hospital,' I was talking to a doctor,
and he told me it was going to be
all right. I figured the best thing
I could do to help was to keep quiet
and not make a fuss. That's what
I'm going to do."
About a month after the opera
tion, the doctors told us Everett
was well enough to go home. That
was a wild day for us. We tried to
slip him quietly out of the hospital
in his wheel chair, but the reporters
heard about it and were immedi
ately after us. That day, our two
story house was packed with neigh
bors, friends, pals of Everett's, and
reporters and photographers, all
shouting, trying to tell Everett how
good it was to see him home.
From that day, the house was
continually crowded with people
and the sound of a ringing tele
phone and I can't say I was
bothered by the commotion. The
house had been too quiet while
Everett had been in the hospital;
I was used to a house with noise
and life in it.
I think it was all the people
who would ring the doorbell and
say, "Can I see Everett, please?"
who helped him concentrate on get
ting better.
He needed lots of help. The first
operation was only the beginning.
While in the hospital, he had gone
back to the operating table for
plastic surgery, and then in Sep
tember he had a second major
operation. The doctors took a 17
inch length of nerve from his thigh
and put it in his arm, connecting
the four main nerves. He also had
to undergo daily electrotherapy to
keep his arm from wasting away.
But Everett was determined to
get better. One month after the
nerve operation, we had our first
sign that the strength was coming
back into his arm. He had been
warned by the doctors not to do
anything with his hand or arm.
But one day while I was out in the
back yard hanging up the wash, I
heard Everett talking at the front
of the house with our next-door
neighbor. She asked him if he could
move his fingers. I knew instantly
that he would try. I dropped my
clothespins and rushed through the
house to stop him but I was too
late. He had moved his fingers!
I was stunned that he could actu
ally do it. I think Everett was sur
prised, too. He ran into the living
room, where his father was sleep
ing on the couch, and said, "Look,
Daddy, I can move my fingers."
My husband woke and looked at
the boy. I think he figured Everett
was just imagining it. "Well, he
can," I said, and Everett moved his
fingers again. My husband was
amazed. Opening and closing your
fingers may seem like a small thing,
but it was a great moment for us.
Now Everett seemed in a rush to
make up for lost time. Once he was
out of his wheel chair, we couldn't
keep him still. He was under strict
orders not to try any heavy physi
cal exercise, but he couldn't resist
the temptation of Glen Park, a
large ball field down the street
where he used to pitch some of his
best games. He finally confessed he
sometimes joined a game on the sly,
swinging the bat awkwardly with
his one good arm, fielding with a
special glove that had been sent to
him. When we told the doctor, he
said sternly to Everett, "All right,
but watch the rough stuff."
Last fall, Everett went back to
j school. We took him out of the
public school, where he would have
had to do too much walking, and
put him in an elementary school
run by nuns. This wasn't an easy
decision. It was November, and he
was at least two months behind.
The mother superior told us
bluntly: "I don't think Everett will
be able to catch up with the rest of
the eighth grade, but I'm willing to
give him a chance."
Everett understood the challenge.
He studied harder than he ever had
before. This was especially difficult
A former Little Leaguer, Everett revisit hit pals a year after the accident.
.L fc .
because he had to go to the hospital
for several hours of physical ther
apy five days a week. He was ex
pected to exercise at home, too.
Also, Everett was beginning to ex
perience what the doctors called
"ghost" pains sudden and stab
bing. The nerve fibers were coming
alive. Sometimes, when he exercised
his fingers, he had to grit his teeth
to keep from crying out -
But last winter, despite all these
handicaps, Everett came home with
his report card and a big grin on
his face. Not one mark was below
average. "I just wanted to prove to
myself and everybody that I could
do it," he told us.
Today, Everett is still mending
and he's growing, too. He spent
his summer at camp and came back
thinner and taller. His old clothes
don't fit him any more. He is now
a freshman in St. Mary's of the
Annunciation High School, where
he manages the football team, and
I can see the growing maturity, the
new dignity. Again, our wonderful
neighbors have helped by setting
up an Everett Knowles Fund to in
sure his education. He still is too
young to know what he wants to
do with his life, but he does know
there are all kinds of worlds open
to him.
As for his arm, the doctors tell
us the nerve ends are moving down
a half inch a month. He can now
squeeze your hand hard and move
his arm up and down. Thanks to
the last operation, there are at
least two good nerves in his arm.
We still don't know whether he
will be able to use his thumb for
grasping. It will take another year,
and possibly more operations, be
fore we know the full outcome.
I'm sure that Everett misses the
use of his right arm, and it never
will be as strong or useful as the
arms of other boys. And yet there
are things he has gotten out of this
terrible experience. He has learned
how neighbors stand by you when
tragedy strikes. We often have
thanked our friends on Dell Street,
and yet I don't think we have ever
told them how much their kindness
and sympathy helped us.
In the hospital and later at home,
Everett also learned there were
people much worse off than he, who
never gave up. Meeting them and
hundreds of others who simply
stepped up to wish him well, has
given him the self-confidence to
put out his hand yes, with his bad
arm and shake hands warmly with
anyone.
I'm very proud of Everett my
little boy who was too stubborn to
cry and too brave to be defeated by
a blow that made medical history.
Family Weekly, December 1, 19tl
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