excerpt from

Letters to Sam: A Grandfather's Lessons on

Love, Loss, and the Gifts of Life

Compassion Works Both Ways

by Dr. Daniel Gottlieb

In 2006, Dr. Daniel Gottlieb, Philadelphia psychotherapist, columnist, and local radio personality, published Letters to Sam: A Grandfather’s Lessons of Love, Loss, and the Gifts of Life. Dr. Gottlieb and Sterling Publishing have graciously granted Empty Nest permission to reprint in this issue a chapter from the book that sums up the reason we are here, the reason we love: because we are meant to, because we need to. Although Gottlieb (a quadriplegic due to a freak accident many years ago) wrote the book for his autistic grandson, the lessons he imparts about loving can benefit readers of all ages.

Reprinted with permission of Sterling Publishing Co., Inc., from LETTERS TO SAM by Daniel Gottlieb. Copyright © 2006 by Daniel Gottlieb.

Dear Sam,

In my last letter, I told you how my different-ness draws out people’s kindness. When I use an elevator, I need someone to push the buttons. When I’m at a restaurant, I need someone to take the wrapper off my straw. Whenever I drop something on the floor (which is pretty often), I need someone to pick it up. Research shows that doing a kindness for someone else boosts a person’s endorphins, the body’s natural antidepressants. Your differentness will make people want to help you, too; and helping you will help them feel good.

But I think our vulnerability can open hearts—our own and others’—even more powerfully than that. An exchange based on genuine caring can affect people at the very deepest level. If that were not so, I’m not sure I would be alive today.

In intensive care at Jefferson University Hospital, about two weeks after my accident, I truly did not know if I wanted to live—or could live—as a quadriplegic. Yes, I still had a marriage and two beautiful children. I might even have a career ahead of me. I was surrounded by people who loved me and told me I was still a worthwhile person. But even if I had a future, I thought I would prefer death to quadriplegia.

When someone breaks his neck, the head must be completely immobilized so the bones can heal. In the old days, doctors would encase the patient in a plaster cast from head to waist, with just the face exposed. The patient looked like a mummy! Today, they use something called a halo vest. Believe me, the halo has nothing to do with angels. It is a metal hoop that surrounds the skull about an eighth of an inch above the scalp. The hoop is bolted into skull bone. (Twenty-five years later, I still have scars on my forehead where the bolts were fastened.) From the halo, stainless-steel rods come straight down, fixed to a fiberglass vest to keep the head from turning.

In the intensive care unit, with my skull bolted in a fixed position, I could not move my head up, down, right, or left. I could only look up at the dimly lit ceiling and listen to the hums and beeps of medical equipment and monitors. IV fluids dripped steadily into my arm. A catheter, implanted in my bladder, drained off urine. The pain in my head was terrible. My only wish was to fall asleep and never wake up.

After a while, I became aware that someone had taken a seat beside my bed. Though I couldn’t see her clearly, I assumed it was a nurse—perhaps someone who had treated me earlier, or had just come on duty. A woman’s soft voice asked if I was a psychologist. I said I was. She asked if she could talk to me about something that was on her mind. Of course, I said.

It was night and the IC unit was hushed. In a voice scarcely above a whisper, she told me about someone she loved dearly who had left her. With the loss of this love came a sense of aloneness she felt she couldn’t bear. Her pain was so intolerable that she was having thoughts of ending her life, and these thoughts frightened her. She couldn’t have known I was having some of the same feelings. But because I understood her pain so deeply, I was able to listen with great compassion.

How long did we talk? In my memory the hushed conversation was timeless. It could have been fifteen minutes; it could have been several hours. She told me about her life, her suffering, her loss, and the unbearable pain. She didn’t care about my halo vest, my catheter, or my IVs. She didn’t care whether I could walk or dance or make love. She didn’t even seem to care about my suffering. She just wanted me to help her with her pain. But as I listened to her, for the first time since my accident, I didn’t care about my suffering either. I only cared about hers.

She never leaned over my bed, so I never got to see her face. In my mind, in my heart, she has become a magical, mystical voice that entered my life and touched my soul.

That night, after we had talked, I was able to offer her a referral. As she left, I knew that I had been able to help her. And at that moment, I knew I could live as a quadriplegic. From that voice at my bedside I heard that I could still be of value in this world. Everyone else had been trying to convince me that I was still a worthwhile person, but the only way I could really learn that lesson was from someone who asked something of me.

Quite possibly, that evening, she and I saved each other’s lives.

Love, Pop