Most anyone who knows me knows that I have a thing about superheroes. My favorite of all time is Batman, because this guy’s got no powers whatsoever, and yet he crafts himself into this machine of conflict. (Shuddup, if you think I’m talking about Adam West and Bif! Pow!) But this is about Superman.
Christopher Reeve died yesterday of cardiac arrest brought on by complications with an infection. He was 51.
But before that, did you know he was getting better? Did you know he’d started breathing on his own after they implanted electrical stimulators into his diaphragm? Did you know he was starting to be able to move his fingers and his toes, and some larger muscles? Doctors were telling this guy he wasn’t going to live more than a year, if that. He went nine. Power, force of will, and a commitment to turn his tragedy into something that served the greater good.
This is the one and only time I’ll say I admire Superman. And even then, I think we all know I’m talking about the guy in the costume, because that Krytpon loser alien dude is still a wuss.
Bye, Chris.
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