxygen mask around the wounded man’s face and used oxygen sealed in portable containers. He knew exactly was to do; his Red Cross and Scouts training had prepared him. He covered Ingersoll’s body, administered shots of morphine and assured him that everything would be all right. Rankin attended to Ingersoll’s needs or two hours.

The Rick-o-shay’s crisis increased minute by minute. The aircraft was running out of fuel.  Ritcher wasn’t sure if they could make it to North Africa. He thought about landing the plane in the neutral country of Switzerland, but realized that once he did this the crew would be required by the rules of war to become intern in Switzerland for the duration of the war. He decided against this alternative and continued towards their intended landing site. Ritcher however, was still worried that his aircraft would run out of fuel during its 500-mile journey across the Mediterranean Sea. Two B-17s had already gone down in the Mediterranean. So in order to conserve gasoline, the men lightened the plane’s load by dropping the waist guns out of the plane and into the sea.

Once they reached North Africa, there was no time to hunt for a landing field. Ritcher had to put the plan down at the first flat place he found, a dry lake. Two B-17s were already there when the Rick-o-shay landed. A United States Army Squadron, the Signol Camp Corps., were stringing telephone lines nearby, came to the Rick-o-shay’s aid and called U.S. Headquarters for help.

My grandfather turned the page of his scrapbook and showed me a flimsy, light pink Cinq Franscs bill. He smiled and told me that one of the boys from the Signol Camp Corps. gave this to him. 

A station wagon was sent for Ingersoll within the hour and he was transported to a British hospital. Archuleta accompanied him.  As soon as the Rick-o-shay was refueled, the rest of the crew flew to their intended site at Telergma. The air base, however, did not have anywhere for them to sleep. The crew refused to leave their plane because they didn’t want anyone to “mess around with it.” All nine men slept under the wings of their aircraft and ate nothing by K-rations. They stayed at Telergma for three days. It was during my grandfather’s stay at the air base that he realized just how dangerous a flight he had just completed, but now he knew what to expect. He had 24 more waiting for him, so he better be prepared. 

Then my grandfather returned to the picture taken after the men completed the Regensburg Raid. The original crew, minus one. It was not long after my grandfather returned to England that he was awarded the Distinguishing Flying Cross for his “heroism and extraordinary achievement, while participating in an aerial flight.” However, it wasn’t until after completing his 25th mission and returning to America that he found out that Ingersoll had survived.

Out of the 127 planes that attacked the target on August 17, 1943, twenty-four planes never returned to base. The Regensburg Raid became a saga in Air Force history.  Its completion was an “epoch” in aerial warfare, the first of the “Big Three.” It was the US’s deepest penetration on German soil to date and the most successful mission executed by the Eighth Air Force in its first year of operation. It stood above the rest.

My grandfather always knew that he was considered expendable, but refused to ever entertain the idea of death. He always insisted that he would finish his tour of duty and return home to his new wife, Mary. This optimism always stayed with him.

As he closed his treasured scrapbook, my grandfather looked at me with a smile and an expression of relief. I was overwhelmed with a sense of pride for his strength, courage and determination. Neither hardened nor distant, but rather fondly with his eyes sparkling, he quietly told me, “I did not fear dying,” as the tears slowly fell from my eyes, “but I did fear losing my arms, legs and my sight.” Then with a soft laugh, a big smile and an insistent voice he proudly teased, “The Rick-o-shay – we always came back.” 

Aria: My solo vocal journey

It has been 23 years since the car accident on a road in Hampton Township, PA. At the age of 16, I was a passenger in a one car accident that caused me to sustain a severe traumatic brain injury (TBI). Due to the level of neurological damage to my brain, I had a post-traumatic seizure at the scene of the accident. I was Life-Flighted to Allegheny General Hospital and was comatose for six weeks. The doctors’ prognosis was that I would be bedridden for life and there was not much chance of any significant recovery and that it was highly unlikely that I would graduate from high school without major assistance. Higher education, they said, was out of the question.

My brainstem, the delicate neurological component responsible for life sustaining processes, twisted and stretched, causing the right hemisphere of my brain to hit the inside of my skull. The neurological damage created by the TBI resulted in numerous physical impairments, but the most psychologically draining was my inability to speak. This essay recounts my endless journey to reclaim my voice.

The innate ability to communicate thoughts, emotions and simple daily life experiences was taken from me in a matter of seconds. My tongue lay paralyzed in my mouth. I could not talk, eat, or drink. A feeding tube was surgically implanted into my stomach to provide daily nourishment.

A person never consciously thinks about how words are formed and how intricate the process of speaking really is. We unconsciously vocalize thoughts: tongues instinctively move and articulate; vocal cords vibrate with sufficient breath support, combining sounds and syllables, forming words into coherent sentences. My first attempt at speaking, however, wasn’t as effortless. Rational thoughts accumulated in my mind, eventually leading me to verbally express myself, but the only sound I was capable of producing was an incoherent, monotone noise. Only vocalized air, no articulation.

Regardless of whether or not anyone could understand what I was saying, I spoke indifferent to my incoherency. The thoughts in my head were clear. I knew what I was saying. Unfortunately, my audience did not have insight to the thoughts in my mind.

At the Rehabilitation Institute of Pittsburgh (RIP), where I was sent for rehabilitation after my hospitalization, I attended a series of daily therapy sessions, which included speech therapy. My speech therapist was Karen, a young woman who at one time babysat my sister and me. Starting with the fundamentals, Karen demonstrated numerous exercises I was to practice on a regular basis, basic motor functions: how to initiate a swallow to prevent drooling, how to move food around in my mouth and how to pucker my lips, only to name a few. All of which I was initially unable to do. She also showed me how to strengthen my tongue using a tongue depressor, in order to “reteach” my tongue how to move. The goal was to create enough stimuli in the hope of regenerating and reconnecting the neurological pathways that had been damaged by the TBI.

The first time Karen lifted my tongue with a tongue depressor, it only rose a few centimeters, as a piercing tension shot through my tongue. The muscle tone was so excessive that it forcibly resisted the depressor as my tongue pushed the depressor downward. The pain was unendurable because my tongue lay in my mouth like a fat piece of raw meat. Ironically, however, I never really thought about the huge implications losing the ability to speak would have on my life or how it would be a life-long struggle. After the accident, I was removed from myself and my situation.

During one of our speech therapy sessions, Karen placed a mirror in front of me to demonstrate how to do these exercises correctly. As soon as I saw my reflection, I started to cry hysterically. Who was this girl? She had abandoned any remote resemblance to the likeness of the girl I once was. Blue eyes tinted with a glassy haze, skin was deathly pale and the right side of her head had been shaved. I immediately began to cry uncontrollably and was truly disoriented.

I spent the rest of that day crying, although the next day I acted as though nothing had ever happened.

I was like a child. My life had been transformed by something I couldn’t remember. The only physical proof I had that the car accident ever happened was the present life I now found myself living, but unless I wanted to live the rest of my life as a victim, the only option I had was to get better — focusing all my thoughts and energy towards recovery.

Initially, I spent no time dwelling on my losses. I allowed nothing to impede my progress, including grief. This was my only defense. I couldn’t erase time. The accident was behind me. It was a reality. The only alternative I had was to try to reassemble my life the best I could. Unfortunately, my inability to initially grieve over these losses would one day unexpectedly resurface.

Before the feeding tube could be removed, I had to gain enough strength to swallow properly without choking. I had to be eating a specific amount of food per day for five consecutive days. It didn’t matter what I ate — I was overwhelmed with an endless supply of chocolate shakes!

Standing in front of an X-ray machine, I had to swallow a spoonful of liquid barium. The barium was placed on my stationary tongue. I had to pump my tongue back and forth, back and forth for several minutes before I was finally able to initiate a swallow. I began eating the next day.

My first taste of real food in two months was puréed. It looked like baby food, but I didn’t care, as long as I was eating. My taste buds were ecstatic. Slowly progressing from eating puréed food, to soft food (i.e. Jell-O, pudding and ice-cream), I advanced to solid foods. Karen and my mother took turns feeding me, until I could finally eat on my own.

I lived at RIP for four months. Everyday at the Institute seemed to be a continuation of the previous day. Time slipped by; it was lost to me.

When I returned to high school, I started back during the middle of my junior year. At school, one period a day was devoted to continuing speech therapy. During my speech therapy sessions, I continued practicing the tongue exercises I had been given at the Institute. The tension in my tongue lessened, little by little, but the progress was very slow.

My speech therapist in high school, Mary Ann gave me a notebook of exercises to practice daily. I did this “homework” everyday and over time the pain in my tongue lessened until I could raise, still using a tongue depressor, my tongue higher and higher still. With time, I was able to achieve minimal strength and flexibility so I could slightly lift my tongue without the assistance of a tongue depressor. This seemingly meager accomplishment was encouraging. With the assistance provided in school, I began to learn the proper lip movement and tongue placement in order to form vowel and constant sounds, forming words into sentences.

During this time, I spent a lot of time on the road, traveling back and forth from my home in Richland Township, PA (approximately twenty minutes north of Pittsburgh) to the Cleft Palate Center in Oakland, a dental center affiliated with the University of Pittsburgh that specializes in helping to correct speech impairments. I was evaluated by the center and required to undergo a variety of different tests.

One of these evaluative tests is instilled in my memory, the nasoendoscopy. A long tube with a tiny camera attached to its end was stuck up my nostrils. One side at a time, the tube slowly passed through my nasal cavity until it reached the back of my throat, allowing the doctor to view the movement of my pharyngeal flap (the fleshy mechanism in the back of the throat which directs air through the mouth) to accurately assess its degree of mobility in order to establish an appropriate course of action.

The pounding of my heart increased as the tube was inserted and gradually traveled through my already allergy inflamed nasal cavities — the pressure brought tears to my eyes. The doctor asked me to speak, but due to obstruction it was extremely difficult. As I vocalized air, my pharyngeal flap wouldn’t move. I concentrated and willed it to move, but it was useless. No matter how strenuously I focused, no movement could be seen it my pharyngeal flap—it wouldn’t budge.

It was decided that the best course of action would be to try a palatal lift, in hopes that it would stimulate my pharyngeal flap and cause it to involuntarily move. A palatal lift is an oral appliance, which attaches to the teeth and hugs the roof of the mouth like a retainer. The extension on the back of the palatal lift is gradually built up and pushes the pharyngeal flap backwards in order to decrease nasal emissions (i.e. to reduce the nasality in a person’s speech).

The oral appliance did improve the quality of my speech, but a major impediment of wearing the appliance was that it increased the production of saliva in my mouth, making an embarrassing situation even more intolerable. Not only was my involuntary swallow not working, now I had an appliance in my mouth that created even more saliva. Now I had an even greater chance of drooling in public.

* * *

There’s an intimate ghost

inside me,

the spirit of my youth

Her image lives in my reflection

I breathe her vitality, but

her soul no longer is mine.

Isolated to only memories of her life,

she exists through me.

Trapped between the solitary walls of my mind,

we share a familiar

dream.

* * *

A piece of me is

missing, lost

between who I was

and the person

I have become.

Part of me is grieving

for that familiar voice

lost inside of me. Her voice

grows fainter

everyday.

Unsure of where she has gone

my tears have dried cold

hardened in the shadows of yesterday.

* * *

During this seemingly stagnant time, I began music therapy at my mother’s insistence. I traveled to Pittsburgh one afternoon a week to practice with my music therapist, Linda Sanders. The TBI had drastically altered my speaking voice. My diaphragm had lost its ability support my breath. It was necessary for me to pause between words in order to acquire enough breath to finish a sentence. All the air escaped through my nose. I always sounded breathless like I had just run a marathon.

Music therapy helped me to reestablish control of my diaphragm. Mrs. Sanders instructed me to “push my stomach out; fill [my] lungs front, back, side to side; keep [my] shoulders down; center [my] body…” using imagery to focus on a point and blow air through puckered lips in sync with a metronome.

The goal was to gradually increase the number of beats the metronome clicked, sustaining my breath until I eventually ran out of air. I found this process to be much more difficult than Mrs. Sanders made it sound.

Also during these hour-long sessions, Mrs. Sanders played the piano, while I sang up and down chromatic scales, sometimes singing an occasional song. Most of the time, my voice was off-key because my soprano singing voice had been replaced with a lower, unrecognizable, monotoned voice.

This noticeable difference in my inability to sing on-key with the piano provoked resentment, causing me to despise my weekly excursions to music therapy. I felt these sessions were useless. The tone and quality of my voice was not improving. Nonetheless, my mother continually dragged me, despite my constant protest.

Through the years, however, I have recognized the insurmountable benefits of music therapy. It has proven to be an extremely vital asset in helping to correct the unnatural monotone quality of my voice. It was one of the most beneficial therapies I have had, helping to recreate my “normal” speaking voice.

After graduating from high school in 1991, I continued my education at West Virginia Wesleyan College, while also working on speech therapy, trying to make the best of my palatal lift. I saw a speech therapist one day a week (although she was difficult to find in the small town of Buckhannon, WV). I even maintained a strict practice regime, diligently practicing everyday — well, almost every day — in addition to the daily academic classes I attended. Continuing to press on, I prayed that one day a better alternative would manifest.

It was during my sophomore year at college that my prayer was answered. Almost three years had passed since the palatal lift had been initially constructed. The constant pressure and resistance of my pharyngeal flap on the palatal lift caused it to break. What seemed at the time to be a great misfortune, turned into a greater opportunity.

The Cleft Palate Center notified Dr. Hurwitz, a plastic, reconstructive and cosmetic surgeon, asking for his opinion for a better alternative to the palatal lift. He suggested we should try a pharyngeal flap surgical procedure. Dr. Hurwitz, reputed as being the “best” surgeon east of the Mississippi, specializing in pharyngeal flap reconstructive surgery agreed to perform the surgery. However, before the surgery could be performed, I had to undergo more tests, including the dreaded nasaloscomy. Despite my apprehension, I managed to persevere, realizing that this might be the life-altering prayer that I had been patiently waiting for.

The surgery was scheduled for the summer of 1993. A simple explanation of this complicated procedure is the pharyngeal flap is lifted backwards and surgically attached to the back of the throat, thereby reducing nasal emissions. Recovery from this surgery was extremely painful. My throat was inflamed and swollen. Initially, the swollen area reduced the amount of escaping air through my nose and my speech greatly improved. However, as time wore on, the swelling lessened and the nasality gradually returned.

While the surgery helped to improve my overall speech intelligibility, in order for a substantial change to occur all my spare time had to be devoted towards increasing the rate and improving the intelligibility of my speech, increasing my determination towards my never-ending struggle for coherency.

I went back to The Cleft Palate Center in June of 1995, for a pharyngeal flap revision. Dr. Hurwitz’s attention was focused on tightening up the pharyngeal flap, making the spaces between it smaller to further reduce nasality. I was very optimistic.

Setting aside time in the mornings, I practiced my speech therapy exercises and I spent the afternoons practicing music therapy. My goal was to attain enough clarity in my speech so a stranger would be able to understand me, without making an obscure face.

However, the combined practicing speech and music therapy only seemed to help for so long and then I felt I had reached a plateau. I felt as though not much else could be done. A year after my second surgery, although my speech was continuing to improve, I felt I had reached an impasse, a feeling of emptiness, wondering what was the purpose? Something was missing inside me. Again, I was lost. I needed to find another option to explore to get me to my goal of speech clarity.

For years my father had been trying to get me to see a chiropractor, believing that it would help in my recovery, both physically and cognitively. I was quite hesitant at first as I did not see the benefit in a spinal/neck manipulation. However, one day while I was living in Chicago and talked with my Aunt Barbara about my fears, she reassured me of its validity. The next week, I scheduled an appointment with a chiropractor. Through reassurance, I was able to go past my fears and it was a life-altering decision. The actual manipulation itself was in-fact and “awwhh” moment. The weekly visits I made (and still make) to the chiropractor not only helped my physical well-being but it also created an inner, mental well-being. It was like with each twist and turn of my neck I could “feel” my brain begin to heal itself. Undoubtedly, to me, chiropractic care has help to improve the quality of my life and I believe it is a life-giving force.

When conventional medicine seems to be at its end, alternative medicine was another beneficial route to for me to pursue. The manipulation of my spine/neck has not only reduced my pain considerably, but it has also given me a greater range of motion and neck turning radius. It was the next logical step that allowed me to move beyond my recover plateau and it has greatly helped to improve the quality of my speech.

The integration of this second surgery; the persistent practicing of my speech exercises combined with a return to music therapy exercises, and the healing effects of chiropractic care, has allowed me to achieve what I have been dreaming of one day attaining – a so called clarity. I have reestablished a so-called “normalcy” in the quality of my speech. Attaining coherency, I thought, would allow everything else to fall in place. Over the past twenty-three years, I have gone beyond most people’s expectations, except my own. .. It has taken a lot of conscious effort, perseverance, determination to get me to where I am today, but that void has been replaced with a passion for life. Don’t get me wrong there are still plenty of days when I speak and my listeners look at me curiously as if I am deaf or cognitively disabled. However, I am now able to look past their reactions and continue on with my life.

I truly believe that things in life happen for a reason, but it’s up to us to realize our purpose. People often tell me that I was faced with a monumental choice, whether to continue living or just give up. Reflecting on it, however, recovery was never a question of deliberate choice. Recovery was just something I had to do. It is something I still continue to work on.