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"You can't do that!"

Writer's picture: Michael HernackiMichael Hernacki

Mike, Tom & motorcycles in the Northern Michigan woods. Note crutch handles, lower right.

 

Tom Grein was a healthy little boy in the 1950’s, growing up normally in Bay City, Michigan with his parents and three brothers. His life was close to perfect—until he contracted the paralyzing virus called polio. The famous Salk vaccine had not been invented yet, so Tom was forced to live in an “iron lung,” a barrel-like capsule that helped him breathe just enough to stay alive.


Tom suffered in this iron prison for several years and finally recovered well enough to return to real life. But his life would never be easy. Polio had robbed his legs of muscle, so he needed crutches to get around. Despite his handicap, he completed high school and went on to college at Michigan State. His room was next to mine in the dorm. 


We found we had a lot in common and soon became good friends. What amazed me about Tom was that he never let his physical challenges get in the way of what he wanted. Whenever someone would say, “Tom, you can’t do that,” he’d say, “Watch me.” He loved to sing, so he and two friends, who were blind, formed a folk-singing trio. They went all over the Midwest, singing in bars and coffee shops near college campuses. Naturally, Tom did all the driving.


As a “cripple,” Tom wasn’t supposed to ride motorcycles. But when I bought one, he thought that was cool, so he got one too. One Spring Term, after final exams, he and I felt we needed a reward, so we decided to go fishing at my parents’ cottage in northern Michigan. We piled our gear (including his crutches) on the backs of two tiny motorbikes and rode for hours through the woods up to Mike’s Rainbow Lodge (named after my Dad). There we fished in the river and played cribbage and drank beer for a whole glorious weekend.


Tom loved to write and was determined to be a newspaper man, though many of us doubted he could handle the job physically. He got his degree in journalism and hit the streets as a reporter, doing everything his able-bodied co-workers could do—and usually doing it better. He got promoted, became an editor, was recruited by USA Today, then eventually bought a string of small newspapers in Virginia. The odds were against him every step of the way, but he never let that stop him—even though every step required crutches.


We both got married right out of college and lived in different cities, but always managed to stay in touch. He and Betsy were married for 57 years, had three children and many grandchildren. Betsy called to tell me he died last week. His worn-out, overtaxed body just couldn’t take it anymore. He was 81.


When I’m feeling stressed, when I’m afraid I just can’t get past whatever I’m up against, I think about Tom. About how much harder it was for him to do everything. About how much he accomplished despite his “handicap.” And when someone tells me, “You can’t do that,” I remember Tom and I say, “Watch me.”

 



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