From an early age, author Tom Ufert can remember his grandmother proclaiming that adversity builds character. At the time, he didn't completely understand what it meant-or know that he would actually live it. In Adversity Builds Character, Ufert shares the events that altered and shaped his life and shows how, with God's help, he was able to survive, thrive, and inspire others. In this memoir, he narrates his life story and tells about the adversity he has faced-his mother's early divorces; the breakdown of his relationship with his sister; his adoption by family friends; his mother's illness and murder; his contact with a predatory pedophile; his questioning of his own sexuality, bisexuality, and eventual acceptance of being gay; alcoholism and sexual addiction; diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis and HIV; and paralysis from a car accident. Revealing, honest, painful, and tender, Adversity Builds Character communicates the power of the human spirit to overcome the trials of modern life. It shows how Ufert's suffering paved the way for a deep appreciation for life and God's role in the world.

Adversity Builds Character

AN INSPIRATIONAL TRUE LIFE STORY OF DISABILITY, ADDICTION AND ACCEPTANCEBy Tom Ufert

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Tom Ufert
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-5271-1

Contents

Dedication..........................................................viiPreface.............................................................ix1. Crash!...........................................................12. A Broken Home Of Shattered Lives.................................73. Vacation & Relocation Do Not Bring Salvation.....................184. Thief In The Night...............................................285. A Second Chance..................................................406. Abusive, Gutless, Or In Denial...................................527. Pawn Who Would Be King...........................................638. Cloaked And Drunkard.............................................819. Goodbye Mom......................................................9510. Never Surrender.................................................11311. Love Lost, Me Found.............................................13112. I'm Still Standing And Rolling On...............................14213. Rehabilatation For My Body And Soul.............................15114. My New Life, What A View........................................164Life Is ... Accept It Or Change It..................................169"Adversity Is A Splendid Thing".....................................175Author's Note.......................................................177Author's Biography..................................................179

Chapter One

CRASH!

When I opened my eyes all I could see was light. Lying flat on my back my vision and my mind were all a haze. Slowly out of the corner of my eye I saw movement and it was Brandon. He approached my bed with a tear streaked face that was as white as a ghost. I knew something was wrong but vaguely just assumed it was the pain medication I had been given following the previous night's car accident. At that very moment I still had no idea as to the extent of my injuries. Brandon seemed confused if not dumbfounded that I was clueless of my condition. He asked "don't you realize why you are lying flat on your back or that 20 pounds of weighted tongs are attached to your head?" Then it hit me and the memories started flooding my mind like a tidal wave.

The date was September 28, 1992. The time was around 3:30 on that Saturday morning as I struggled to climb into my silver blue Honda Civic. Suddenly Bobby Beth, one of my pool playing buddies from the bar, drove up in a bright red sports car. Though Bobby's demeanor and reputation gave me reason to doubt his character, I was blinded by a frustrated libido and the hope of a quick fix. Through the open window he asked where I was heading. I halfheartedly explained that it was late and I was on my way home before my lover got off work. He suggested we take a short joyride so that I could "experience the thrill of 'his' sports car." Though he appeared sober enough, I had easily observed his steady beer guzzling throughout the night and should have known better. We started out at a smooth normal pace. But then we hit the highway. Before I knew it Bobby was racing the Mazda RX seven at 80 miles an hour. Just as I voiced my deep concern that he was driving too fast, Bobby suddenly turned off the interstate onto a high climbing ramp leading back into downtown Dallas. Fearing arrest or an accident I was anxious to return to my parked car and head home. The next moment would change my life forever.

Halfway up the ramp, speeding at near 80 miles an hour, the driver's side of the car suddenly scraped the guard rail. In a split second Bobby lost control of the vehicle as we spiraled in a 180° fashion that slammed the vehicle fiercely against the guardrail causing it to tumble over twice before landing to a sudden stop. I must have passed out briefly because my next memory was that of a female African American police officer shining a flashlight into my eyes. I vaguely remember her asking my name and age before telling me not to move, that help was on the way. I do not remember anything after that until I was being rolled into Parkland Hospital's emergency room on a stretcher. A nurse, walking rapidly beside me, was rambling off a series of questions and statements. I do remember telling her not to call my roommate, Brandon, until midday the next day because he was working the late shift as an agency nurse and needed his sleep.

The next day around noon was when I opened my eyes to see the bright light and Brandon approaching. I had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis only the month before. Now I was informed of an incomplete spinal fracture to the fifth and sixth cervical vertebrae in my neck. All the doctors' statements of diagnosis and prognosis were sketchy. Only time would tell to what degree I would recover from this near fatal injury. After two days in ICU with the weighted tongs dangling downward from my forehead, I was transferred to a private room for 24 hour observation. The 20 pound weighted tongs had been replaced with a 27 pound titanium metal halo literally screwed into my skull. Its purpose was to prevent my head and neck from moving in the hopes that my incomplete spinal fracture would heal naturally so as to avoid the need for a surgical cure. This extremely heavy and cumbersome metal "cage" was comprised of a thick metal ring clasped around the top of my head and was supported by four 18 inch metal rods that were attached to shoulder braces. The halo's additional weight totally wrecked any sense of orientation and equilibrium. In addition to this hardware, my spinal injury had resulted in significant swelling of the spinal cord itself causing extreme paralysis to three of my four limbs. With extreme effort and fatigue I was able to partially facilitate trunk movement of my upper torso, but had no sensory perception or neuromuscular control of my lower body. In essence it initially appeared that I was paralyzed from the waist down. Naturally this also required routine use of a catheter to perform normal urinary functions. As far as renal capabilities I was at the mercy of my bodily functions and required constant assistance from medical personnel to clean up my feces.

Any prognosis of complete or even partial recovery was bleak at best. Vaguely, I recall the intense discussion between Brandon, myself, and the attending specialist regarding future plans for my lengthy physical rehabilitation. The specialist stressed vigorously the merits of sending me to Baylor Rehabilitation Hospital noting its reputation as the most qualified facility for the type of medical care I would require. However, Brandon was strongly in favor of relocating me to the Plano rehab hospital where he had been serving on staff for the last several months. Admitting that Plano was significantly smaller and more accustomed to elderly patients recovering from hip and knee replacement surgery, Brandon relayed that he had already been in communication with the pertinent authorities; they had expressed confidence in their ability to properly fulfill my recuperation needs. Furthermore, he stressed the positive benefits of being able to daily monitor my progress while performing his duties at work. Privately, he conveyed that the strain of working all day at one facility and having to drive daily across town to another would be unbearable. Therefore, it was decided I would be transferred to Plano.

As a side note, Bobby Beth made a very brief visit to my room prior to my transfer. Lasting barely three minutes he made some cordial inquiries as to my condition and then offered a halfhearted token apology for the accident. In my heavily medicated state it was quite difficult to ascertain his genuine sincerity or true intent. However, in time he would reveal his true colors! I would never see him again.

Plano Rehabilitation Hospital (PRH) was a private two story 48 bed facility originally designed to care for the rehabilitative needs of the affluent Plano community's elderly. It had an excellent reputation for such care but I would be their first spinal cord patient, and certainly their youngest. The hospital's patient care model was organized around a therapeutic team design. Every aspect of the patient's rehabilitative care was structured around a therapy team of physical therapists, occupational therapists, speech therapists, respiratory therapists, recreational therapists, dietitians, nurses, social workers, and of course neurosurgeons. The patient's own team met weekly to discuss and review their therapy progress. My particular case presented these rehab experts with a new set of challenges, but they were eager and felt completely confident of our mutual success.

From the beginning, there was a special dedicated interest in my rehabilitation because of the connection the staff had with their friend and coworker, my roommate and lover of two years, Brandon. As well, my admission into PRH carried another significantly unique distinction: I was the only patient to have a room all to myself. It would be well over a month before the significance of this factor would become evident. This singular condition would be the third adversity to strike at my very core in 1992, and it would nearly be the one that broke me. It had completely escaped my attention for the first few weeks of my rehab therapy that attached to the door of my hospital room was a bright red warning of biohazard. On one particular afternoon after returning from a very exhausting session of physical therapy I inquired from my personal nurse, Phil, as to the reason for this notification. Innocently and obviously unaware of my ignorance, he simply remarked it was because of my condition. The confused look upon my face and my insistence that I had no idea as to what he was referring caused an immediate facial expression of shock and alarm. He proceeded to explain that hospital regulations required a public warning because of my HIV positive status. My response was immediate. Physically, either from exhaustion or psychological shock, my body totally collapsed. Within minutes Dr. R was summoned accompanied by Brandon to explain that tests of my blood chemistry from my emergency room admission had indicated the presence of the HIV virus. I was completely blown away! Either as a result of my injuries or significant pain medication, my recollection of this diagnosis having been conveyed to me before now, was nonexistent. The emotional and psychological effects of this news were devastating. For the next several days I was completely incapacitated due to extreme depression. Members of the staff naturally understood. In fact they had only questioned when, not if, my positive mental attitude would be shaken by the realization and acceptance of this "death sentence."

What broke my debilitating state of depression, I cannot explain. All I know is that one morning I awoke and my entire mental attitude and approach to life had completely changed. My only explanation is the grace of God and divine intervention. From that moment on, overcoming my adversities and the sheer will to live were the driving forces that compelled me to survive. My future was uncertain. Undoubtedly, the road ahead would be long and hard. Remembering the painful and arduous struggle my mom had endured for ten long years drove me to never giving in. All of the support and encouragement of Brandon, my coworkers at Sister's Insurance Company, and especially the hard working medical staff at PRH spurned me on to overcome these trials and tribulations. Even more importantly the regular visits from Eucharistic ministers at the local Catholic Church reaffirmed my faith in God proving that regardless of the struggle I was not alone.

Those few days of hopeless depression, lying alone in my "restricted" private hospital room forced me to completely reevaluate my life and its direction, or the lack thereof. Deeply repressed memories of my past and serious questions about the real causes of my present predicament made clear that my future revolved around a single decision — give up and die, or fight like hell to rewrite my destiny. Past accomplishments and successes meant nothing now. They were but small tokens of a self-deluded egotistical impression of my own self-importance. The true character of a man's life is not his possessions or meaningless accolades, but rather the blessings he brings to other people's lives through his deeds and actions. Honesty, integrity and respect are personal attributes bestowed on one's character through a life well lived and earned from others – not achieved by self-appointment! This was a lesson in life that I learned only through adversity!

Chapter Two

A BROKEN HOME OF SHATTERED LIVES

I've been told that my grand entrance into this world came early in the morning of Saturday, November 13, 1965 just after midnight. Though it was the most important day of my life, I don't remember much of anything about it! I suppose, in that respect, I'm not that different from everybody else. In hindsight it is with great thanks and a rather sobering reflection that it occurs to me my humble life may have been purely accidental.

Carolyn Rachel Ufert was nine years old when I shattered her calm world. Before I popped into the picture she was the only little Ufert playing on the family homestead in Shreveport, Louisiana. Before any preconceived notions are made I want to set the record straight. Carolyn, or "Caru" as I often called her, has always loved me the best way an older sister can, considering the whirlwind of events that rocked our family lives. Knowing the number of years that separated our births it is perhaps easier to understand why I have always believed that my birth was not planned. Yet this merely begins to set the stage for my entrance.

Even if I, Thomas Lee Ufert, had not been a planned offspring, there is little evidence that it would have caused much concern. From what I can remember of my father, Tommy, he surely would have been pleased to have a male heir. His Illinois German immigrant heritage safely confirms that fact. Furthermore, there can be no doubt of this, from the undeniable reality I was a spoiled child whom my parents loved dearly. Gloria, my mom, is said to have lavished me with her love as any mother would on her youngest child. I was the "baby". Yellowed photos from the burgeoning era of personal cameras in the mid-sixties indicate the wholesome parental love my parents had for Caru and me. I guess that is one of the reasons why it is so hard to believe that our lives were anything less than perfect. It is perhaps a way all my generation looks back at their childhood since it was so influenced by the "cookie-cutter" atmosphere of pre-Vietnam America. We were, I guess, trying to live up to that image of the perfect family. I cannot remember hearing or even knowing about families that were anything less than just like ours — perfect.

There are very few memories I have of life before age six; maybe because life really was perfect back then. Perhaps I was just so sheltered and naïve not to have realized that life is in and of itself not perfect; why should mine be so different? That pristine and innocent era of childhood is the way it should be for all children, should it not? Yet, I know now I am a stronger person because of the earth shattering events that affected my life. They were at least earth shattering to me, but in the full realm of life experiences, they are but shallow comparisons to the trials and tribulations of other's lives. It has taken years of personal maturity to fully comprehend that realization.

There is no doubt in my mind that the most influential memory of my early childhood played hand in hand with the lifelong understanding that life is painful. None of us are alone in that experience! I was three years old playing on the floor with my army of toys. In those days the television was contained inside a behemoth rectangular structure nearly six feet long housing also a turntable for playing LPs. Just imagine looking up from the sidewalk of a modern city at an adjacent skyscraper blocking out the sun. When you are three everything is behemoth, but nothing in our home was larger except the upright piano and the refrigerator. Needless to say the TV was a very influential part of my early years, as it has been for most American children since the early 1960s. I have known many people who can remember their first TV. When I was born, the TV was already there! This was the summer of 1968 and the beginning of my quest to bring peace to the world. For you see, I saw it as real then as I can still see it clearly today. An unforgettable image reached out with penetrating black & white arms from the steamy streets of Saigon. There before my eyes the Thet Offensive was as real as if in my own backyard, thanks to CBS. I, like so many other Americans, saw war firsthand, up close and personal. There were no disclaimers to shield me from the real harrowing images of that war. Even if it was black & white, the scene was real life and it forever changed mine! I saw the handcuffed and prostrated Vietcong soldier as he was — a disheveled heap of helpless humanity. Seconds later he was a mass of dead tissue with his brains and blood pouring onto the street and into my home. I saw the South Vietnamese Colonel give him a frontal lobotomy via the Smith & Wesson: I was three! Years later I came to recognize that single event as the impetus to my lifelong love for politics and international relations, especially in Asia. Several years ago I had the enlightening experience of meeting a retired Marine who briefly served under the command of that same South Vietnamese Colonel. Though he would offer few details of his Vietnamese tour of duty, perhaps for the sheer pain of remembering them, he did recount a few pertinent facts that gave me a new perspective on that event in 1968. This Marine noted, with the cool tone of so many a soldier who have seen combat, that the Vietcong had heinously slaughtered the colonel's entire family years before, and that might just explain his lack of mercy. This is just an example of what I've said before that there are three sides to every story: yours', mine, and the truth — sometimes two of them are the same. Knowing the facts about the colonel's loss doesn't necessarily excuse his actions, but it does explain the possible reasons for his behavior. As for that anonymous Marine, he only asked that I make this dedication, "From a Marine, for those who didn't make it home!"

(Continues...)

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