The Third Opinion: A Story of Faith and Family J. Stephen Mikita

ISBN: 9780966888492

Published: August 1st 2000

Paperback

208 pages


Description

The Third Opinion: A Story of Faith and Family  by  J. Stephen Mikita

The Third Opinion: A Story of Faith and Family by J. Stephen Mikita
August 1st 2000 | Paperback | PDF, EPUB, FB2, DjVu, talking book, mp3, ZIP | 208 pages | ISBN: 9780966888492 | 8.51 Mb

So my friend gave me this book because it is written by her Uncle who has a form of Muscular Dystrophy. I have to say that I absolutely loved this book and once I started reading it I would find myself wondering about what was going to happen next. He is a great writer, he really makes you feel right there, and I am so honored to have read it and to know his family.Some of the quotes that I loved from it are below:I am getting weaker generally and I dont know how many years I have left.

I am sitting on an anatomical time bomb that could go off any day. Consequently, while I still have the energy and the strength I am compelled to share the barriers overcome and the joys experienced in my life. Therefore, this book comes to you sooner than later.I have never walked, never run, never danced and never knelt to pray.And yet, despite my weakening musculature, this is not a story about getting weaker and fearing death.

It is about getting stronger.It is about choosing to thrive and not just survive. It is about reaching our possibilities, regardless of our disabilities. It is a story about courage and vision, it is a story about faith and family.I was eight months old when Dad reflexively reached under my arms to pull me off the floor.Unlike normally developing infants, my arms did not offer a firm, resistant grip.Instead, they floated horrifyingly upward above my head.I fell to the floor and the bottom fell out of our happy home.In his practice (orthopedic surgery) Dad had examine and diagnosed other childhood diseases.

He feared that I had a type of muscle disorder because I was manifesting the symptoms of floppy baby syndrome. Rather than prematurely disclose his preliminary findings with Mom, he elected to observe me a while longer. He chose to hope against hope.Next came the maddening and conflicting diagnoses.At 15 months I was examined by a neurologist in Pittsburgh, who blamed my temporary inability to walk to a well-disguised maternal instability.Taking my father aside, he said, Dr.

Mikita, your son does not need a neurologist.Your wife needs a psychiatrist.This child is merely a slow-walker.Is she simply backs off and quits pressuring him, John Stephen will walk any day.Mom and Dad waited 3 months. No pressure. No prodding.

They waited and yearned and prayed for that promised event.At 18 months I was a medical enigma who had survived pricking and probing of an N.I.H. jury of physicians. Their verdict was as unanimous as it was devastating.They claimed I had a rapid, degenerative, neuromuscular disorder known asWerdnig-Hoffman Disease. It was incurable.It was terminal.

It would kill me at the age of two.I only had 6 months to live.As they described it, first my voluntary muscles would be affected. Movement in my limbs would shortly vanish. Sitting up, even lifting my head, would swiftly follow.

Finally, my involuntary muscles would fall prey to the merciless enemy. Utterly wasted and totally decimated, one night I would quietly pass away in my sleep.Although my father was both gifted and wealthy, there was absolutely nothing that he could do but confront the painful reality that I was going to die.

My supply of muscles was quickly being depleted. There was nowhere he could purchase new ones. Thus, tears were Dads only option.Mom and Dad met tragedy that day when the doctors issued their findings and conclusions in Maryland. But it did not leave them there. It accompanied them to Ohio. It ushered them into their house, up the stairs and even invaded the sanctity of their bedroom. And there it stayed. It lingered and hovered.Most of all, I remember playing with my brother, Billy. With him as the perfect playmate, I never considered my imperfect body.Mom and Dad decided to make the most of the time we had remaining.

To their great relief, I was not worsening at the accelerated pace predicted by the physicians. I was not getting stronger. But I was not degenerating, either.Although my particular disease wasnt diagnosed until a decade later, the explanation for it is quite simple. My muscles receive weak messages from motor nerves which transmit impulses from the spinal cord out to a particular muscle group. Because of these defective nerves, the muscles of hear whispers, rather than the screams which are normally heard throughout a persons body.

Consequently, my muscles cannot develop and instead grow weaker or atrophy over time from the lack of strong stimulation.(His Mother telling him) You will forget how sick you were, but I wont.These days in the hospital will fade from your memory, but not from mine.You will pass through other trials and tests and I will remind you of your story and these times when you hung on and survived.Weve been through so much together and youre still so young that you wont recall these events and experiences.

But Ill remember and I will remind you who you are and where you have come from.My life was about confronting and overcoming barriers. Buildings dont discriminate- people do.I believe all of us are Americans with disabilities. Each of us has strengths, talents, skills, and abilities- things that we are good at and excel in. But each of us has weaknesses, shortcomings, deficiencies and disabilities. We should all be evaluated and accepted on the basis of our abilities, not discriminated against because of our disabilities.



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