The Gift of Fire Read Online Free PDF Page A

I wasn’t put on a morphine drip and was rarely given opiates.
    Even when I was older and hooked up to self-administering morphine drips after surgery, I never once pushed the button to give myself a shot—there was no need. I guess the logical explanation is that the pain receptors in my nerve endings were destroyed when the fire burned away most of my skin. But I don’t think that’s it because I still don’t feel pain, even in places where I wasn’t burned. When I pulled my arm out of my shoulder socket not too long ago, all I experienced was some mild discomfort. Even when I had my wisdom teeth taken out, I stunned the dentist by telling him to just give me a mild anesthetic and start drilling.
    In my mind, the reason I didn’t feel physical pain as a kid and don’t feel it now is that there was something greater at work. Honestly, I believe that my parents’ many bedside prayers asking for my pain to end did the trick. To this day, I think that the thoughts and wishes we put out into the universe—be they positive or negative— come back to us and manifest themselves in our lives. That’s why I always try to send out the most positive energy in my thoughts and deeds. I’ve seen the power of what many call “positive thinking,” and I both believe in it and respect it immensely.
    The power of the loving energy my parents surrounded me with in Boston made all the difference in my recovery. For the first two weeks after the accident, they both spent every day in the hospital with me. But the world didn’t stop because I’d been hurt, so Dad had to fly back to Louisiana to look after my brothers and take care of his fledgling insurance company.
    My father would come back to see me for weekend visits, but my mother stayed by my side. With the exception of a short trip or two back home, she was with me in Boston for the entire four months. Luckily, Mom and Dad made some friends who lived just outside of town, and they let Mom stay at their house and even lent her a car to make it easier to travel to and from the hospital.
    A FTER MY MIRACULOUS FEAT OF SURVIVING the first 72 hours after the accident, I showed little signs of improvement for the next six weeks. Each day my mother would sit at my bedside from early morning until visiting hours were over. She’d stare at my listless body, lying as still as death inside the plastic tent, but she’d keep talking to me as though I could hear every word she uttered.
    Mom would tell me over and over that she loved me; fill me in on the news from home, including what my big brothers were doing at school; and encourage me to keep fighting because the sooner I got better, the sooner I could be outside playing with the other kids again. She would stroke my face over my bandages, sing lullabies, and read my favorite children’s stories to me. Although I don’t recall much of her bedside vigil, I credit it with keeping me going all those weeks.
    Nevertheless, for the better part of two months it seemed to both my family and the hospital staff that even if I beat the odds and stayed alive, I might never again be the irrepressibly energetic and mischievous little boy I’d been before. But after my father brought me a special treat one weekend, my spirits and my prospects for a full recovery suddenly soared. I’m not saying that Rocky Balboa saved my life, but he definitely made me want to get out of bed and fight to get better.
    For as long as I can remember, Rocky II, starring Sylvester Stallone as the wannabe comeback champ, has been my favorite movie. My brothers loved it, too, and played it over and over again on the VCR. I’m sure I’d seen the movie a dozen times before I began speaking, and I was throwing jabs and uppercuts before I took my first step. For some reason, it resonated with me in every way: the simple story of the underdog never giving up on a dream; the unrelenting urge to be the best you can be despite all odds; the craggy trainer, Mickey, who