Whenever I was distraught as a teenager, my father was always by my side to feel my pain.

However, nothing could compare to his agony when on February 18, 1981, my life was dramatically changed forever.

I was at the wrong place at the wrong time, being an innocent bystander of an armed robbery. I was shot in the head execution style by one of the thieves. Very few people thought I would survive, much less be a productive member of society.

In the hospital waiting room, my father was thinking only of me, believing that I could be dying any second. He asked himself what he could have done differently. If he could have spent more time with me. These were irrational thoughts, but understandable given my father’s state of mind. He was devastated.

My parents met with the neurosurgeon in the morning who coldly told them that he was surprised that I was still alive and that he needed to operate. He then proceeded to say that there was only a 40% chance of my surviving the surgery, and if I did survive, almost a 100% chance of my living in a nursing home, not being able to walk or communicate.

My mother refused to listen to the pessimism.

She told my father, “We need to rent a mini warehouse to keep Mike’s furniture until he returns to school.”

My father, still stunned, replied, “Toby, did you hear the surgeon?

Mike will be lucky if he spends the rest of his days at a nursing home.”

My mother quickly and angrily barked back, “That doctor does not know my son, my Michael.” My father did not want to argue, especially not at such a delicate time. Therefore, they rented a mini warehouse in Austin.

I beat the neurosurgeon’s odds and survived surgery.

I was in a coma and with each day that I showed no progress, my father agonized even more. Then, “miraculously,” I came out of the coma. True, I had opened my eyes, but I still had a long, long way to go to even begin to be functional. I was completely paralyzed on my right side, could not speak, and I was hallucinating.

When the doctor informed my parents that I was stable enough to fly home to a rehabilitation hospital in Houston, my father finally had reason to hope.

Seven weeks after being hurt, I began to utter some words. Now, my father thought, was the perfect time for him to work with me. At first he would drill me on very, very simple things, such as pointing to a 1, then a 2, then a 3. My father was so happy when I accomplished the goal, only to be devastated the next time when I was unable to do the simple task.

As time progressed, I continued to improve. My verbal skills were improving daily. After my father’s busy day at work, he would come to the hospital, ready to work with me. I still remember his bag filled with flash cards. My father would continuously drill me on subjects such as math and spelling. He would stretch my leg. My father would do whatever might be beneficial for me.

The staff at the hospital, I believe, wasn’t very happy with my father. My father is a Rabbi by profession and he did not finish his synagogue duties until 8:30pm. Then he would quickly go to the hospital to work with me. The hospital staff felt that I would get frustrated if I worked past their ordinary therapy hours of 3pm and visiting hours of 8pm. That didn’t matter to my father. He knew what was best for his son. No one would be able to persuade him otherwise.

Even though very few of the medical staff at either hospital believed that I would ever be able to return to college, that is exactly what I did almost a year and a half later.

A major reason why was my father. He always encouraged me to look for the positive, even when there was very little to feel positive about.

Four years after returning to the University, I graduated at the top of my class with many honors including my election to Phi Beta Kappa, graduating summa cum laude, and being honored as one of the Dean’s Distinguished Graduates.

As I limped up to the stage to get my diploma from the Dean, I received a standing ovation. I smiled as one of the many thoughts racing through my head was of my father — the man who helped me throughout my ordeal — the man who has always been there for me, no matter what.

Even though I could not see his face in the huge auditorium, I knew my father was smiling back at me. I will always love him.

Michael Segal MsegalHope@aol.com