Jesse's Story

Originally published in the May 2000 issue of The Communicator
Winner of a Society of Professional Journalists Award, Best Non-Fiction (Second Place)

By: Joshua M. Shreckengost

See a slideshow of Jesse and his brothers as they are today.

Jesse is fourteen now and the smile that brightens everyone's day is widening just a little bit more. "What did you get me for Christmas?" he asks me. "It better be something cool." As I shake off the fatigue and stiffness from the six-hour, 400-mile drive from Hofstra University to my home in Cowansville, Pennsylvania, I answer, "It's nice to see you too, Jess." He just keeps smiling. "Like I said, it better be something cool."

Trick-or-treat
It has been nine years, four months, and seven days since Halloween night 1990. The tedious search for candy was the only thought on my 12 year-old mind that night. My two younger brothers, Jake, 10, and Jesse, 5, were also overwhelmed with the desire to fill their bags as full of sweets as humanly possible. As we finished our rounds past neighbors' houses we came upon Route 268, the road directly adjacent to our home.

Look twice, and make sure that your brothers are with you before you cross that road. "They're just being overprotective," I thought. I'd crossed this road a million times to play baseball with my friends in the large field beside the old schoolhouse. Make sure that your brothers are with you. My brothers are with me; they're right here beside me. The last car passed and we crossed the road and headed for home to count our treasures. The only task left was to see who got more Snickers or 3 Musketeers or Twix bars. I know Jake got Reese's Pieces. I'll trade him an apple. And if he doesn't like the apple, I'll beat him up and take those Resse's Pieces because I'm older and…

"Wait up!!"
I snapped out of my selfish, candy-obsessed haze and back to reality when I heard Jesse's voice. I whirled around and the cold October wind slapped my face. Jesse was just here, how did we cross without him? No matter, I'll just cross back and get him myself. "Stay here, Jake," I said. "I'll go get him." As a few more cars whipped past at speeds of 50-60 miles per hour on the road where the speed limit is 35, I yelled at Jesse to stay put. He couldn't hear me over the roar of the passing vehicles so I put my hand up as a gesture for him to wait. He mistook my hand signal as an "OK" for him to cross and he took off running toward me.

Headlights cutting through the night look different to me now. Today I'm used to the streetlights of the Hempstead Turnpike or the Grand Central Parkway where everything is so bright and able to be seen. Sometimes when I drive around Long Island at night I forget to turn my lights on because I can see the road and the other cars so well. It's a far cry from the desolate country roads where I learned to drive, the rural roads, not streets, where you actually have to drive six or seven miles to a town or a plaza to see a lamp above the pavement. Only then are you no longer submerged in the complete anonymity of darkness. Route 268 has never had lights. Why should it? Any night after 10:00, you would be hard pressed to see 25 cars total before the next sunrise.

A family's worst nightmare
The impact was like a slow-motion dream sequence in some horror movie. Red Buick Park Avenue, probably an '88 or '89, the lights on inside the car, four people, all older, I'd guess about 50 to 55. They never stopped, never even slowed down. Jesse was so close, I was sure I felt his hand in mine. He was almost there. Two more seconds and I could have scolded him for not waiting for me, for not listening to me, even though I probably would have just hugged him. Make sure your brothers are with you. He was just with me. What just happened? What did I do?

The next thing I remember was running. I was running so fast, but it felt as if my legs were made of lead. I got to Jesse, who had been thrown about 150 feet, in a matter of seconds. As I screamed to Jake to get our Mom and Dad, I blanketed Jesse with my body, making sure not to move him. He looked like he was sleeping peacefully except for the light trickle of blood that running down his left check from his mouth where a tooth had been knocked loose. He looked fine. I wanted to wake him up even though I knew that I couldn't.

State of shock
The next two or three hours are like an omelet in my mind. Many ingredients jumbled together to form a clouded memory of an event that I have tried to forget for the past nine years, four months, and seven days. My Mom did CPR to keep Jesse alive until the ambulance arrived and my Dad directed traffic. People were coming in and out of the house to comfort me and Jake. I was watching Cheers, Jake was eating an apple or soup or something. During that night I must have had a mental block of some kind. I knew that everything had gone wrong, but I wasn't crying or even thinking about it. I was just confused.

There were times over the next two years when I wished Jesse would just give up. He had been in a coma, had a broken leg, endured severe brain trauma, and injured his first two cervical vertebrae. He could only breathe with the assistance of a respirator. His spinal cord was bruised and he was instantly paralyzed from the neck down. I wished he would quit. Why did he have the strength to keep fighting this never-ending battle while I just felt sorry for myself? Why couldn't he just surrender and let me suffer by myself?

Children's Hospital in Pittsburgh kept Jesse alive and stable. When he was well enough to start rehabilitation, he was moved to the Alfred I. DuPont Rehabilitation Institute in Wilmington, Delaware. "DuPont," as our family called the rehab institute, was a world away, but my parents, family members, and friends visited weekly. I usually only visited with Jesse for a few minutes at a time. I hated seeing him in that bed with tubes and machines hooked up to his 6 year-old body. The feelings of guilt and remorse made me so sick that I would literally run from the room. "He should be out playing baseball or going to school," I thought over and over again. "He should be with me."

A true fighter
But Jesse would not give up. He was driven by something bigger than himself or anyone around him. Jesse fought the doctors who wanted to take him off life support because they said he wouldn't make it. He fought all the people who felt sorry for him because it was "the right thing to do." He fought stares and whispers from those who didn't understand. And he fought me. Jesse's fight made me stop feeling sorry for myself and realize that when you wake up in the morning, you have already won. He showed me that inspiration comes not from some sports hero, but from those who smile while they endure a battle that you or I couldn't win. Jesse is my inspiration.

Today, Jesse is like any other eighth-grader in small-town U.S.A. He goes to public school, enjoys drawing and writing, plays in the band, and even serves as the public address announcer for the boys' varsity basketball team. He loves movies, working and playing games on the computer, and eating pizza. I should mention that Jesse does all of these things without the use of his arms or legs, but when I look at him, I forget that part. He also gets around by himself using a specially modified wheelchair that he controls with the back of his head, the only part of his body that he can move freely.

Inspiration to all
When Jesse meets a person for the first time it usually takes him all of five minutes to have that person laughing about something. He makes you look at him as a person, not as a poor, helpless kid in a wheelchair. That's the thing about Jesse; he can make you remember by making you forget. You remember how he touched your heart by seeing his warmth, intelligence, and innocence, but you forget that he is quadriplegic. Jesse makes a person understand their life's worth no matter what their current situation. He can make you forget your problems and make you remember how to fight.

It's Christmas Day and the smile is bigger than ever. "Oliver! This is great," he shouts as he opens the original 1964 cast CD of the Broadway musical. "Man, Jeckyll and Hyde was great (I got him that last year), but I've wanted this for a while," he says with the utmost class.

"I was going to get you Pokemon, but you said it had to be cool," I reply.

"Pokemon!?! What makes you think I would like that?"

I just smile. What eighth grade kid would rather get a Broadway musical than the latest fad game? Then I remember: Jesse is no ordinary kid. He's my brother and he's with me.

See a slideshow of Jesse and his brothers as they are today.