I suppose each of us has experienced a perfect day wherein nothing disturbs the positivity that envelops us. However, I think most of us would have to admit that, more often than not, we allow minor inconveniences that typically arise daily to distort our vision, if only temporarily, of the countless life blessings that surround us. Simply put, as individuals and as a society we far too often create mountains out of molehills.
Sometimes it takes some devastating event such as the recent earthquake in Nepal or the crash of the commuter train outside Washington D.C. to shake us into the reality of what true adversity looks like. But, even those tragedies can seem so removed from us, or too frequently occur in our worldwide 24/7 news cycles, that we can’t seem to grasp the comparative perspective between true adversity and our common and trivial day-to-day maladies. Then we bump into a story such as Ben Conley’s and it jolts us into a sense of humble thanksgiving for the treasures we take for granted and it shames us for the lack of courage we too often exhibit in embracing the false importance we attach to our daily perceived tumults.
Ben Conley’s life was forever changed on Thursday morning, August 26, 1976 at 6:27 a.m. He had turned 15 years old that summer. His father was proud to have given Ben his first job working for him at his construction company. Ben and his dad were more than father and son; they were buddies. Ben loved working for his dad and hanging around the other workers, all of whom were much older than he. Ben had particularly taken a shine to Dale who was sixteen years his senior and who was driving the company truck that morning. Earlier as day was breaking, Ben’s father had laid down the law with Ben and Dale. “I want these tools delivered to the site this morning so we can start the job first thing tomorrow. When you finish you can meet me and the rest of the crew at the other project we’re finishing up.”
Aww Dad! Can’t we just take them with us tomorrow morning. It’s awfully foggy out there today,” Ben asked dismissively.
“No, son,” replied his father, “I want it done today.” Then he added with a wry smile, “You realize today is payday, right? I’d hate to have to dock you for insubordination.” He roughed his fingers through his son’s hair and said in his coarse but affectionate voice, “Now get going! Don’t waste a minute of this perfect day!”
It was because of his father’s prodding and gentle threat that Ben and Dale found themselves in the pickup truck at a stop sign that morning at the fog-shrouded intersection. Dale checked left; then right. Then just to be safe, he looked one more time. Then he slowly nudged the truck forward. They weren’t into the crossing path more than two seconds when two large, round silver orbs broke out of the fog rushing toward them. A horn blared and Dale stomped on the accelerator. Too late. An 18-wheeler slammed into Ben’s side of the pickup, spinning it into a nearby field.
When Ben came to again, he wasn’t sure where he was or how long he’d been unconscious. He wasn’t even sure if he was awake. He felt like he was floating in a dream. He heard the sound of drilling. The noise forced him to open his eyes and look up into his father’s dewy eyes.
How long have I been asleep? He wondered. My dad looks twenty years older.
“They’re drilling holes into your head to put you in traction,” Ben’s father said caressing his cheek.
“Dale?” Ben’s voice croaked.
“He’s going to be fine.”
The veil of unconsciousness shrouded over Ben once more.
“It’s called a hangman’s break,” the doctor explained when Ben finally awoke. “You have what’s known as a C2/C3 incomplete injury to the spine. It’s what a hangman attempts to do to break the neck of a condemned criminal so that he will lose all neurological pathways to his lungs, heart, and vital organs and die quickly.”
Ben’s father sat next to his son’s bed silently listening, the crushing weight of guilt pressing him into his chair.
“However,” the doctor continued, “Your spine didn’t sever. That’s why it’s called incomplete. Actually, you’re a very lucky young man.”
Ben didn’t feel lucky.
“When will I walk again, doc?” he asked.
“That’s hard to say,” replied the doctor. Then noticing the forlorn look on both Ben and his father’s faces he added, “Tell you what, kid, You work on getting better, okay? When you can wiggle your toes, that’s when I’ll tell you when you can walk again.”
Over two months later Ben had come nowhere close to wiggling his toes or anything else below his neck. He found himself in a state of constant tears followed by fits of uncontrollable anger and shouting. Nothing could be done by the doctors, hospital staff, or his family to console him. His screams soon included a full range of curse words. Ben was becoming disruptive to the entire ward. His door was sealed in an attempt to mute the noise, but Ben was too loud. Finally, in desperation a security guard was dispatched to his room.
“Hit me!” Ben screamed.
“What?” stammered the guard.
“Take out your club and hit me! Hit me in the head. Hit me! Kill me! I can’t live in this bed for the rest of my life!”
“SHOOT ME!” demanded Ben. “You’ve got a gun. Pull it out and put a bullet through my brain! Please, Mister, kill me!”
For over six continuous hours Ben raged until he finally passed out from exhaustion. He fell into a fitful mournful sleep.
The next morning when he awoke, Ben saw that nothing had changed. He was still in the same bed and still in the same room. Also, he was still paralyzed below the neck. Nothing had changed, except Ben had.
With the emergence of dawn, something had dawned on Ben as well. Although nothing had changed physically and nothing was going to, Ben made a decision to change the only thing he could: himself. In arriving at this resolution, a wave of peace broke over him. His resentment for his situation began to melt away and replacing it was an emerging glow of appreciation—not because of what happened to him, but for simply being alive.
Ben thought of what the doctors had said over the previous months about the fact that no one has ever survived a C2/C3 spinal injury of his nature.
Well, I’m going to show them. Ben thought. Not only am I going to live, I’m going to thrive!
Ben knew that his father harbored immense guilt for what had happened and blamed himself for his son’s injury. I can’t change what happened Ben thought, but I can show Dad that even though my life has shifted, I can be happy and productive.
Thirty-eight years later, Ben had not only lived, he had prospered and was immersed in the happiness of his life. He’d met a girl who had first became his best friend and then his bride. They were celebrating fourteen years of wedded bliss and counting.
Ben would often reflect to those who would engage him in conversations about his incapacity that “Everyone has a disability—mine just shows: Most people who can stand, walk, and move around are, nonetheless, paralyzed by fear, and so they don’t attempt what they could do if the just tried.”
Over the years, with the aid of man friends and loved ones, Ben rode the waves of Virginia Beach in a raft, bodysurfed, rode as a passenger on a motorcycle. He drank life to the fullest and savored the happiness that comes with each breath. Sure, there were times when it would seem easy to withdraw into the thoughts of what he lost, but Ben consciously forced those temptations toward self-pity by concentrating on the abounding opportunities to seize the myriad of wonders that are easily identifiable to those who have a compelling desire to look for them.
“When I wake up every morning, I set an intention to see something beautiful. My day doesn’t end until I’ve found it,” Ben reflects. “I’ve been doing this now for years, and the word has never failed to show me something spectacular…People who are ambulatory tend to get so busy that they don’t notice all the beauty around them. The saying ‘Stop and smell the roses’ may sound so trite; but it’s also very true.”
“I also volunteer. I work with the USO as well as with our local hospice. When you give your time to others, you stop focusing on yourself and your problems. Nothing makes you feel better than helping others, That’s one of the real keys to my happiness.”
For 37 years Ben had “walked” through his worldly life in wonder, but now, at age 52, Ben Conley’s physical world was traded peacefully and gratefully for an eternal one. For nearly four decades, his inability to walk or move below the neck had been Ben’s pathway to both discovery and embracement of a full and complete life. His earthly limitation placed very little constraint on him while he lived. He led a complete and happy life; one unburdened by the adversity that he first encountered that foggy morning at age 15.
Ben Conley’s ability to move past an undeniably heavy burden should make us all question why it too often seems so difficult for us to deal similarly with our minor ones.
– Excerpted from: Happy Stories by Will Bowen. Published by Grand Harbor Press
We have no right to ask when sorrow comes, “Why did this happen to me?” unless we ask the same question for every moment of happiness that comes our way.
– Author Unknown
Have an AWE-full Weekend!
William J. “Bill” Bacqué