The Courage to Come Back

Reader's Digest
By: Kathy Cook
July, 2002
Photo - Richard Pierre

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Serious crash changes athlete's life forever

Toronto Star
By: Prithi Yelaja
Medical reporter
Thursday, November 29, 2001
Photo: Peter Power - Toronto Star

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HE SAW THE LIGHT
ACCIDENT GIVES TEACHER SECOND CHANCE

Toronto Sun
By: Mike Strobel
Thursday September 25th, 2003
Reproduced with permission

 

 

The world is full of gurus. There is a motivational speaker on every corner.

They have their place in a free country.

But mostly the only dues they've paid are their private jet licence fee and their lobster dinner tab.

Mr. A, as the kids at Fern Avenue Public School call him, has paid his dues.

"I wouldn't change a thing," he tells me over coffee on Roncesvalles Ave., near the school.

Not the accident?

"No."

Not the two weeks in a coma? Not the torn aorta? Not the brain surgery, the plastic surgery, the metal plates, the lung surgery?

Not the touch of death? The light, the tunnel, all that?

"Nope," says Anthony Aquan-Assee, 34. "That accident enabled me to become the person I am today. I've realized the strengths in myself because I was forced to face some difficulties."

Those "difficulties" started six years ago this week. Sept. 23, 1997. He was riding his Suzuki 1100 from Mississauga to Fern Avenue P.S., to his class of special-ed kids and his touch-football practice.

A driver turned left when she shouldn't have, and next thing Aquan-Assee knew he was looking down a tunnel at a very bright light and gazing upon his limp body from above. He was also VSA, vital signs absent. No pulse.

"Critical condition," said our brief story.

He was 28. He was a goner.

But here he is, 34. Laughing over coffee. Kibitzing with students. Volunteering in an ICU at St. Mike's, where he once lay near death, where they gave him a second chance.

How he got here is a remarkable story. He tells it in a new self-published book, Second Life, Second Chance.

He bears the marks, still. He limps slightly (four knee ops so far). He does not hide his trach scar, or the one that glares from his left elbow.

His brain stem was battered, so he's lucky to get four hours sleep. He has learned to live with perpetual fatigue.

Brain injury can be cruelly quirky. Mostly, he forgets things.

He pulls out a Palm Pilot. "Everything's recorded and alarmed," he says.

Staff meetings, school football games, calls to parents, a student's meds. This interview.

"I've gotta be vigilant. If this thing doesn't ring, I'll forget."

He does not dwell, this guy, though Lord knows he has good reason.

"My principle now is: Face your fears." It is what he tells medical conferences, families in ICU, or kids in the yard.

And himself.

Last year, he bought a motorcycle. Another Suzuki, but a 600. "That first time, I was crying," he says. "I called my mom and my girlfriend and I said, "Before I start this thing up, I want you to know I love you.?"

Then off he zoomed.

He is a poster boy for positive thinking. He says things like "Brain injury has helped me become better organized."

So, his west-end condo is a model of precision. If, say, a bill isn't in its proper place, it doesn't get paid.

He is full-circle to Fern Avenue this fall after a stint at another school. The kids hang off him. He throws pitches, cajoles a boy off a low-slung roof.

Mr. A meditates to survive yard duty. Those bounding kids and flying baseballs are hard for a damaged brain to absorb.

He brings a rare gift to special ed. His hurdles are akin to learning disabilities.

Never give up, he tells his class. "If I can do it, anyone can." Feel good about yourself. If you can't do math, you can do something else.

He competed in judo before the wreck. He still lifts weights and is built like a brick.

He is not especially religious, but now he figures something comes next.

"I know it sounds hokey-pokey spiritual, but I saw that light. There was tremendous calm and serenity."

"So, there's more to life than a physical presence."

Maybe, Mr. A. I know this: Life is what you make of it.