Final Time

The routine was always the same: "First time," followed by "next time," followed by "last time," and then "final time." It was a pain, but deep down I knew it was for my benefit.

The person issuing those orders was my father. I was in rehab after sustaining a traumatic brain injury that almost caused my death. One reason it did not kill me, was because my father always encouraged me to do "just a little bit more." At the time, I hated going through my father's tedious drills. However, I do not know where I would be today without them. Certainly I would not be where I am now: A college graduate, living with a loving wife and daughter, working in a fulfilling career, and happy. Sure, I have physical limitations, but I am alive and I have my father to thank.

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More than a quarter of a century later, my father is still always there for me. Throughout those years, my dad never let me give up, and a key reason was his faith. My father is a rabbi. He truly believes the biblical story of Moses (Exodus 3:12) where God said to him, "I will always be with you" – and God has always been with my father.

As a rabbi, my father often visits his hospitalized congregants. One sunny Tuesday afternoon, he was visiting patients at St. Luke's Hospital. After concluding his "rounds," he walked across the street to visit a little girl suffering from a brain tumor at the MD Anderson Cancer Center. Unfortunately, he stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk and crashed into the ornamental rocks just outside the entrance to the cancer center.

My father was in agony. Grimacing in pain, he did the only "logical" thing he could think of while good Samaritans attempted to help him. He pulled out his cell phone and called his orthopedic surgeon across town.

"Doctor Fruman," my father gasped in distress before continuing, "This is Jack Segal, I'm glad I was able to get you." It was obvious from his voice that my father was in severe pain. "I stumbled at the Medical Center and I know I broke my left leg." My father hesitated for a moment, panted for air, and then went on, "The ambulance will be here in no time. I'll be at you office soon."

"Jack," the doctor quickly replied, "tell the ambulance driver to take you to St. Luke's. You're already in the Med Center. It's right there. I'll call my friend who is an excellent orthopedic surgeon there. You'll be in very good hands."

Dr. Fruman was correct. My father was in very good hands with Dr. Landon. The x-rays showed a fracture of his left femur, located just below the hip. The accident occurred on a Tuesday afternoon and the surgery was performed Thursday morning. Afterwards, the doctor told my father's family and many friends that the surgery had been a complete success. Recovery would be a long process, but it could be done.

After word of my father's accident and hospitalization spread, his room quickly took on the appearance of a florist's shop. Countless friends and congregation members sent flowers and get-well gifts. One hundred and seven calls poured in on the day of my father's surgery, and his answering service held many messages, with people telling him that he was in their prayers.

My father was always the eternal optimist. However, this time it was different. He now had two titanium rods and two nails in his leg. For a split second, negativity set in: "What if my leg will never be the same? The pain is so bad …."

My father began physical therapy within a few days of his surgery. At first, the therapy consisted of trying to sit on the edge of the hospital bed. Then my dad started standing with the help of a gigantic therapist (whom we lovingly nicknamed "Tiny") and a walker. After a few more days, he was moved to the rehab floor, where the even harder and longer work would be done. He learned quickly that the things which are worth doing in life are rarely easy. My father made it his goal to do his best, and I was going to be by his side for moral support, just as he had been with me.

The therapist walked into the room with a smile on her face. "Good morning, Rabbi Segal," she began, "My name is Angela. We'll get you up and we'll walk from the bed to the door and back."

My father looked from his hospital bed to the door and immediately panicked, thinking, "It's so far." However, he did not say anything. Rather, he looked at me and thought, "If Mike was able to do it, I can do it." With much help from Angela, he stood up and slowly, very slowly, started inching his way toward the open door. He began to sweat more and more as the inches blended into feet. By the time he reached the open door, my father was drenched with perspiration. He was mentally and physically exhausted, but he had done it. My father's long road to recovery had begun. He was so proud that he broke out in a broad smile.

Just then, my father noticed another patient with a walker passing his room. That patient was zipping along with ease, and my father actually thought he was about to start running. For a split second, my father hated that patient. He looked toward me and said, "Maybe I'll trip him!" He was just kidding … I think.

My dad continued to progress, with the help of the hospital staff, his support system, and of course, his faith. He was driven, and would practice going around the hospital halls by himself, time and time again. Later he was discharged from the hospital and instructed to enroll in an outpatient therapy program.

After my father's visits to the therapist, he would do even more work on his own as he wanted to get better quickly. He truly believed Benjamin Franklin's famous statement, "God helps those who help themselves."

I was always asking my father about his progress. Once he told me that he was able to walk up and down his driveway six times. I could tell how proud he was of that accomplishment. However, I said, "Dad, that's great! But tomorrow you'll do seven."

My father's broad smile deflated. "We'll see," he said, nodding meekly.

"Dad, seven!"

"I said we'll see."

"And I said seven."

I wasn't sure if he would follow my advice and increase his walking. The next evening, my wife gave me what she thought was a strange message. "Your dad called. Is he feeling OK? He only asked me to tell you that this morning he did seven."

I laughed and said, "That's my dad!" and explained the significance of his message to my wife.

It has been almost a year since my father's fall. He's made tremendous progress and continues to improve. I'll always be there to encourage him, just as he was there for me. Etched in my memory are the words "final time."

Perhaps, etched in his memory, is the word "seven."

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