Nine Wheelchairs, Four Gunshot Wounds, and Me

by Ron Gold

Without much thought, I had impulsively agreed to put my years of experience as a paraplegic to good use by volunteering to mentor newly injured spinal-cord patients.

However, when I received the full details of the program, I wasn’t really looking forward to a four-hour orientation on the Dos and Don’ts of Disability Etiquette, The Many Roles of a Mentor, and Communication Enhancers. In fact, Disability Etiquette really seems to be a better topic for the general population of the country, but that’s another story.

I had originally figured that the correct way to proceed as a mentor was heavy on listening — and using common sense more than anything else. Certainly, nothing that required a four-hour education.

And yet the session was much more energizing than I expected. Not for the content per se with those stimulating titles, but rather for the interaction and connection with the other seven mentors-in-training, and our instructor, Garrison Redd.

I’m 11+ years into my spinal cord injury. The first couple of years were tough. I had lots of anger and frustration, and an unwillingness to accept my new life. I just kept asking myself, “Why did this happen to me?” Over time, I realized that life can be random and not necessarily fair.

My injury occurred while bicycling with a group of friends in northern New Jersey. We were almost home from a 50-mile ride when all of a sudden, on a quiet suburban road on a quiet Saturday afternoon, a driver fell asleep and her SUV came barreling into me.

And that’s the last thing I remember. I woke up in the hospital from an induced coma to learn I would never walk again.

That’s where the randomness of life-changing events comes in. What are the odds that a driver would lose control at the very instant we were cycling by?

Gradually, I processed it and found wisdom in the old Yiddish expression, “Man plans and God laughs.” It had become time to make the best of things.

Fast forward to last month’s orientation in a conference room at The Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan, where I was astonished to learn that of the other eight people in the room, four were victims of a stray gunshot.

Four?

Sure, I had met a couple of gunshot victims during the months I was a patient at Kessler Institute for Rehabilitation in my hometown of West Orange, NJ.

But 50% from a random sample? That’s a lot.

Not only were those three men and one woman shot and paralyzed but each was hit by a stray gunshot from a stranger. To this day, they have no idea who irrevocably and catastrophically changed the vector of their lives. And yet, I didn’t detect victimhood.

In my case, I know the driver’s name, but I have never spoken with her, nor did she ever apologize for what she had done — possibly on her lawyer’s advice. She couldn’t even bear to look at me in the courtroom.

Back at the mentoring orientation, I did find one related aspect that was spot on. At the onset, we reviewed the typical stages of dealing with a disability. The initial stages of denial, frustration, anger and depression, and then the much later stages of coping, acknowledgment, and sometimes even gratitude.

Although we all shared the stories of our life-changing injuries, we quickly moved on to what was keeping us active in our lives — careers, family, friends, sports, hobbies, and more. Several had just returned from a Mount Sinai-sponsored ski trip to Pico Mountain Ski Resort in Vermont.

We made plans to stay in touch, participate in Achilles events, and return to Mount Sinai as the mentoring needs kick in.

I remember back to my time at Kessler when I had a mentor. Mark came to see me there to boost my morale and answer my many questions. Like me, he worked in the financial industry and the social workers paired us based on that connection. I must admit that his persistent coaxing and cajoling didn’t sink in immediately, but over time it certainly did.

About a year after my discharge from Kessler, and without a formal orientation, I had also been asked to visit with new patients from time to time. Though I was not called upon often, it felt good to convey what I’ve picked up and share what I could.

I now realize that by not having a formal orientation years ago, something was missing. At Mount Sinai, through our shared circumstances, our group of nine formed a powerful connection that transcended the boundaries of religion, race, and gender.

While we all had the desire to help the newly injured move through the challenges of paralysis, I was mostly surprised by how much we helped each other.

In the end, we all became mentors — but just as impactful was the fact that we also became mentees.