I was 21 (I think) and at my first Society for Neuroscience conference in New Orleans. Imagine tens of thousands of neuroscientists and their students gathered in one place for about five days to present and absorb all sorts of neuroscience. Rows and rows of posters full of new and exciting data about the brain, how it functions, and what that means for all of us. Understanding of behaviors, knowledge about disease and injury, how new and old drugs impact the brain and behavior, and many more things.
I was wandering through the posters, wide-eyed and new to the field (I had attended to meet with a prospective mentor to begin my graduate work), when a crowd of people appeared out of nowhere in front of me. There was an excited buzz about them so I joined the group to see what the hubbub was about.
A space in the middle of the crowd opened up and flowed forward as the center of the space moved through the room. That center was Christopher Reeve. My eyes widened with both excitement and a sense of shock. I knew he was wheelchair bound, of course, but seeing him in person, a mere ten feet away stunned me. Here was Superman, knocked down to human form in front of me, suffering all the frailty of humanity. He passed by and the moment ended but stuck with me the rest of my life.
As my career progressed and I ended up working in the operating room with patients who suffered similar injuries to Mr. Reeve, I often thought of the impact he had on me in that moment. The feeling of my work doing something important for people. Either to work on basic science to inform more advanced work or by helping guide surgeons as they piece a broken spine back together. That moment helped my understand the gravity of that work.
My local theater is screening the new Reeve biopic, Super/Man: The Christopher Reeve Story, tomorrow. While I can’t make it tomorrow, I’ll be sure to watch once it’s available online.
S. E. Baran 