Far from flying, he probably knew he would never walk again.
Reeve, who died Sunday at 52 of a heart attack, was one of Hollywood's best-known actors when a 1995 equestrian accident rendered him a quadriplegic. With eloquence and determination, he became a spokesman for the optimism that can transform the lives of people with spinal column injuries.
But that transformation is of a limited sort. Optimism has its limits. Here's what it can and can't do.
Optimism can help organize people, money and resources to seek new treatments. And Reeve did. He created foundations, raised awareness, addressed Congress. Thanks to him, more people became aware of spinal cord injuries, and more scientists studied them.
Optimism can help injured people take control of their post-injury lives. In those very different lives, these people can teach themselves ways to endure, to thrive, to own every new second. Optimism can light the hard road to healing, on which each step is a triumph of the human will.
Reeve was the ultimate symbol of such triumphs. In films, commercials, television shows, he was active in more ways, in more venues, than ever before. He was a leading, and damaging, critic of curbs on federal funds for stem-cell research. He reminded those with spinal cord injuries that they can live lives with passion and impact.
But optimism cannot cure. We are nowhere near a cure for what happened to him, nor are we likely to be for many years. Reeve often spoke as though he expected to walk again, but he probably knew he wouldn't. Survivability rather than recovery is the word. We are far from the operation or the drug that can reverse paralysis; we don't know enough.
It would be terrible to mislead anyone, especially the 250,000 to 400,000 people a year who are paralyzed by spinal cord trauma, 30 new cases each day. It would be irresponsible to hold out a hope that does not exist.
Scientists have begun to make strides, especially in animal-based research. But what our children's generation will see, is a mix of therapies, each aimed at increasing function a certain amount. Perhaps this mix of therapies will make heartening differences for thousands of people. That is wonderful, but that is far as anyone's prediction should go.
Too often it takes a Christopher Reeve or a Michael J. Fox, some stricken celebrity to put a medical condition on the map, to attract attention and dollars. Such is the paralysis of a health-care system in which the dollar speaks louder for some conditions than for others.
People can't fly. They are bound to their bodies and their world. Yet even when they cannot deny their limitations, they can defy them. When they do, as Reeve did, they fly high indeed. That's the superhero in us all.
Reeve, who died Sunday at 52 of a heart attack, was one of Hollywood's best-known actors when a 1995 equestrian accident rendered him a quadriplegic. With eloquence and determination, he became a spokesman for the optimism that can transform the lives of people with spinal column injuries.
But that transformation is of a limited sort. Optimism has its limits. Here's what it can and can't do.
Optimism can help organize people, money and resources to seek new treatments. And Reeve did. He created foundations, raised awareness, addressed Congress. Thanks to him, more people became aware of spinal cord injuries, and more scientists studied them.
Optimism can help injured people take control of their post-injury lives. In those very different lives, these people can teach themselves ways to endure, to thrive, to own every new second. Optimism can light the hard road to healing, on which each step is a triumph of the human will.
Reeve was the ultimate symbol of such triumphs. In films, commercials, television shows, he was active in more ways, in more venues, than ever before. He was a leading, and damaging, critic of curbs on federal funds for stem-cell research. He reminded those with spinal cord injuries that they can live lives with passion and impact.
But optimism cannot cure. We are nowhere near a cure for what happened to him, nor are we likely to be for many years. Reeve often spoke as though he expected to walk again, but he probably knew he wouldn't. Survivability rather than recovery is the word. We are far from the operation or the drug that can reverse paralysis; we don't know enough.
It would be terrible to mislead anyone, especially the 250,000 to 400,000 people a year who are paralyzed by spinal cord trauma, 30 new cases each day. It would be irresponsible to hold out a hope that does not exist.
Scientists have begun to make strides, especially in animal-based research. But what our children's generation will see, is a mix of therapies, each aimed at increasing function a certain amount. Perhaps this mix of therapies will make heartening differences for thousands of people. That is wonderful, but that is far as anyone's prediction should go.
Too often it takes a Christopher Reeve or a Michael J. Fox, some stricken celebrity to put a medical condition on the map, to attract attention and dollars. Such is the paralysis of a health-care system in which the dollar speaks louder for some conditions than for others.
People can't fly. They are bound to their bodies and their world. Yet even when they cannot deny their limitations, they can defy them. When they do, as Reeve did, they fly high indeed. That's the superhero in us all.
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