Dynamite Mike McGee 9781938002311, 9780981951485

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Dynamite Mike McGee A biography by Lona Smith

* A

Double Edge Press, Scenery Hill, Pennsylvania

Selection * Double Edge Press Ebook ISBN: 9781938002311 Dynamite Mike McGee Copyright © 2011 Lona Smith

Cover Artwork: Original design by Double Edge Press. Elements contained within the original design include the following images in its composition: The following images are royalty paid via dreamstime.com: Racing Flag by Mitch1921 – royalty paid Additional images were used with permission and were provided by: Warren Vincent of http://www.racingfromthepast.com/ Barbara “Totsy” McGee Persons included on the cover are (from left to right): Mike McGee, Reed Johnson, Bob Cox, Rex Johnson, Jody Wells The following original artwork was also used on the cover: “The Penguins” by Mike McGee For more information on Mike McGee’s Artwork, go to http://doubleedgepress.com. Non-fiction All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Double Edge Press, 72 Ellview Road, Scenery Hill, PA 15360

Dedication: For my cousin, Barbara “Totsy” McGee

Acknowledgments and Thanks

Researching and writing about my cousin, Mike McGee, has been an exciting mission, filled with joy, moments of nostalgia, and gratitude for the people who’ve shared in this project. First, there are my relatives, my sisters and cousins—my inheritance through my maternal grandparents, the Conner’s—who connect us and make me proud. I am particularly grateful to Cousin Totsy, Mike’s mother, whose recollections, preserved records, and memorabilia were a treasure chest of information. It’s indeed a unique relationship when high school and racing buddies of the 1960’s and 1970’s can come together forty years later and share memories and experiences with admiration and affection. I am particularly indebted to Jon Cummins and Rex Johnson who’ve always been only an email or a phone call away when I’ve had a question, and for their time and input in compiling the racing chapters and sharing their memories. Thanks, too, to Bill Rick, Buddy Cagle, and Vic Paddock for their priceless stories. I’m honored and profoundly grateful to Dr. Mark Ashley, founder and president of Centre for Neuroskills, and to author Jude Stringfellow, owner and biographer of Faith the Dog, for taking their time to read and review the book. Thanks also to those other professionals who have been encouraging and helpful in reviewing certain portions of the book for accuracy. They are Joanna Campbell, CEO, and Gary Arnold, VP, of Public Relations for Little People of America; Lori Mathis Long of The Center for Individuals with Physical Challenges; Emmett Hahn, long-time racing promoter; NCRA’s C. Ray Hall and Warren Hardy; and Warren Vincent from racingfromthepast.com. To my friends, Brenda Burton and Ed Laveri, for their generosity in creating my new web site and for their patience and computer expertise in helping me become more computer literate than I’d ever hoped. To Merrilyn O’Connell, proofreader extraordinaire, who made the manuscript ‘clean’ for competitions and submissions. Which brings me to thanking the Florida Writer’s Association and my fellow members for their support, encouragement, and the venues through which I had the opportunity to meet and present Dynamite Mike to my publisher, Rebecca Melvin. My thanks to Rebecca Melvin of Double Edge Press for believing in

Mike’s story and finding it worth sharing, for her dedication to producing an exceptional product and her contributions to the industry as a whole. My husband George is the constant in my life, my on-the-sidelines promoter, critic, and encourager. I couldn’t think of it being any other way. Most of all, I offer my deepest admiration and appreciation to my cousin, Dynamite Mike McGee, who lives in a place of peace in his heart, and inspires those who know him to do the same.

Dynamite Mike McGee A biography by Lona Smith

Chapter One

August 12, 1975, is a hot night at the speedway in Dewey, but then people expect summer nights in Oklahoma to be hot. As the sun sinks behind the bleachers, spectators climb into the stands hoping a breeze will give some relief. Few of the excited fans notice a short figure in a white, red-trimmed racing suit, hands behind his back and face hidden by a widebrimmed Western hat among the several drivers walking the track, checking out conditions for the evening’s races. “How’s it look, tonight?” Phil asks as Mike makes his way back to the pit. “Pretty good, Dad,” Mike says. “Track’s ironed, but it’s still tacky.” He crawls into his red-and-white Super Modified 302 Chevy with the number “69” painted on the side. The hot laps (the laps in which drivers check out the track) are about to begin. He fastens his helmet and pulls on his gloves. “Go get ’em, Mike.” His dad taps the roof of the car as the crew rolls it onto the track. Mike McGee is a fixture in the pits at the Tulsa Speedway and on the Oklahoma racing scene. He had worked as a member of a pit crew for friends until he was finally old enough to climb behind the wheel of his own car. Three years later he’d logged many miles in laps but had never won a race. In the beginning he was not even close, finishing 68th in the circuit the

first year. To many race fans, Mike McGee is just a name on the race card and among those “who also ran,” but he’d changed tire sizes, corrected steering problems, made his engine hotter, and fine-tuned the timing. Tonight he places second in his class, which qualifies him for the Trophy Dash. Maybe—just maybe—tonight will be the night, Mike thinks as he eases his car into position for the dash. His recently built racer is “dialedup.” The engine rumbles rhythmically in sync, while the steering wheel pulses beneath his gloved hands. His skin is wet inside his suit, and as the engine heats up, the temperature inside the car climbs to 110 degrees to 120 degrees Fahrenheit. By the time the race is over, the steering wheel will be hot enough to blister the bare hand. The pace car moves onto the track and drivers fall in line behind it, keeping their place. Mike has a good position. He checks his gauges and quickly glances at competitors ahead and on either side of him. They round the fourth turn, and he sees the green flag swirling in a frantic figure eight as the pace car pulls off the track. Engines rev up, the grandstand fills with acrid-smelling blue smoke from the exhausts, and the noise becomes the roar of a swarm of angry bees, but Mike hears nothing of this. Behind his goggles he keeps his eyes fixed on the track in front of him. In the periphery of his vision, he sees an opening and plunges the accelerator to the floor. As “69” shoots forward, adrenaline kicks in and he passes two cars on his right. Mike forgets about all the things that have previously gone wrong with his car, or what could happen to it tonight, and concentrates on the course ahead of him. The needle on the temperature gauge jerks back and forth, climbing as he shoots ahead of the cars on either side of him. The engine has nothing more to give. Is it enough? As he leaves the cars behind, he sees the white flag—one lap to go. They approach the first wall, and Mike heads toward the inside rail, but the driver in front senses his move and shoots into the space. Mike leaps to the outside, lifting “69” into the air. They approach the third turn, and Mike has the advantage; his opponent must take one hand off the wheel to gear down, but Mike’s transmission shifts automatically. The little red-and-white car shoots ahead. Out of the turn, Mike makes for the inside lane, his competitor so close he feels the vibration of the other car. He hugs the inside of the track. At the fourth wall, he sees the blackand-white checkered flag and heads for it. There is nobody in front of him. Mike McGee could have cried for many things in his life, but since his infancy he has rarely cried. Tonight, as he makes the victory lap around the track, tears mix with salty sweat on his face.

“It’s Dynamite Mike McGee,” the announcer shouts. “Dynamite Mike has done it.” His pit crew with wide grins on their faces pump their fists into the air as they wait with the trophy girl on the red carpet. Mike’s car rolls to a stop in the winner’s circle, but it’s not until he shuts off the engine and takes off his helmet that he hears the cheers. He crawls out of the open side of his racer. The applause drops to a smattering, and then rises to a crescendo, while the trophy girl stands with her mouth gaping open. “It’s a little kid,” spectators who don’t know Mike whisper. “It’s a midget. He’s a dwarf,” others say in awe. “No,” a friend says, “It’s Dynamite Mike.” All his life Mike McGee has been doing things he is not supposed to do. Tonight he’s done it again—he wins.

CHAPTER TWO

Mike McGee’s efforts to win began the moment he was conceived. It was something he and his parents would not immediately discover, but would confront them for months and years to come. Eighteen-year-old Barbara Walters, pretty, dark-haired and slender, loved to dance and she loved to skate. She had been dancing since she was a toddler. In fact, the large house on North Elwood that was home to the Walters had a ballroom on the lower floor. It had once been the Kennedy estate, with rock walls and formal gardens surrounding it and covering a city block. Her bedroom on the third floor was where she retreated with her friends and her teenage secrets, hopes, and dreams. For as long as she could remember the family had commuted between southern California, where the Walters’ side of the family lived, and Oklahoma, where her mother’s family had homesteaded in the early 1900s, spending two years in each place. I was one of the Oklahoma relatives, a cousin. We saw my Aunt May, my mother’s sister, and her family only at holidays and special events during those years when the Walter’s family was living in Tulsa. I remember visiting them only once in California. Memories of that trip were my first view of an ocean and sand in my bathing suit. In California, Barbara’s father Leonard was an electrician by day and a professional ballroom dancer at night. He supplemented the family income

by giving dancing exhibitions with his Japanese partner. During the day, May Walters, an artist, made extra money by painting murals on the walls in the homes of the rich and famous. At night she waited behind the scenes with her daughter while her husband performed. Barbara, having been given dancing lessons since she was old enough to stand, became part of her father’s routine when she was five. The nights were late for a five-year-old, so her mother let her sleep until it was time to put on her dancing shoes. Then she would run a brush through her daughter’s hair, straighten her dress, and, with the sound of applause in her ears, the little girl would tap her way onto the stage. Because of their treks from the Midwest to the west coast, Barbara changed schools every two years. In one state the schools were harder, so she always entered the next grade behind her classmates. Schools in the other state were easier, so she started out ahead. Although she had friends in both locations, it was in Tulsa she graduated, and Tulsa where she stayed. Barbara’s other passion was ice skating. Every Friday night she and her friends headed for the rink at the Coliseum where, under the yellow glow of bare light bulbs strung overhead, they skated to the popular songs of the ’40s, met boys, and, when they got thirsty, drank Coca-Cola and Dr. Pepper. It was here that she met Philip McGee, a Tulsa boy, who was home for the weekend from his job working for the telephone company in Texas. He was cute, slender, had a quirky smile, and, Barbara learned, was three years older than she. Before the evening was over, he’d asked her for a date. “Do you know how to dance?” she asked. “No,” Phil replied. “I’ll go out with you only if you learn to dance.” But when he gave her that winning smile, she relented. Phil commuted back and forth on weekends to see Barbara, but after a year, when he couldn’t stand the long-distance romance, he asked her to marry him. “It was not the most romantic proposal,” she recalled. “We were in a car with four of his friends. He was driving and I was in the backseat.” When she said, “yes,” Phil quit his job and moved back to Tulsa. “Do you know what you’re doing?” her parents asked them. “Well, no,” they admitted, “but we’ll work it out.” “You’ll be sorry,” pronounced Mrs. McGee, her future mother-in-law, and Barbara, observing how unhappy Phil’s parents were in their marriage, prayed it would not be so.

Believing that love would take care of everything, the couple married in her parents home on North Elwood, and moved into a tiny rented apartment at 612½ South Elgin for which they paid $65 a month. They had no car, and Phil was yet to find a job. Although she was named and christened Barbara Jean, Phil’s pet name for his new bride was “Toots.” To her family and her friends, she had always been called “Totsy,” a name given to her by her Grandfather Conner when she was “a tot.” If someone called out, “Barbara,” she would not even turn around. She was probably no more naïve about sex and marriage than most teenage girls in 1949. When she confessed to her best friend Scotty that she didn’t know what to expect from married life, they bought a book about marriage and read it. With the limited information that the book provided and the erroneous advice from an older friend, it was not surprising that three months later Barbara learned she was pregnant. *** Barbara Jean stood in front of the open bathroom door where her husband was shaving, her hand on her extended belly. “Phil, the contractions are getting closer. I think we better get ready to go to the hospital.” He looked at her in alarm. “Call your parents,” he said and promptly cut himself. His hand shook as he grabbed a washcloth and pressed it against the oozing red on his cheek. “But I thought we said we’d take a taxi.” She drew in a breath and grabbed her abdomen. “No, call your parents,” Phil answered more sharply than he intended. “We don’t know how long a cab would take to get here.” May and Leonard Walters lived only a few blocks away, and when they showed up at the door minutes later with Barbara’s fourteen-year-old brother Bud in tow, Phil was still shaving. May phoned the hospital and asked them to tell Dr. Looney that they were on their way. They waited for Phil, and they waited. “When’re we gonna go?” Bud questioned. “Soon,” his mother said. “You’ve asked that a dozen times,” Leonard scolded. “Don’t ask again.” Bud stomped over and plopped down in a chair. While they waited they

timed Barbara’s labor pains. Each time a contraction began Bud would say, “Oops, there’s another one.” “Aren’t you about through, Phil?” May called to her son-in-law as Barbara’s pains grew in frequency and intensity. After what seemed like forever, Phil appeared at the door wearing bits of bloodied toilet paper in a haphazard design across his face. At St. John’s hospital, they made a comical group; Phil with his splotched face, Barbara, bending over with pain, and Bud, embarrassed by the scene, dragging behind. Inside, they pushed the button for the elevator, and when the door opened they rushed on, except for Leonard, who got caught in the door. The grandfather-to-be was half in and half out of the elevator, and the doors would neither open nor close. “Do something, Leonard,” May said. “You work on elevators.” “I can’t do anything from here,” Leonard said as he struggled to force his way in. “But you’re an electrician,” his wife insisted. Barbara started to giggle. When they got to the second floor, Dr. Looney was waiting for them. “What’s so funny?” he asked as the hysterical group spilled from the elevator. The doctor calmed the excited father and grandparents and reassured the mother-to-be that everything was going to be all right. Barbara adored her obstetrician and believed him as he handed her over to the delivery room nurse and went to scrub. The birth was easy for a first pregnancy, and Michael David McGee came into the world on April 20, 1950, weighing six pounds, five ounces. He was sixteen inches long. “We have a son,” Phil said as he leaned over and kissed her. “When can I see him?” Barbara asked groggily. “You’re tired,” May soothed, sponging her daughter’s face with a dampened washcloth. “Wait until you’re stronger.” By the time her parents came for visiting hours the following afternoon, Barbara had been bathed, given breakfast and lunch, but she still had not seen her son. “Why won’t they let me see him?” she demanded. “They want to keep him in an incubator for a couple of days,” her mother replied. “Why? Is something wrong?” “They keep all babies in incubators when they’re first born,” Leonard lied. Barbara didn’t think that was true, but why would her father lie to her?

“What are you keeping from me?” she asked when on the third and fourth days she had not seen her son. “We’ll check with the doctor,” the nurses said when she inquired. Her husband and parents did not seem to be as happy as people with a new baby in the family should have been. For four days her husband, her parents and the doctors had been waiting for the baby to die. Nobody wanted to tell her that the child she had brought into the world had so many things wrong with him that he probably would not live. “There are some things wrong with Mike,” her mother explained. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Barbara screamed. “We didn’t want you to get too attached to him. We thought we were doing the right thing.” “What is wrong with him?” Barbara threw back the covers. “I’m going to see my son,” she said. May punched the call button and a nurse rushed into the room. “Take me to see my son,” Barbara demanded. “Wait here, Mrs. McGee. I’ll get the doctor.” The woman scurried from the room. The man who came was not Barbara’s beloved Dr. Looney, but a pediatrician to whom she took an instant dislike. From him she learned the blunt truth—and blunt it was, because he did not seem to have a compassionate bone in his body. The doctor explained that Mike had a cleft palate so severe that there was no roof to his mouth. Unless he was fed with his head at a certain angle to keep from aspirating formula into his lungs, he would asphyxiate. “Can’t that be fixed?” Barbara asked. “His digestive system is not completely formed,” the doctor continued, ignoring her question. He went on to explain that because of a severe inguinal hernia, his intestines had dropped into his scrotum—a repulsivelooking, ugly black mass between his tiny legs, which the doctor described in detail. In addition, pressure on his urinary tract prevented him from urinating as he grew more jaundiced each day. “If he does not pass urine,” the doctor warned, “he will die.” “But can’t you do something?” she pleaded. “We wouldn’t be able to perform surgery to correct any of his problems until he is a few months old,” the doctor continued, and although he didn’t say so, Barbara sensed that he thought everybody would be better off if the

baby died. “There are a few minor problems as well,” the pediatrician said. “His two little toes are turned up at right angles, and his thumbs face backward. Those things are easy to fix,” the doctor added matter-of-factly. “Oh yes, there’s one more thing. It’s too early to tell until he starts to grow, but his limbs are short. He may be dwarfed.” By the time the pediatrician finished, tears were streaming down Barbara’s face. “I want to see my baby,” she said quietly. “Have it your way,” the doctor said as he left the room closing the door, not too gently, behind him. A nurse brought Mike to her. Swaddled in a clean, sweet-smelling blue blanket, his abnormalities concealed, the tiny boy was laid in his mother’s arms. Yes, his head seemed to be a little large, but Barbara looked into the rich, dark eyes of her son and thought he was the most beautiful baby she had ever seen. The eyes that looked back at her appeared to hold knowledge no infant could possess. His expression seemed to say, I have been given to you. Take care of me. We will make it. That day, mother and son formed a bond that has lasted a lifetime. On the fifth morning Mike passed his first drops of urine.

CHAPTER THREE

When the young parents took Mike home, Barbara’s fear bordered on nausea as she remembered the pediatrician’s parting instructions. “You will have to hold the baby at an eighty-degree angle when you feed him or you will kill him.” The doctor then explained the procedure she would have to go through every day to help Mike eliminate his bowels. “If his intestines turn blue, call an ambulance, not me, because that means he’s strangulated and is dying.” She vowed that this doctor would never know her apprehension and that she would do what was necessary to raise her son. Mike was a contented baby and rarely cried except for the time each day when his bowels had to be relieved. It would have been a horrible scene to watch, but the daily routine of inserting a special suppository in his little bottom and massaging his intestines, forcing the elimination of his bowels was carried out in private, sparing mother and son embarrassment. It was an excruciatingly agonizing process. Barbara sobbed and the baby screamed in pain until he almost couldn’t breathe. Yet—it had to be done—every day.

Phil’s mother, Mrs. McGee, scoffed at the procedure. “A couple tablespoons of Karo syrup in his formula will do the trick—it worked for all seven of my children.” Though intimidated by her mother-in-law, Barbara replied, “We were told not to add anything to his formula.” “Nonsense,” the older woman barked, letting her daughter-in-law know how she felt. Barbara bit her tongue as she thought that Mrs. McGee and the pediatrician would make a good pair. One day when Mrs. McGee and Phil’s sister Dorothy were visiting, it was time to feed Mike. Barbara took a bottle of formula from the refrigerator, heated it, and tested it on her arm as she’d been taught. She picked the baby up from his crib and cradled him in her arm at just the right angle. She lifted the nipple to his lips and her heart jumped into her throat as she noticed a viscous substance in the bottom of the bottle. She jerked the bottle away from Mike’s seeking lips. “Just a minute, sweetie,” she said, juggling the infant as she stood up. “Excuse me.” She willed her voice to be calm as she looked at her mother-in-law and sister-in-law. “I have to go talk to Phil.” “Do you want me to feed the baby?” Mrs. McGee rose and reached for her grandson. “No. No, thank-you.” Barbara was shaking with anger when she found her husband in the garage. “Phil, look at this.” She held the bottle up for him to see. “Your mother put Karo in Mike’s formula. “She’s trying to kill our baby.” Phil grabbed the bottle out of her hand, squeezed some of the mixture on his finger and tasted it. He raced upstairs to the living room. “What do you think you’re doing?” he shouted. He shoved the bottle into his mother’s face. “You’re trying to kill our son.” “Get out of this house, Mother—you too, Dorothy. You’re not welcome here.” “Come on, Mother, let’s go,” Dorothy said, leading Mrs. McGee to the door. If Mrs. McGee had wanted to argue, Phil didn’t give her the chance. “You tried to kill our baby,” he repeated over and over as they made their way down the stairs. Grandmother and aunt came to call a week later bearing gifts, not for the baby, but for Barbara. There was no apology, and the incident was not mentioned, but Barbara never again quite trusted her mother-in-law’s

advice. Feeding her child was not the pleasure it should have been. If Barbara was alone when it was time to feed him, she sat near the telephone—just in case. Mike, always a good eater, gained weight. To this day Mike enjoys a good meal, and one of his pleasures is going grocery shopping. There were other anxious moments about which the new parents had not been warned. During his first year of life, when Mike was sleeping in his crib, for unexplained reasons, he would begin struggling for breath. They would rush him to the hospital where he was examined and given oxygen. It would be years before they had a suitable explanation for these occurrences. On June 1, 1950, when Mike was six weeks old, Dr. White performed the herniorrhaphy. It was an intricate surgery in which the enlarged hernial sac was isolated, the redundant portion removed, and the intestine relocated in the reconstructed abdomen. Barbara, unwilling to let her son out of her sight, stayed with him at the hospital. The McGee’s apartment was across the street from the Tulsa Coliseum and the skating rink, and Phil finally had a job. He was hired to prepare the ice for skating and before hockey games. What better job for a couple that so liked to skate. They got to know the hockey players, and because Phil had a key, they would invite their friends over after hours and skate the night away, becoming known as “The Rink Rats.” By the time Mike was walking, he was fitted for a pair of skates. His parents and friends took turns holding his hands as they led him around the rink. Early in 1951 Barbara learned she was pregnant with their second child. “It was not planned, of course.” She smiled. “I even had an appointment to be fitted with a diaphragm—I never kept it. Naturally, we were scared to death that we might have another child with problems. In those days there was no such thing as an ultrasound, so we had no way to know if there were any problems. But,” she continued, “even if we had known something was wrong, we still would have wanted the baby.” There was the question of Mike’s growth. His little arms and legs were so short. He was beginning to walk, and even though it wasn’t funny, they laughed at his turned-up little toes. Every pair of new shoes they bought had to have holes cut in the top. Barbara was relentless in her efforts to help her son in every way possible, exhausting the opinions of every doctor in Tulsa who might be in a related field. Dr. John Hastings, who would remain Mike’s physician until

his retirement in 2008, referred the McGees to a specialist in Oklahoma City to discuss the probability of Mike’s being dwarfed. He was fifteen months old. Barbara made the appointment with the doctor, and Phil borrowed his brother Jack’s car for the trip. Air conditioning was unheard of in 1951, and, seven months into her second pregnancy, Barbara was uncomfortable for the entire 120-mile journey. The doctor looked over the records and could not dispute previous diagnoses that their son was probably an achondroplastic dwarf. The trip back to Tulsa was a somber one as the parents played over the specialist’s prognosis in their minds. Phil was irritable as stress often made him, and Mike was fussy with the heat and a dirty diaper. “Phil, could we stop at the next filling station? Mike’s diaper needs changing, and I could use something cold to drink.” “Sure, Toots.” While Phil lit a cigarette and walked over to the metal icebox in front of the station for the soft drinks, Barbara hoisted the diaper bag over her shoulder and gathered Mike into her arms, heading for the door at the side of the building marked, “Restroom.” The baby was getting too heavy for her to carry. She was frustrated and discouraged. The restroom, although fairly clean, smelled so strongly of disinfectant that Barbara thought she was going to throw up. How were they going to be able to handle all this? She spread a clean diaper on top of the toilet lid and laid Mike down on it. He smiled at her as she bathed his body with cool water from the tap. As she powdered him, she saw the healed scars from his surgery, his turned-up little toes, his big, brown eyes, and his smile. Her heart overflowed with love for her son. She started to cry. The room was hardly big enough in which to turn around, but she felt a presence beside her, and a great sense peace came over her. She looked into her son’s eyes. “God,” she whispered, “you have given me this special child for a reason. I promise you that I will devote my life to doing the best job I can to take care of him.”

Two months later the McGees made their second trip to the obstetric ward at St. John’s hospital where her beloved Dr. Looney waited for them. On September 19, 1951, Phyllis McGee was born. Mike had a little sister, and they had a daughter, perfect in every way. The McGees moved into a second home at 527 S. Victor, a larger,

pleasant apartment above a garage. Their landlords, an older couple, lived in the house in front and immediately took a liking to the young family. When Mike was nineteen months old, Phil and Barbara scheduled the surgery to correct his cleft palate and create a roof to his mouth. Mike was admitted to St. John’s hospital on December 2, 1951, and Dr. Kelley performed the surgery the following day. His operative record states: This little pituitary dwarf has an incomplete cleft of the palate. …The patient was placed in the extreme Trendelenburg position following which the palate was repaired in the following manner. …Care was taken to preserve the palatine arteries, both of which were visualized and not injured. Bleeding was minimal. …Patient withstood the procedure well and was returned to the ward in good condition. Nothing, his parents thought, could be worse than recovery from his previous surgery, but it was. By this time Mike was eating solid food, but in order for the sensitive mucosal lining to heal, he had to be put back on a liquid diet. Mike did not like that—not one bit. He was now toddling and when he smelled food cooking, he would make his way to the kitchen and beg at his mother’s feet to be fed. Phil put a gate across the kitchen doorway, but it didn’t take away the pitiful cries that wrung his parents’ hearts. “I can’t stand it, Phil,” Barbara said. “We have to do something.” They decided that they should not eat in front of Mike, so they began taking turns sneaking their plates down to the landlord’s kitchen to eat while the other amused the baby. Their caring neighbors took pity on them and began inviting them to share their evening meals so that Mike couldn’t smell the food.

CHAPTER FOUR

Without explanation at the age of twenty-three, Phil McGee’s immune system decided to turn on itself, killing the beta cells produced in his pancreas and placing him in an insulin-dependent state. Both Phil and Barbara knew something was wrong with him. He was irritable, tired, drank copious amounts of water, and had begun to pass out. Barbara nagged him to go to the doctor. Phil resisted. They didn’t have any medical insurance, Phil argued, but maybe Phil didn’t want to hear what was wrong.

One day when Phil was holding baby Phyllis, Barbara looked over to find her husband passed out and the baby’s head inches above the floor. She screamed and lunged for her daughter, catching her just before she fell. “Something’s wrong with you, Phil,” Barbara said as she soothed the crying infant. “You have to go to the doctor.” Phil reluctantly agreed. On the day of his appointment, Phil was gone a long time. Barbara paced the floor, looked out the window and tried to keep herself busy. When he came home Phil had little to say. Gauging his mood she didn’t ask questions. He sat down at the kitchen table, opened a bag of cookies, and began eating them. “Oh, you bought cookies,” Barbara said. “May I have one?” He shoved the bag toward her. “Go ahead. Those damn doctors don’t know what they’re talking about anyway.” In defiance he ate the entire contents of the package. His erratic behavior of passing out or going into a rage, about which he had no knowledge or memory, had a name: type I “brittle” or “labile” diabetes. All the contributing factors for this disease are not known, but they include genetics, food intake, exercise, and stress. Labile diabetes is classified by wide swings in the blood sugar level, sending the patient into coma or uncontrollable fury. Episodes can occur even when the diabetic is monitoring his diet. As in the case of most chronic health issues, Phil was not the only one who struggled with the diagnosis. Barbara, who thought she had been assigned enough responsibilities in her life, taking care of her son and daughter, discovered that she had been given another one. The doctors insisted that Phil be hospitalized so they could closely manage his medications and stabilize him. The young couple was already struggling financially. Barbara had been given a secretarial job in the law office of a good family friend, Attorney Harley Van Cleeve. The extra money helped, but Phil and Barbara barely made ends meet. “How can we do that?” Barbara asked her boss. “We don’t have any insurance and we can’t afford it.” “Phil is a veteran, isn’t he?” Harley Van Cleeve asked. “Yes, he was in the Navy.” “There’s a veteran’s hospital in Muskogee. Maybe we can get him in there. I’ll see what I can do,” the attorney promised.

The hospital welcomed Phil McGee as a patient. The couple still did not have an automobile, so on the day Phil was to be admitted, his brother Jack came to drive them to the hospital. Phil was already passed out in a diabetic coma when they loaded him in the car. For the next five months, every Saturday Jack drove his sister-in-law and her children sixty miles to the hospital to visit Phil. Fortunately, Barbara’s parents, Mrs. McGee and Aunt Dorothy were close enough and able to lend a hand. While Mrs. McGee had her opinions, she loved her grandchildren and was a willing babysitter, as was Aunt Dorothy. In addition, Barbara hired a woman for twenty five dollars a month to take care of Mike and Phyllis while she was at work. Having a diabetic in the family was not a spectator disease; it required participation by all members. Meals—proper meals—had to be prepared on time. Desserts were dropped from the menu, or hidden. Blood sugar had to be checked multiple times daily and insulin shots adjusted accordingly. While life went along normally for the McGees for periods of time, Barbara and their children learned to watch for warning signs of approaching episodes. Often the father and husband who loved his family would fight them when they tried to help him. It sometimes took two of them to hold him down while the other one forced Coca-Cola, or some other sugared liquid into his system. He never remembered what happened, and they never told him. Being a diabetic was not always a private matter. On several occasions Phil was found in his car in a ditch, passed out, or stopped by the police who thought he was a drunk driver. On one occasion Barbara had to call on a next-door neighbor to help her while she administered her husband’s sugar fix. In spite of the difficulties his illness presented, Phil continued to work for the phone company. Over the years the company changed its name from Western Electric, to Southwestern Bell, to AT&T, but it was still the same company. Basically, Phil McGee was a troubleshooter, and during the last fifteen years of his employment, he was in special services along with ten other coworkers. The crew who worked with him understood his condition and was able to support him or fill in for him when necessary. Mike had the usual childhood illnesses—measles, mumps, and chicken pox. He also had his tonsils removed, and, in 1952, he had the little toe on his left foot amputated. For some reason the little toe on his right foot was

not removed until 1955. Then he was able to wear shoes that looked like everybody else’s. Locally, Barbara had exhausted all the medical opinions for treatment of her son’s condition, but she was not ready to give up. She read everything she could find about dwarfism and was impressed with studies that were being done at the Mayo Clinic. “I want to take Mike there,” she announced to her family. “But, Toots, we don’t have insurance or the money to pay for it,” Phil argued. Her father, Leonard Walters, gave her the money for the trip. So, while the grandparents and Aunt Dorothy took care of baby Phyllis, Barbara and Mike boarded a train to the nationally known clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. They checked into a motel across the street from the Mayo Clinic, and, for a week, Mike was taken to appointment after appointment while specialist after specialist examined him. The stoic three-year-old patiently endured all the tests and measurements and consultations. Barbara grasped at straws. “I remember asking a couple of really stupid questions,” she said. “I asked if stretching exercises for his arms and legs would help, and if Mike drank more milk, would that make his bones grow.” “Milk certainly won’t hurt him,” the doctor replied. “It will make his bones stronger, but it won’t make them longer.” When she asked about surgery, she was told that there was a painful and controversial limb-lengthening surgery in which metal extensions are attached to the bones. “We don’t recommend it,” the doctors told her. On their last day at the clinic, they had one final appointment with a psychologist. After spending some time with Mike, the doctor invited Barbara into her office. Her instructions were to the point. “How Michael’s life turns out is up to you. You can make him an invalid, or you can help him lead a normal life. If you do everything for him, he will be an invalid.” On the long train ride home, Barbara had a lot of time to think about the doctor’s words. While achondroplasia, a genetic condition, accounts for 70 percent of all cases of dwarfism, there are approximately two hundred differentiated types, and some individuals never receive a definitive diagnosis. A letter from Roger Kennedy, MD from the Mayo Clinic said, “Michael suffers from what we call osteochondrodystrophy. This is a

congenital abnormality in the growth of the bones so that the long bones tend to be shorter and broader than usual. No treatment was recommended when Michael was here, but it was suggested that at the age of 12 to 14 years, an operation might be employed to try to straighten the thumbs.” Barbara knew her son would have difficulties that normal children, including his sister, would never have. He would have to learn different ways of doing physical tasks, and he would have to endure ridicule and discrimination. When she got home Barbara called a family conference. “We will treat Mike as a normal child. He will learn to do everything any other child learns to do.” She made sure her husband, the grandparents, aunts and uncles, and even his little sister understood that. They made one concession. Phil built steps and stools that were scattered around the house so Mike could care for his own needs, get his own cereal, hang up his own clothes and brush his teeth. Between the years 1950-1954, Mike McGee was seen by thirty-two doctors and had five operations. Several years later, when his parents approached him with the idea of straightening his thumbs, he said no, he liked them the way they were. He made them work. Today Mike’s thumbs are still turn backward, and they work for him very well.

CHAPTER FIVE

Mike showed an aptitude for mechanics at an early age. Stern as she was, Mrs. McGee indulged her grandson. At the time, Phil’s sister Dorothy and his brother Jack were both unmarried and living in their parents’ home. One day when he was only three or four and his grandmother was taking care of him, Mike became fascinated with the new power lawn mower his Uncle Jack had just purchased. Power lawn mowers were not all that common in 1954, and Jack, proud of his new convenience, left it protected and secure in a corner on the front porch. Grandma McGee kept her eye on Mike as he played around the new machine all afternoon. When his uncle came home from work Mike had the engine in pieces. Jack was furious. “Mom, how could you let him do that?” “How else is he going to learn?” Mrs. McGee replied. The entire family and their friends developed the attitude that Mike was no different than any other child, and that was fine with Mike because he

didn’t see himself as different either. In 1955 Barbara’s parents, May and Leonard Walters, and May’s sister and brother-inlaw, Elvie and Roy Carpenter, bought a business on Lake Fort Gibson, near Wagoner. Water sports have always been popular in Oklahoma, but few people outside the Sooner state know that it has more than 200 man-made lakes, totaling over one million surface-acres of water and 2000 more miles of shoreline than the Atlantic and Gulf coasts combined. Lake Fort Gibson covers 19,000 acres and has a shoreline of 225 miles. Their business was called Toppers Resort, and consisted of a restaurant, a convenience store, six cabins, boats for rent, and a fishing dock. After two seasons, May’s sister and her husband moved out of state, and the Walters took over the sole proprietorship of Toppers, which they continued to operate for several years. The grandparents moved to the lake for the summer and the rest of the family, when they could, escaped to this easy, sun-filled life. Mike loved going to the lake. He remembered those days as the best of times. He also remembered one year when there had been a lot of rain and all the roads were flooded, and they had to go in by boat. Both Phyllis and Mike learned to water ski by the time they were five and six years old and the two children in their bright orange life jackets were a common sight on the lake. Curiosity that brought other boaters closer to get a good look at these two little figures made Barbara nervous and she would frantically wave them away. Family albums are filled with photographs of Mike doing everything any child his age would do. There are pictures of him in his cowboy suit, his boots reaching his thighs; with Phyllis in their robes when they sang in the children’s choir at the Methodist Church; as a cub scout, and a boy scout, receiving his badges. There was one picture in which Mike, the happy child, did not look happy. It was his school picture when he started first grade. He had on his new school clothes, one chubby leg tucked under the other; his hair neatly parted and slicked down. He looked so sad that if the photographer had waited a second longer, we would likely have seen a tear rolling down his subject’s cheek. Barbara and Phil had done what they could to prepare their son for going off to school, but clearly he was not looking forward to it. The McGees finally had a car which Phil took to work. Fortunately, Hoover Elementary School was not far away from their home. Each morning Barbara, as she would for many months to come, helped Mike get

ready for school, and, because the end of August in Oklahoma is still warm, she dressed Phyllis in her coolest playsuits. Then, she loaded her children in their little red wagon and pulled them the few blocks to school. It was certainly faster than walking with a five year old with short legs, and a toddler. In the afternoon she and Phyllis made the return trip to pick up Mike. At home they read books the teacher sent with him, going over them until Mike knew every word. During supper his parents asked him questions and he would report his activities of the day. Everything seemed to be fine. That’s why, when Barbara received a phone call from Mike’s teacher halfway through the year, she was shocked. “Mrs. McGee, could you come in?” the teacher said. “I would like to talk with you about Mike.” “What about Mike?” his mother asked, apprehension filling her voice. “I’d rather discuss it with you in person,” the teacher replied. This was it. Barbara knew that sooner or later Mike would be the subject of abuse by other children, perhaps even his teachers. She dreaded the meeting and prayed that she would know how to handle the situation. She was no psychologist; she would just have to rely on her motherinstincts. “Mrs. McGee,” the teacher said when they were seated in a small conference room, “I’m sorry to tell you that I feel we should have Mike repeat first grade next year.” “Why?” “He can’t read.” Barbara’s mouth fell open. “Wh-what do you mean he can’t read?” “We sit in a circle and the children take turns reading,” his teacher explained. “When it’s Mike’s turn, he lowers his eyes and won’t look at me. ‘Do you want to read, Mike?’ I ask, and he just shakes his head.” Barbara felt her throat close up. “But he reads to me every night,” she whispered. “We study his lessons every night. He knows how to read. Could you just ask him to come in and we’ll show you?” Now it was the teacher’s turn to be surprised. “Mike,” his mother said as she pulled him onto the chair beside her, “you remember this story we read last night?” Mike nodded. “You read the whole thing. Do you think you could read it for your teacher now?”

Mike looked from one to the other. “It’s okay, Mike,” his teacher said. “I would really like to hear you read.” Mike’s voice quivered, but he read. He read without mistakes. “Why wouldn’t you read in class?” his parents asked him later. “I was scared,” he said. With half the school year gone, parents, the teacher, and the principal, agreed that it was probably best to have Mike repeat first grade. He was called to the principal’s office. Mike stood between his mother and his teacher with his head down. “Mike,” his principal said, “You know that you are going to be in the first grade again because the teacher didn’t know that you could read?” Mike nodded, looking at the floor. “Yes, sir.” “You know that when the teacher asks you to read, you will read.” It was a statement— not a question. Mike looked up at the principal with his liquid brown eyes. “Yes, sir,” he said in a voice too deep for a six year old. That fall when school began, Barbara dressed her children, put them in their little red wagon, and delivered them to their classroom door. They went in holding hands. Having Mike repeat the year had probably been the thing to do because he began making friends and was getting over his shyness. In fact, once he and his friends got in trouble because they didn’t come in at the end of recess. When the principal found them they were in the corner of the schoolyard digging for gold, because some of the older kids had told them it was buried there. They had been so intent on their quest they had not heard the bell. They were not always in the same classes, but Phyllis and Mike moved from grade to grade together until they graduated in 1969. Not everybody in the family remembers Mike’s school years in the same ways. According to his mother Mike got along well, kept up his grades, had friends, and participated in school activities. “How was school today?” It was the usual supper table question to both of the children. “Fine,” was Mike’s usual reply. “What did you do?” “We had a track meet and I won.” Phil and Barbara looked at one another. Phil shook his head. “Mike, how did you do that?” his mother asked.

“They let me have a head start,” the track star replied matter-of-factly. Only his teachers, coaches, and classmates knew how often that happened. However, over the years Mike collected awards, certificates, and trophies to prove his competitive spirit. He received the Track and Field Award in Physical Education; first place in the soft ball throw; first in Class E fifty-yard dash, and first in Class E high jump. As a sixth grader, Mike was a member of the Safety Patrol, a cafeteria host, and participated in the Science Fair. His science project was an erupting volcano that spewed steam from dry ice inside. Phyllis, who was always close enough to look out for her brother, and sometimes put herself in the role of protector, remembers things differently. Mike was teased and was often the subject of unkind jokes. While her brother had the ability to accept and disregard such behavior, it angered Phyllis. She knew her brother to be kind and every bit as smart as those who made fun of him. Few people are able to accept themselves as they are and be content within themselves. Mike does. It was almost as if, when he first looked at his mother with such trust, he knew he would have more challenges than many. That’s the way Mike approached everything, as a challenge to improve—overcome—do better. He did that in his job, in racing, and today, in his painting. He will look at a piece and say, “I didn’t get that quite right. I’ll do it better the next time.

CHAPTER SIX

Mike heard automobile races before he ever saw one. The old speedway at the Tulsa Fairgrounds was not far from the McGee home on Hudson Street. On race nights, from their front yard, they could hear the high-pitched whine of collective engines, like the drone of insects, and saw dust hanging like a brown cloud above the grandstand, back lit from a series of megawatt lights on tall poles around the track. Automobile racing in the United States probably began the first time two Model T owners challenged each other; before that there was, “my horse is faster than your horse.” Certainly, by the time the Indianapolis Motor Speedway was built in 1909, automobile racing had become an organized sport. Initially the gravel and tar track was the site of small events until promoters focused on the potential financial rewards of hosting one

major event. Thus the conception and creation of “the 500,” a 500 mile, 805 kilometer race, elevated the track to the status it retains today. Accidents and deaths seemed to have been the impetus for establishing new rules and improving conditions in the racing industry. After several deaths due to the uneven track, one of the principal owners, Carl Fisher, urged the paving of the track with 3.2 million bricks. Some claim that modern day racing had its dubious beginnings during prohibition when moon shiners often had to out run authorities. To do so they began “souping” up their engines. “Rum Runners” who sometimes traveled together, whether for company, for protection, or maybe for the heck of it, started challenging each other to races. Automobile dealers noticed that sales increased for which ever make of car won. “Win on Sunday, sell on Monday,” became their motto. Manufacturers began making engines and parts especially for racers until the Homologation rule was instituted. The Homologation rule stated that any car entered in a stock car race must be made entirely of stock parts available to the general public; thus the name, “Stock Car.” It further stipulated that a specified number of a particular model had to be sold to the public before it could be raced. Thus began the era of competition among manufacturers to produce such models as The Trans-Am series, the C-300 series, the Hemi V-8’s, the Ford Cammers and the Dodge Chargers. Mike knew he had an aptitude for math and engineering, and by the time he was in Junior High he knew he wanted to study automobile mechanics. His parents encouraged him to go into the field of airplane mechanics, rationalizing that given his size; he could easily maneuver his way around aircraft. After several conversations with Mike, the school guidance counselor called his parents in for a visit. “Let Mike study what he wants,” she told them. The McGee home at 2217 S. Hudson when Mike and Phyllis were teenagers sat on a large corner lot. It had a two-car garage in which Phil liked to putter. When he built a bright red go-cart for his children they suddenly became the most popular kids in the neighborhood. When Phil took Mike to his first race at the fairgrounds, that was it—he was hooked. Automobile racing was extremely popular in the Midwest, and indeed, across the country in the 1960’s and 1970’s, and Mike caught the fever. In school and in the neighborhood he gravitated to friends who were interested in mechanics. They came in all shapes, sizes, and personalities. Even though he was sometimes referred to as “Midget McGee,” none of his

friends remember him ever being called that to his face. Somehow, he acquired the nickname of “Magoo,” and then later, “Dynamite Mike.” At the track he began hanging out in the pits and helping when they would let him. Because he was good around cars, and eager to be helpful, he was invited to crew for two racers, Vic Paddock, who raced cars his dad Gene Paddock built, and Bill Rick. Vic recalled, “My dad always built an ignition switch into his watermelon wedge shaped dashboard design. One time, one of the wires came loose and nobody could get in there to reconnect it. We didn’t have time to take the thing apart. ‘Go get Mike,’ someone said. So we did. Mike slid into the driver’s seat on his back, upside down. He scooted under the steering wheel with his head behind the dashboard and put the thing together. I have a picture of him with his feet sticking straight up in the air.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

While Barbara continued to work for Harley Van Cleeve she studied for her real estate license. In 1962 she became a real estate broker. This flexible schedule allowed her to be more involved with her children’s activities and to be at home to prepare the required regular meals for Phil's dietary schedule. The stipulation Barbara made when Phil first asked her for a date was that he learn to dance. Well, he did. So they danced. They joined a square dance club with some friends who had been “the rink rats” they had skated with when they were first married. They added others: the Greenwoods who lived across the street from them, and Margaret and Melvin Johnson. While Mike and Bobby Greenwood spent their time tinkering with car engines and talking racing, their parents danced the weekend away. Margaret and Melvin Johnson’s son, Rex, began dropping by the garage. Partly, he admitted, because he was interested in cars, but he’d also begun to notice Mike’s sister, Phyllis, who had grown into a slender, leggy teenager with flowing dark hair and electric blue eyes. By this time Phyllis and Mike were old enough to be left alone, and while Phyllis was upset when her parents came home late, sometimes having had too much to drink, Mike seemed to take it in stride. During these years Phil was able to keep his diabetes in check most of the time, but when diet or habits caused his glucose to spiral crazily he simply endured it,

unwilling to give up the pleasures he enjoyed for a disease he so resented. Barbara is, and always has been a social person. One of her concerns for her son was difficulties he would no doubt encounter in a stereotyped world of boy meets girl—boy and girl marry and live happily ever after. Among the articles, documents, and memorabilia she had collected over the years, is a Wall Street Journal article dated September 12, 1973 and titled Problems of Dwarfs Gain Attention As They Fight Job Bias, Ostracism. “Few children are prepared for what many little people say is the worst crisis: dating and finding a mate.” LPA (Little People of America) celebrated its fiftieth anniversary in 2007. Billy Barty, who at three feet nine inches became a popular and wellknown actor, founded the organization in 1957. Recognizing the isolation of one of his stature, and the problems it presented, he made an appeal to all the little people in the country to join him in Reno, Nevada, for a week of sharing and learning that they were not alone in their challenges. Twenty people showed up and that was the beginning of LPA that presently has more than 6000 members and an extensive web site, http://www.lpaonline.org that provides information about everything from medical problems and resources, to adoption proceedings. It offers information on employment, education, disability rights, and opportunities for social interaction. Annually a nationwide conference attracts more than 1500 people where romantic connections are often made. The organization was ten years old when Barbara encouraged Mike to join. He showed little interest, simply because he never looked at himself as “different.” He had friends of all sizes, and a passion for mechanics and racing. Fifty years later Barbara still subscribes to the magazine, LPA Today, and continues to gain valuable information from it. As teenagers, Mike and his friend, Rex Johnson, made their transition into adulthood together. They liked to play pool, and when they were old enough they made the rounds of the “girlie bars” on Fifteenth and Sheridan in downtown Tulsa. While the other guys spent their evenings trying to attract the attention of members of the opposite sex, girls seemed to gravitate to Mike. His mother needn’t have worried. “It was not uncommon to see Mike sitting in a booth surrounded by women, nursing a beer and talking,” Rex recalls. “It didn’t bother him that his head only came up to their chests, in fact, he liked it; the girls didn’t seem to mind either. Mike was not a heavy drinker but there was usually a row of “free” beers lined up in front of him.”

I remember an occasion when the Oklahoma cousins, second cousins, and spouses gathered for a family reunion in Altus, the town where our grandparents had lived, and where some of us had spent time as children. Mike came with his mother; he must have been in his twenties at the time. On Saturday evening we learned that the VFW had a band so we all went dancing. We danced with friends and strangers alike. Mike sat at one of the tables watching us. I think I felt sorry for him so I walked over to him. “Would you like to dance, Mike?” I asked. “Sure,” he said and hopped down from his chair. Not only was Mike not uncomfortable being ten-inches shorter, but he was a good dancer. It may have been that evening that my admiration for my cousin Mike began. Mike was a diligent student and worked hard to maintain his grades. He excelled in math and mechanics, his favorite subjects, and was an average student in his other courses. He applied for and was accepted at Oklahoma State Technical College at Okmulgee; a division of Oklahoma State University. The summer after he graduated from high school, Mike’s friend Rex approached him and their friend Bill Rick with a job opportunity. Rex had gotten a job operating heavy equipment during the construction of some new buildings at Oral Roberts University. A new sewer line had been laid between the Prayer Tower and the building next to it. The huge pipe had already been buried twenty-two feet below ground but the ends had not yet been attached to the existing sewer lines when Tulsa had a downpour. The deluge washed mud into the open pipe, plugging the middle of its 300-foot length. “We can make some money,” Rex told them. “They need to have somebody haul out the mud.” Since Mike was always looking for ways to make money to support his car and his social activities, he accepted. Everyone, including Mike, knew who would be selected to crawl into the pipe. Each day when they showed up for work, Rex and Bill tied a rope around Mike’s waist. He took a shovel and, grabbing the handle of a little red wagon, crawled into the hole, pulling the wagon with him. He proceeded, shovelful by shovelful, to clear the mud. When the wagon was loaded, he tugged on the rope and Bill and Rex pulled it out and dumped it. They went home each evening exhausted and caked with dried, rusty-red mud, looking like they were made of terra cotta. Once they got an opening to the other side they were able to flush the rest of the dirt out with a high-

pressured fire hose. During his senior year at Nathan Hale High School, Mike made friends with Jon Cummins. They met in the ‘smoke hole,’ a place where students and even teachers, were allowed to smoke. With the nickname of Emo, Jon was well over six feet tall and more than doubled Mike in weight. They discovered that not only did they love racing, but that they both would be attending State Tech at Okmulgee in the fall. Mike learned that Jon was building his own racecar and offered to help him. Once they were attending Okmulgee, about sixty miles south of Tulsa, it became a habit for them to leave at four o’clock when classes were over for the day. Emo and Magoo jumped in Mike’s 1961 Chevy Impala with a “Bubble Top,” or Emo’s Mercedes 200 Diesel, and “high tailed it” back to T-Town to work on Jon’s car. They would make a swing through McDonald’s, pick up a half-dozen Big Macs for dinner, and work on Jon’s car until midnight. On their way back to their dorms they would stop and get cigars and beer for their trip. Emo went for the big quart sized Coors and foot-long stogies. Mike smoked little cigars and drank four-ounce cans of beer. “Usually he’d be asleep before he finished the first one,” Jon said. Emo kept himself awake during the drive back to campus by easing off on the gas, allowing Mike’s head to nod forward, then stomping down on the accelerator jerking his passenger’s head backward, laughing when he woke Mike up. “Mike was a good sport about everything,” Jon recalls. “There was only one time when I did something that made Mike mad—I don’t remember what it was—but he chased me around the dorm room beating me with a hand full of metal coat hangers.” When it was Mike’s turn to drive he got his revenge, and had his own form of entertainment. In his Chevy, with a pillow at his back and the bench seat moved as far forward as it would go, he could comfortably reach the pedals. However, with little headroom in the rear seat, Emo was forced to cram himself in the passenger side with his knees wedged against the dashboard. “It was a long sixty miles,” Jon said. Although Mike and Jon never roomed together, they took a lot of the same courses and had the same friends. The campus had been the site of a POW camp during World War II, and the Quonset huts that once housed prisoners were now dorms for students. Jon lived in one of these. Mike lived in a newer dorm about a half-mile away. After getting back to school

late the night before and going to bed after midnight, Emo was not good at hearing his alarm clock—or responding to it. Every morning Mike would hike to his friend’s room, wake him up, and wait while he dressed so they could walk to class together. “That’s just the kind of friend Mike was,” Jon said. Magoo and Emo made quite a pair on campus; a four-foot-three inch, 115-pound man, and a giant, two feet taller and another hundred pounds heavier. And, what a pair they were. In one of the first courses they took together the instructor asked the students to pair up for an assignment. Mike and Jon chose each other. Several old cars had been donated to the class and the assignment was that each pair of students had to take an engine apart and put it back together. It was a timed project. By the time Jon returned with tools they needed Mike was under the car and had loosened the bolts barehanded. “Mike was strong,” Jon said in our interview. “His hands were strong. And, don’t ever let him pinch you with those thumbs. It hurts like hell. We weren’t the fastest team though,” Jon added. “We didn’t win.” One of their friends was a Native American, Gary Walkabout. When his motorcycle broke down he called on Emo and Magoo to fix it. They hauled the machine up two flights of stairs to Gary’s third floor dorm room. When they got it working he rode it all the way down the stairs to the ground floor. Two years later, armed with a degree in mechanical engineering, Mike experienced his first discrimination because of his size. Qualified though he was, time after time he was turned down for jobs that he knew he could do. Employers were reluctant to hire people of short stature not so much that they felt they were unable to perform their jobs, but they feared the reaction of co-workers. While he waited for resumes to be acknowledged, and for interviews, Mike earned money by working on other people’s cars. His persistence paid off when Murphy Manufacturing agreed to hire him. Murphy Manufacturing is a Tulsa-based company that was born out of one man’s idea. Frank W. “Pat” Murphy was a sales manager for a major equipment distributor in the 1930’s. When he called on customers he found their biggest complaint was that engines burned up because of poor quality, non-indicating safety switches. The switches that were available were difficult to test and often inoperative. Pat Murphy set about “building a better mouse trap,” or in this case, “a better safety switch.” The switch, later renamed and registered with the trademark, Switchgage, combined an indicating gauge with a switch that would stop an

engine when low oil pressure or high coolant temperature existed. Murphy’s new design worked so well that he left his job to devote full time to producing his gauges, which were first built at the Murphy’s kitchen table in Mt. Carmel, Illinois, with his wife Rosalie as his production staff. Today Murphy Manufacturing is a multimillion-dollar company headquartered in Tulsa, Oklahoma, with production and sales facilities in Texas, England and Mexico, and sales and service in France and Australia. They have expanded their products to include hundreds of gauges and switches to monitor and control compressors, pumps, and generators for just about anything under the sun, and sometimes under the ocean. Their catalogue is extensive, and in addition to gauges made for boats to oil wells, their products now include PID control, links with computer supervised systems, and they make such items as automatic dialing to cellular telephones, pagers, answering services and computers. Whether one enters Murphy as an employee, or as a customer, they become part of the Murphy family. The company goal has always been to create a congenial workplace and provide excellence in customer service. Mike McGee became part of that family when he started to work there in 1972. He was hired as a Temperature Gauge Technician in the Catoosa Plant. He tackled his new job with the dedication with which he approached life. It wasn’t that he felt compelled to prove his ability; he just had the desire to do the best job he could. Soon his coworkers began calling him “Dynamite Mike.” He doesn’t really know why. “Maybe it’s because I liked to get the jump on everybody. I kinda had a dynamite take off,” he said.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Code Blue,” or “Doctor Blue,” is a term that a hospital staff or family of a patient never wants to hear. It means a patient is not responding. In the past the alarm went out over the intercom to alert personnel in other parts of the hospital that they needed to go to the code blue location immediately. Everybody who heard the words knew that some patient, next door, or down the hall from them was in trouble. Today, medical professionals are more discreet in summoning their crew to such an emergency. On the afternoon of August 9, 1971, twenty-one-year-old Mike McGee was watching TV at home when he had a sudden onset of pain in his lower abdomen. He’d had a similar episode two weeks earlier, so when he

complained to his mother, she gave him two Demerol, which had been prescribed for him. Mike fell asleep but at 6:00 p.m. woke up vomiting, although the pain seemed less severe. Two hours later pain in the right lower quadrant of his abdomen returned, and he felt like his intestines were on fire. Mike vomited again. “Phil, we’d better get him to the hospital,” Barbara said and she picked up the phone. “I’ll call ahead.” Phil grabbed the car keys and helped Mike to the car, and they headed for the emergency room at St. John Hospital. Dr. Mulmed, Mike’s doctor, was waiting for them in the ER. He suspected acute appendicitis, and surgeon, Dr. Harold White was called in. Late that evening, according, to Dr. White’s report, an acute suppurative appendix was removed. The surgery went well and after recovery Mike was transferred to Room 235. The following day he ate some supper, and in the evening when several friends and his family stopped by to see him, he joked with them. When visiting hours were over at 9:00 o’clock, Phil asked his wife, “Are you ready to go, Toots?” Barbara hesitated. For some reason she felt uncomfortable leaving Mike. “You go on home. I think I’ll stay.” “There’s no need, Mom,” Mike said. “No, I’ll stay.” Barbara recalled that she was wearing a white pantsuit. As visitors said their good-byes and lights were dimmed for the evening, a nurse came by with pain medication and they helped Mike get comfortable. She brought in an extra pillow for Barbara. As she tried to get comfortable in the easy chair in the corner of the room, she could hear her son’s labored breathing. She drifted off into uneasy sleep. In the early hours of the morning—one or two o’clock—she startled awake. She tried to figure out what woke her up and then she realized that the room was quiet. She couldn’t hear Mike breathing. She rushed to his bedside. He was not breathing and was already beginning to lose color. Barbara flew from the room shouting for the nurse. “He’s not breathing. Somebody, help! My son is not breathing.” “Code Blue—Code Blue—235” went out over the intercom and suddenly Mike’s room was filled with people. The first thing someone did was to drop his bed as low as it would go. Someone else forced a tube in his mouth to open up an airway, breaking a front tooth in the process. The room was bedlam as a dozen emergency personnel worked over Mike. Barbara huddled in the corner.

“We got him,” someone said. “We got him.” She heard a collective sigh of relief. Barbara waited as long as she dared then she tapped the arm of the person closest to her. “How’s he doing?” she asked. The man eyed her white suit. “Which department are you from?” “I’m not from any department,” she replied. “I’m his mother.” The man’s eyes widened. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, as he took her by the elbow and courteously and quietly ushered her from the room. “We’ll keep you informed.” Barbara had no idea how much time had elapsed as she waited outside the door of Mike’s room, when she looked up to see a familiar figure rushing down the hall. It was Dr. Mulmed, hair disheveled, and he was wearing his top coat over his pajamas. She wasn’t sure if the doctor had just happened to call the hospital to check on Mike or another patient, or if someone from the nurses’ station had called him. She was later told that the doctor was on the phone at home in his bedroom when he heard Code Blue. He dropped the phone, threw on his coat and rushed to the hospital. Mike was transferred to intensive care where he remained for the next five days. Dr. Mulmed wrote in his notes: Post operatively the patient had two episodes of what appeared to be laryngospasm and tracheal obstruction with difficulty in breathing. During the second one he was ‘Dr. Blue.’ It was never quite clear what the mechanism of the episodes of larngospasm or tracheal obstructions were. It didn’t matter who understood the reason Barbara insisted on staying with Mike that night—she knew. She knew that the One to whom she’d made the promise twenty years earlier was helping her keep it. Nearly twenty years later in 1994, when Mike was a patient at Johns Hopkins Medical Center in Boston, they learned that complications during surgery can occur in short statured people because the distance between the neck’s attachment to the skull is less, and when a patient’s head is positioned a certain way, his trachea is closed off. Serious consequences can occur if surgical teams are not aware of the differences. Finally, they also now understood what happened when they’d had to rush their infant son to the hospital when he couldn’t get his breath. An article from the LPA web site by Dr. Judith Hall, Professor of Medical Genetics at the University of British Columbia, explains: “Little People often have small tracheas or breathing tubes and when intubating, it may take a smaller tube or a pediatric size tube. Many individuals with

different types of condrodystrophies do not have normal bone structure in the neck. Because of this the nerves in the neck can sometimes become squashed during surgery if proper support is not given to the neck. The joints in a person of small stature do not have full range of motion, and will not completely straighten out. Thus, when the individual is anesthetized or asleep it is important not to put stress on those joints or attempt to straighten them out completely.” Today the medical field is much more aware of these complications, but the medical section of the LPA web site warns those who are preparing for surgery to make sure the surgeon and the anesthesiologist are aware of this potential problem.

CHAPTER NINE

A tarp spread on the floor, and engine parts and pieces carefully spread around in orderly groups, were a common site in the McGees’ garage. Barbara only had to look there most evenings or Saturdays if she wanted to find her husband or her son. One evening at supper she asked, “Whose car are you working on now, Mike?” Mike looked at his dad then lowered his head. “Mine.” “But, Mike….” Barbara clamped her mouth shut, letting her words trail off. She had almost done what she’d promised never to do—to tell her son that he couldn’t do something. “That’s right, Toots,” Phil said, using her pet name. “We’re building Mike a racecar. He’s old enough now, and he wants to race.” Later in the privacy of their bedroom, she asked, “Can he do it? I mean —is it safe? Won’t it be too dangerous…?” “I don’t see why. We just have to make a car that fits him,” Phil replied. Mike’s first car or his “starter car” as a driver’s first car is called, was a Lavern Nance car. Phil ordered the tubing kit and the drive train parts from Nance Speed Equipment in Wichita, Kansas. Years ahead of his time, Lavern Nance used lightweight and cost-effective materials to build sprint cars. For the next several months, lights burned late in their garage as father, son, and friend Rex often worked in to the early morning hours. Mike’s car was built from the ground up, using the Nance tubing kit, and everything was modified for his size. The accelerator pedals, brakes, and

steering column were extended. The seat was raised. They opted for an automatic transmission rather than the standard gearshift, which, with his short arms, was easier for Mike to handle than a gearshift on the floor. Having an automatic transmission also had other advantages. There was less spinning weight because the flywheel and clutch assembly were eliminated, allowing for faster accelerations. During race starts, while his competitors were shifting, he had both hands on the wheel and could steer out of the turn and on to the straightaway faster. Barbara realized that Phil was as excited as Mike about this challenge and soon she caught the fever. She became the go-fer, sometimes dropping whatever she was doing to make a trip to an auto parts store or a junkyard. Although he’d been in the pits for five years, Mike McGee turned twenty-two years old in 1972, the required age for driving in competition. That year was the season he moved onto the track as a driver. It was also the year, considered by many, to be the start of the modern era of racing. New rules were in place that made racing more a test of the driver’s skill than just that of car technology. At that time there were approximately 1500 dirt tracks in the United States, with dozens of them in Oklahoma, Kansas, Texas and Arkansas where racing was extremely popular. The most common racetracks were dirt although a few were, and are, asphalt. The Tulsa track was made up of clay, dredged from ponds around Muskogee, and mixed with sand. Track operators experimented by adding various chemicals to help retain moisture, and the in-field crew often sprinkled the track between races to keep it tacky. All tracks had full-time excavators who reclaimed spattered mud after each race. Although tracks were oval, they were all different. Some were shaped more nearly like an “o”; others more elongated like a paperclip. Some ovals were flat with steeply banked turns; others more slanted. All were less than a mile in length. The Tulsa track (the old track on which Mike raced) was three-eights mile, measured from the inside diameter, the shortest distance. Oklahoma City had one of the longer tracks, one-half mile, while the tracks at Amarillo and Dewey were only one-quarter of a mile, in which case drivers were rarely able to straighten their wheels, but were almost constantly in a turn. For both drivers and mechanics the challenge was to know what to do to get the best traction. To “hit the wall” meant to crash at that turn. The #1 wall was the wall

at the first turn after the start-finish line, and Mike’s friend, Rex Johnson, had the notoriety of being the first driver to hit the #1 wall at the Tulsa track. Each racetrack or sponsoring organization maintained a rulebook outlining each class of racecar. The requirements were usually coordinated with other area tracks, permitting racing teams to make a circuit, thus allowing more cars to enter and enabling the promoter to offer bigger purses. As spectators filled the stands the drivers made “hot laps” testing the way their car handled the track that evening. In their pits they made last minute changes—adjusting the spring ratio, torqueing the suspension or correcting the tire compounds. An evening’s program usually began with the qualifying races for each class. Drivers that placed first through fourth were eligible for the trophy dashes and the major feature races. Heat races were usually ten laps, trophy dashes six or seven laps, the B feature twenty to thirty laps with the finale, the A feature, fifty laps. Starting positions were often determined by the winners in the qualifying races, but sometimes positions were determined by the point standing of a driver. A winning driver with a high point average often would become frustrated at finding himself thirty or forty cars back in a feature race with slow and/or inexperienced drivers blocking his way to the finish line. While some racetracks only raced certain classes, others had events for stock, modified, super-modified, and even midgets. More than 200 cars sometimes showed up and racing went on until after one o’clock in the morning. Announcers would become hoarse; drivers tired, wired or disgruntled, and the spectators would be half deaf. In the short races, if a car blew a motor or had some other problem, it was usually out of the race unless there was an accident. If the race was stopped for this reason, a driver could go to his pit for corrections or repairs while debris was being cleared, and have time to get back on the track when the race was resumed. In longer races, a driver could make quick changes of tires or gears or cool down his engine with a bucket of ice water. This was the world into which Mike McGee and, indeed, his family entered. Mike chose red and white as his colors and the number “69” as his number for the year he graduated from high school. Several weeks before, he had ordered his fire retardant racing suit from a company in Indianapolis, and received a reply that they didn’t make suits for children. He sent back his measurements and requested a specially tailored suit. Every day he met

the mailman, looking for his new racing suit; the race was only days away when it finally arrived. In the garage they could tinker with their creation forever; making this minute adjustment or that. The proof would be on the track. A few days before the race, Mike and his dad loaded the new racecar onto a borrowed trailer and drove to the John Zink Track near Skiatook to test it. Phil, as proud of the car as his son, wanted to be the one to check it out. He climbed in the driver’s seat and took it one and a half turns around the track before he worked his cramped five foot eleven inch body out of the car and turned it over to Mike, the man it was tailored to fit. The night Mike drove “69” onto the track at the Tulsa Fairgrounds the lives of the McGees changed forever. In his new racing suit with the red stripe down the sleeve, he was distinguished by his wide-brimmed western hat and his handlebar mustache. His father and his friends were in his pit, and his mother sat in the stands. Mike’s sister Phyllis refused to come to the race, afraid that she would see her brother get hurt. After she married Jody Wells in 1974 and her husband became part of Mike’s pit crew, she became part of his crowd. If Mike was nervous when his crew rolled his car onto the track he didn’t show it. When his engine started and his car moved into position on the track, adrenalin kicked in. He was now part of the scene. In the first race he went off the track and down into a ravine. That season he cracked three engine heads, burned a piston, and was in a wreck. Emmett Hahn, a veteran racer well known in the Oklahoma Circuit, took him under his wing. “I had to help the kid out,” Hahn said, “before he killed me or somebody.” Emmett Hawn today is the promoter of the Chili Bowl held at the Tulsa Fairgrounds each year. “I ran off into the ditch,” Mike said, “because my tires were the same size. We didn’t know the left front tire was supposed to be smaller.” Mike McGee was a happy man. He had a job he liked and a salary that allowed him to support his hobby. Investing in his hobby didn’t mean just money spent on his racecars; it meant trailers for hauling cars and equipment, uniforms, travel money, entry fees, and tires—lots of tires. He didn’t win any races his rookie year. In fact he had trouble finishing races because of one technical problem or another. He drove a six-cylinder “modified” and finished 68th in the season standings. Because of his short stature and the special adjustments required for him to be able to race, he did get a lot of press. Reporters seemed fascinated with this little man. For

his second season he and his dad built a new car; this time, an eight-cylinder super modified. Phil constantly read books and researched engines. He talked to other mechanics about their problems and was not afraid to ask questions. That year Mike moved up to place 42nd in point standings. In typical Mike fashion, he was moving up—trying harder—getting better. He sold his second car and built a third one for the 1975 season. One day, while he was at work, Frank “Pat” Murphy, the company owner, stopped by Mike’s station. Although Mike knew he was good at his job and turned out as many, if not more, products than his co-workers, a moment of anxiety fluttered in his chest. “We’ve been following your racing career,” Murphy told his employee. “We’d like to sponsor you if you’d wear the Murphy name. If you agree, I’ll have John draw up a contract.” Mike agreed. The contract read: Mike, If you are interested the Company would be willing to offer you a partial sponsorship in your racing endeavors. By “partial” I mean we would cover half of your expenses, excluding your initial investment for building the car. In addition we would provide you with any and all Murphy and related equipment, plus 100% of any sign work and publicity expenses. (Plus some free engineering help.) In return, naturally we expect to be able to utilize you and your car in our P.R. programs. Any time you should be asked to do something or go somewhere involving extra expenses, we would cover those expenses in full. I would expect to be able to “bill-board” your car with Murphy (In good taste, naturally) at our expense. All winnings—monetary or otherwise are 100% yours, however we may ask to display any trophies, etc for a period of time. Expenses which we would recognize are: Entry fees Repairs (be careful) and mileage to and from out of town events. (Sleepin, eatin, boozing and baby dolls…you gotta cover!) This means you’ll have to keep some pretty good records to keep Uncle Sam (and Uncle Murphy) off my neck. Let me know if you’re interested. John Castle Thus, Murphy Manufacturing became Dynamite Mike’s sponsor during the rest of his career. A color photograph shows Mike sitting in his recently built super-modified. This car is white with a red hood and trim. The number “69” is displayed against a red background on the sides of the car in big, black lettering. Just above the numeral nine, in small script, is the

name, “Dynamite Mike.” Across the side of the hood, in good taste, are the words “Murphy Special,” lettered in gold. In 1975 things changed. Mike received his first “first” when his new car was voted “the best engineered car of the year.” Father and son were ecstatic. “This is a real surprise,” Mike said as he accepted a trophy almost as tall as he was. “There are a lot of other good cars out there. We didn’t get this one finished until noon yesterday.” Still there were kinks to work out. His car got hot in the first heat, and Mike had to pull out of the race. In the second program he finished sixth, and in the B feature he was the seventh car back, when the rear end failed. Mike and his pit crew took note, and when Mike won his first race on August 13, 1975 they knew they had figured it out. Drivers liked to try out competitor’s cars, and many would have loved to take a turn around the track in the McGee special with its hot engine and automatic transmission, but it fit Mike and him alone. However, after he began winning and kids flocked to the pit to meet him, he often invited these nine and ten year old fans to sit in his car. He loved seeing the looks on their faces, and imagined their fantasies which were not unlike the ones he had had. Mike McGee was not the first person of small stature to race cars. In fact, space inside racecars is so confined that it is a sport in which small people can participate. One other dwarfed driver was known to have raced in the Dallas area during this same period. While there may have been others, research revealed a record of only one such person, Joy Rainey, a woman of short stature who races in Europe and Australia. The NCRA (National Champion Racing Association) season usually ran Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights, from May to October. It traveled a circuit that included racing in four states: Oklahoma, Kansas, Arkansas and Texas. Phil designed and set up the cars, and was very particular about who he would allow to work on an engine. Mike’s buddy, Rex Johnson, was the one person to be offered that privilege. During the week, engines were rebuilt, rear-ends changed, the weekend’s events re-hashed, and racing buddies drifted in and out of the garage and through the house. On race days Barbara often cooked for the crew as well as for Mike and Phil. One Saturday, after Mike had crashed in Muskogee the night before, Mike, Phil, and friends came home and worked all night to get the car ready

to race the next evening. She cooked ribs, and potatoes, and baked beans. When she announced that the food was ready everybody rushed in the house to devour the feast—all except Mike, who was still under the car making adjustments. When he came in to eat, all the food was gone. “I had to make him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich— and he was the driver,” his mother said. “After that I always made sure to hold some food back.” When Mike and his buddies were not working on cars they were partying. His friends Bill Rick, Buddy Cagle, Vic Paddock, and Rex Johnson confessed that Mike did not drink as much as they did, and was often recruited to drive them home. If he had to drive a car belonging to one of the bigger guys, Mike propped himself on the edge of the seat to reach the accelerator—and the brake. They all agreed, however, that on the few occasions when Mike did have too much to drink he’d pass out, and his compact body was literally “dead weight” when they tried to move him. As the racing buddies wandered in and out of the McGee’s house, it was not uncommon to see Barbara, an artist of some renown, sitting at her easel painting. What was unusual was that she sometimes painted with a cigar in her mouth. She was trying to give up smoking cigarettes, and thought that would help. Nor, was it uncommon for Mike’s pretty sister, Phyllis, to hang out with Mike and his buddies, or to drop by the garage to visit with them on her way out for a date. Mike’s winning brought about drastic changes in the McGee household. Dancing the weekend away was a thing of the past. When they decided they were going to race the circuit which meant not just the local race tracks, but traveling to Amarillo, Dallas and Hutchinson, Phil bought a 1967 Suburban with a 454 horsepower engine, and friend Emo’s tow trailer. In addition to traveling the racing circuit, every year Mike and his friend Bill Rick headed for Knoxville, Kentucky, for the Sprint Races. Other guys sometimes went along, but often it was just the two of them. The first time they went they didn’t know what to expect. They had driven Bill’s truck. “We hadn’t made any hotel reservations,” Bill said, “and we couldn’t find a place to stay. We decided to sleep in the truck.” Bill Rick is a towering man and powerfully strong. “We would never let him tighten the nuts,” his friends said. “He would just break them off. But, if we had something heavy to carry, we called Bill.” In our interview Bill recalled that he couldn’t fit his large frame inside the truck so, while Mike slept comfortably in the cab, he spent a sleepless night on the hard, ridged metal bed in the back of the vehicle.

One weekend when Bill and Mike were at the races in Knoxville, they saw a friend from Tulsa talking to a couple of men. Not wanting to intrude they waved at him, but he ignored them and went on talking. They waved again, and still he did not acknowledge them. “We couldn’t understand why he didn’t speak to us,” Bill said. “I ran into him when we got back to Tulsa. ‘How come you didn’t say anything to Mike and me when we were in Knoxville?’” “The two men I was talking to owed me money and they didn’t want to pay me,” the friend said. “I saw you, and they saw you. ‘Those men are waving at you,’ they said. ‘Yeah,’ I told them, ‘They’re my bodyguards. The big one locks you in a head hold, while the little one grabs you between the legs.’” “What happened?” Bill asked. “They paid me.” On another Knoxville trip, Mike, Bill, and two other friends left Tulsa on an afternoon after work and drove straight through to get to the races the following day. They arrived there about eight o’clock in the morning after an all-night drive. As they entered the city, their friend who was driving, ran a stop sign. They immediately saw flashing lights behind them, and the driver pulled over. One officer walked to the driver’s window and asked to see a driver’s license, as the other approached the passenger side and peered in the window. Bill Rick, whose body totally filled the space, head touching the top of the car, was sitting in the front seat. “Watch it, man,” the officer said. “We got a really big dude over here.” Bill, not making a move, stared straight ahead. The officer then looked in the back seat. There sat Mike, head not reaching the top of the backrest, his short legs extended straight out in front of him. The officer looked from one man to the other. “Are you guys with the circus?” he asked. Mike had his share of crashes. In 1977 he was involved in a wreck midseason in his new car. He was racing at Dewey when his car hit the wheel of another car, flipping him over several times. “It happened so fast I didn’t have time to think about it. I just held on to the steering wheel really tight,” he said. Even though he was shaken up and had a stiff neck, to Mike, the worse thing about the crash was that he tore up his new car, causing him to miss four or five weeks of racing. “That really hurts you in point standings,” he admitted. Another time, when Mike flipped his car, he was trapped inside

because he couldn’t get his seat belt unhooked. Most cars had tanks that held eight to ten gallons of gas that contained a red dye called “red oil.” His tank didn’t have a shut-off bulb, and while he waited to be extricated from his seat, gasoline dripped down his neck staining his skin and his shirt. Later that evening when the crew was sitting around a table having a latenight dinner, his mother noticed an angry, red inflammation on his throat that spread down onto his chest. “What’s that, Mike?” she asked, motioning to his throat. “Oh, that’s just where the gas dripped on me.” What they thought had been “red oil” were, in fact, first-degree burns. The National Racing Association closely monitors accidents and mishaps and adjusts and adds rules for the safety of the driver and the sport. DOT helmets, made of fiberglass, became a requirement in 1962, and by 1968 roll cages became standard equipment on all cars. Fire, however, was a universal fear among promoters and drivers. Some drivers preferred not to wear seat-belts, choosing instead, to be thrown from their cars rather that be caught in them. In the beginning, racing uniforms were coveralls made of heavy white cotton and soaked in Borax, not once but several times until they were saturated and stiff. One layer of clothing would protect the driver for six to eight seconds, and the more layers one wore, the better the chance the racer had of getting out of his vehicle without burns. Uniforms and racing shoes are now made of fiber called “Nomex.” Nomex is a registered trademark for a flame resistant metaaramid material developed in the early 1960s by DuPont, and first marketed in 1967. Firefighters, military pilots, and aircrew use Nomex as well. Recently, military troops riding in ground vehicles in the Middle East have begun wearing Nomex. Racecar drivers are required to wear a multi-layer Nomex suit, long underwear, a balaclava, fire resistant gloves, socks, and shoes to protect them. One of the most serious racing fires that ever occurred was in Hutchinson, Kansas, on July 29, 1974, and was probably the event that prompted the racing industry to convert from gasoline tanks to canisters. Hutchinson, Kansas, was a prestigious destination during the golden years of racing where the two-day, Hutch Nationals, were held each year. Dynamite Mike was among the Oklahoma drivers who sometimes competed in this event. However, he was not scheduled to race on that fateful day in July when there was a thirteen-car pile up during the thirty-lap

feature race. Gas tanks exploded, causing most of the cars in the pile up to ignite. Three well-known racers, Jack Petty, Jerry Soderberg, and Aaron Madden, all received extensive burns, however, there were no fatalities. Promoter Jack Merrick denied that dust was the cause of the accident as some spectators claimed, but instead was caused by action on the track. An extensive web site, www.racingfromthepast.com has a comprehensive coverage of the accident with graphic photographs of drivers leaping from their cars, as well as tributes and biographies of drivers of the era. There is also a link labeled “Oklahoma Drivers” where there are several photographs of Dynamite Mike McGee. Photo #130, contributed by Monte Cole, shows Mike on the track in car #69 in a posed shot. In photo #407 Mike sits in his racer. The caption underneath reads; Mike MeGee (sic) in the MeGee (sic) Family #69 from Tulsa. Mike started racing in 1972 and came on strong in the late '70’s. A real hard charger. The third photograph, contributed by Mike Howard, shows Dynamite Mike standing by his car and being interviewed before a NCRA feature race. One can see in the picture that his “69” is now muddy and has a bent bumper. One could race in Hutchinson on Sunday afternoon and then load up the car and “high tail it” down to Wichita in time to race Sunday evening. One weekend Mike, Rex, and some other buddies had been to Hutch and wanted to get to Wichita for the evening event. Traffic was backed up coming out of the racetrack, creeping at a snail’s speed. Rex, who was driving, whipped the car out of line and sped on the wrong side of the road down a two-lane highway, managing to cut back in time to avoid an approaching car. “Whew,” his friends said, “I don’t know how many cars we passed.” “Thirty,” Mike replied. It was in Hutchinson that Barbara almost caused her son serious problems. The Sunday summer afternoon was blistering hot, as was most often the case. Drivers, when they pitted for a “quick change,” would often fall out of their car onto the ground saying, “Give me some water.” Their crew knew what they meant and would grab a pail of ice water and throw it on them to cool them down while adjustments were being made to their car. That day, Barbara, and Mike’s girlfriend, Anita, were helping crew. Mike pitted and climbed out of his car. “Give me some water,” he said as he stretched out on the ground. The women grabbed a pail of water and doused him.

“Let’s go,” his dad said when the car was serviced. Mike scrambled to his feet, climbed back into his car, and took off. They watched from the pit, as “69” seemed to be steering erratically. “What’s wrong? Something’s wrong with Mike,” pit crew members said. Moments later they saw Mike’s gloves flying out the window. He finished the race barehanded. “Don’t ever do that again,” Mike said as he coasted back into the pit at the end of the race. Barbara and Anita hadn’t known that they weren’t supposed to wet down the gloves, which made them so slippery Mike couldn’t steer.

CHAPTER TEN

Tulsa loved Dynamite Mike. With each win, reporters sought his story and his popularity grew. His mother filled dozens of scrapbooks and photo albums with his race cards, press releases and photographs, and dozens of trophies were displayed at Murphy Manufacturing Company. Almost all the magazine and newspaper articles had to do with his size. Accounts had him anywhere from four foot five inches to five foot four inches tall. His actual height is fifty-two inches, and at the time he was racing he weighed 115 pounds. At the end of a night of racing, hundreds of fans made their way to Mike’s pit for his autograph. He patiently signed each racing card handed to him, sometimes writing his name as many as 200 times in an evening. He was particularly popular with children. Wide-eyed boys were in awe that someone their size could do what he did. Often, when his crew was trying to load the car and pack up to go home, the area would be swarming with kids, making it impossible for them to accomplish their tasks. “Mike, go over and stand by the truck,” one of them would tell him. When he did, the kids followed. One evening a woman came to Mike’s pit looking for him. “My tenyear-old grandson is such a fan of yours,” she said. “I wondered if I could get your autograph. He’s in the hospital and it would mean so much to him.” “What’s his name?” Mike asked as he signed the program for the boy. “What hospital is he in?” The next day Mike went to visit him. Adrenalin runs high during races and isn’t always used up when the race is over, for winners or losers. Not everybody who went to a driver’s pit

came with congratulations, or good intentions. Sometimes a driver who felt another racer had cut him off, caused a mishap, or interfered with his winning charged into a competitor’s pit brewing for a fight. Mike was never the aggressor and was never confrontational and some felt, because of his size, they could intimidate him. But again, size wasn’t important to Mike. He had friends who looked out for him—big friends. “He was our hero,” his friend Jon said. “We called him our compact John Wayne.” Mike’s friend Bill Rich, six foot three inches and more than 200 pounds, had a reputation for a quick temper, and he always had his eye on anybody who looked like they were going to give Mike trouble. He would stop what he was doing and simply go over and stand beside Mike. “You got a problem?” he would ask, and that was usually all it took to get rid of the complainer. “We never saw Mike lose his temper,” his friends said. “We could tell when he pitted if something had gone wrong on the track, but he usually just got a Coke, and went off by himself for a few minutes. Even when Phil yelled at him because he thought Mike should have done something differently, Mike never yelled back." After a race Mike and his friends often went out to eat or to party. He loved the camaraderie and rehash of the evening’s events, the point standings, the mishaps and, yes, the accidents. He accepted his buddies’ good-natured, and sometimes not-so-good-natured, teasing. On nights that he’d won, he smoked his “celebration cigar,” and nursed his pony beer, while his friends stacked empty bottles in front of them. One night, after the partying was over and his parents had turned in for the evening, a friend knocked on the door of their motel room. “You’d better go see about Mike; he’s in the hot tub.” Phil and Barbara raced out to the pool area to find Mike sound asleep in the Jacuzzi, with a can still half full of beer clutched in his hand. Every track had its differences—its pluses and its minuses, and a driver tended to like a track on which he did well. Mike particularly liked shorter tracks, and raced well on them. There was one race, however, that the McGee crew always looked forward to—the Labor Day Weekend races at Amarillo, Texas. It came late enough in the season so winning there could sometimes drastically change point standings. The speedway itself was unique in that the pits were outside the track, and separated by a fence. The infield was planted with lush green grass. Another difference was that the promoter paid in silver dollars, the sum of which could total $10,000. It was left to the winner to figure out how he was going to handle it. Mike usually

carried his winnings in a pillowcase. The McGee family began planning for the trip early in the week. Barbara prepared food to take. Phil, Mike and Rex went over the car, loaded tires and any parts or tools they might need. By Thursday evening the car was on the trailer, and everything was ready to go. As soon as they could get off work on Friday, Mike, Phil, Rex and Barbara jumped in the McGee’s Suburban and headed toward Amarillo. Other crew-members followed as soon as they could, sometimes arriving just before the races began. The nearly 400-mile drive took them through an uninspiring part of Oklahoma and the Texas panhandle. They drove south to Oklahoma City, where they picked up Route 40, traveling through El Reno, Elk City, and a place called Twitty, just across the state line. Barbara passed out sandwiches, which they ate en route, both to save time and to keep Phil’s mealtime schedule. They did not have to pre-register, so when they arrived Mike registered, paid his entry fee, accepted his free passes, and paid fees for his remaining crew. If it was your first time at a track your car received a safety inspection, but Mike was a known driver and had been there before so he simply signed a waiver against injury, and they waved him through. Mike raced in the events on Friday and Saturday nights, and if he was in the money on Saturday, he also raced on Sunday. After the last race, it was a given that the car had to be washed. They loaded the car on the trailer and Mike and Rex headed to the car wash while Barbara set up food and drinks in their motel room. One evening Mike had done especially well and qualified for the Afeature, a fifty-lap race that was the finale for the night. His car was “dialedup” and he was making his way to the front of the pack. He was running in the top five or six cars when a driver cut in front of him, and “69” crawled up his competitor’s back. Mike’s front wheel locked with the other car’s rear wheel. Usually, in such a case, the officials stop the race to give the cars a chance to get off the track, but there was no signal from the box. Both men struggled to steer their cars while the other drivers dodged them. If they killed their engines they were sitting ducks. If they tried to make their way to the infield they were in danger of a car trying to pass and perhaps causing a multiple car pile-up. The crowd rose to its feet as the laps continued and drivers dodged the disabled cars. “Stop the race! Stop the race,” people screamed. Yet, the red flag did not come out.

Barbara was sitting with Mike’s friend, Anita, in the grandstand directly behind the official’s box. It was a wooden structure, enclosed on three sides. The open front faced the track, so they couldn’t see what was going on in the booth. Both held their breath as Super Modifieds going 70 and 80 mph dodged the tangled cars. Peering through the chain link fence in disbelief, Bill Rick swore. “What the hell can they be thinking?” He tore out of the pit and through the gate, racing up the stairs toward the official’s box as furious as only Bill Rick could get. He called them every name he could think of. “Are you trying to get everybody killed?” He screamed. Just as he reached the box the front partition slid closed in his face. However, the race was not stopped. Forty-two laps later it came to an end, fortunately without injury. “We were already pooling our money to make bail for him,” his friends said. “Those guys don’t know how lucky they were.” At the end of the long weekend the crew packed up, loaded the car on the trailer, and headed home. Phil exhausted, and Mike, winding down after the adrenalin rush of the last several hours, crawled into the back of the Suburban and slept. Rex climbed behind the wheel and drove while Barbara rode beside him and kept him company. Over the years, Mike’s Pit crew changed as some members went on to race their own cars while other’s lives took a different course. Barbara McGee was in charge of the books and kept all the records, but on a few occasions when Mike was short in the pit, she put on her crew shirt and went to work. She missed only one of her son’s races during his ten-year career. The McGees built five cars, each one better than the other. “When Mike’s car was properly tuned,” his friend Rex said, “it passed the others like their motor had died. Nobody had a better car than Mike’s. He went to the pay window every week.” For some reason Mike never came in first on the longer tracks in Dallas and Oklahoma City, but he often finished in the top five to stay in the money. “Some drivers race that way,” his friends explained. “They don’t want to chance tearing up their car or endangering their life.” Phil and Mike sometimes argued about this but Mike had his method and he stuck to it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Racing dirt and clay tracks is neither a tidy nor a clean sport. Hundreds of spinning tires send up clouds of dust, filling mouths and nostrils of spectators and crew with grit. More than a few people have had hearing loss or broken eardrums because of the prolonged and high-pitched whine of dozens of engines. Most spectators were usually hoarse and heady with fumes they inhaled and the beverages they consumed by the time the feature race began. Speedways have rules about what they will allow. Beer is sold at most tracks and some promoters allowed fans to bring in their own alcoholic beverages. Family sections were designated in some grandstands, and other speedways even had hook-ups for campers. One only has to look on the Internet at www.chasinracin.com and their Track Locator will tell you just about anything you want to know. Of the hundreds of motor racetracks in the country today, approximately 54% are clay, 20% are dirt, and 25% are asphalt. There are even a few concrete tracks. Nobody remembered exactly when Anita first showed up in the pit, but she stayed four years. She was a fan who admired Mike and, like others, began hanging around. She was about Mike’s age, stocky build, attractive, with reddish-brown hair. Auto racing is such a testosterone driven sport that in the 1970’s the pit area at some tracks was off limits to women. However, Anita was able to gain access to Mike’s pit. Perhaps it was that she simply put on her coveralls and made herself useful, or perhaps Mike wanted her there. The pit crew had its routine when getting ready for a race, and during pit stops, they moved into action in fast-forward speed, and each member knew what he was supposed to do. The last thing a crew needed was for someone to “be in the way.” Their work was dirty and greasy, their language tough. When Anita wasn’t allowed in the pit, she and Barbara watched the races from the grandstand. Friends knew little of her past. She had moved to Tulsa and was living with her sister Helen, who had two young daughters, Paula and Susan. Rumor had it that Anita’s boyfriend was in the military. She and Mike became good friends and began dating. There is a photograph in the family album of Anita and Mike formally dressed for the racing awards banquet that was held at the end of each season. Mike was wearing a tuxedo, and Anita, who stood a head taller, wore a floor-length, persimmon colored dress that complimented her complexion. Then, four years later, almost as she had come, Anita left. Her fiancé

was being discharged from the military, and she was getting married. Since Mike has always been a private person, nobody was quite sure of his and Anita’s relationship. Certainly they were good friends, perhaps more. In any event, Anita married and had several children, the first of which was a boy that she named Michael David. The fact that racing is a man’s sport seems to be proven by the fact that there are so few women in racing. Today women have moved into cars and onto the track and have proved to be competent and fierce competitors. In the 1960's and 1970's female drivers were limited to an event known as The Powder Puff Derby which was looked at more as entertainment than sport. One year, when Phyllis was hanging out with Mike and his buddies in the garage, one of them said, “Phyllis, why don’t you enter the Powder Puff Derby?” At first she declined, but they kept insisting. “You can wear my suit,” Bill Rick said. “It’s big enough for you.” Junk cars that still ran could be bought for twenty-five dollars, and when they finally convinced her they went out and bought one. Everybody got involved. They fixed it up, souped it up, and tuned it up. They pounded out the dents and painted it. The night of the event, Phyllis, who is tall and slender, was stunning in Bill Rick’s fire retardant suit. It was also a night Phyllis thought would never end. She was absolutely the worse driver on the track, and she hated it. It was her one and only attempt at racing. In 1980 Mike McGee was thirty years old. His racing career was winding down. Several of his friends had gotten married, a sure end to a racing career. Others had taken jobs that took them elsewhere. The garage turned workshop at 7374 25th Place in Johansson Acres was no longer full of racing friends, and every night of every weekend was not spent at the racetrack. Phil, now in his early fifties, continued battling his diabetes, while Barbara juggled her real estate career to take care of her husband and her aging mother. Mike still worked on cars for his friends, and sometimes when several of his buddies would be in the garage, Mike wasn’t there. “Where’s Mike?” Barbara asked. “He’s over at Helen’s house playing dominos,” they would tell her. That was understandable, Barbara supposed. Mike and Helen both probably missed Anita. Helen was five years older than Mike. Her daughters were now eight and ten years old. She was a large woman, with brown curly hair and a

pleasant face. She was taller than her sister and considerably taller than Mike. She was a good cook and soon Mike was having his meals there too. When friends dropped by looking for him, Barbara got used to saying, “he’s over at Helen’s.” In April of 1981 Barbara was scheduled to spend a week in Cancun, Mexico, checking out condo properties with five other women realtors. Just before she left, Mike and Helen informed her they were getting married. “I am so happy for you, Mike,” she told her son. And she was. Perhaps Helen was not the woman she would have chosen, but they seemed to care for each other. She felt she could put her earlier fears, that Mike would never know the joy of being loved, of being a husband, to rest. She returned home, tan and rested, to learn that not only the wedding date of May 22— three weeks away—had been set, but also the wedding was going to take place in her back yard. The invitations had already gone out. Barbara surveyed her house with a critical eye. Suddenly the carpet seemed too worn; curtains needed to be replaced. “But it’s going to be outside, Mama,” Mike insisted when she enumerated all that needed to be done. “Well, then the lawn and the yard needs attention,” she countered. After all, a wedding was one of life’s major events, and this one was one she’d never expected to witness, given her son’s prognosis. Doctors had repeatedly reminded her that “people like Mike” were not expected to live past their twenties, and here he was, thirty-one years old and getting married. When the day of the event arrived, the McGees and their home were ready. The back yard had been transformed. Pots filled with ferns and yellow gladioli hung from pillars. A table against the backdrop of the brick wall of the house was covered with white lace. It featured the three-tiered wedding cake that Helen had made, while other pastries were grouped around a centerpiece of yellow flowers. Helen, not only a cook but also an accomplished seamstress, had made her wedding dress, a floor length, longsleeved, white lace tunic over a satin slip. The groom, sporting his usually neat, handlebar mustache, wore a dark suit with a white carnation in his lapel. In their photographs, Mike, long accustomed to being before the camera, stands posed and composed, while Helen with her head lowered, seemed shy. All Mike’s racing buddies were there to help him celebrate—and celebrate they did. At some point during the reception Bill Rick, among the

most celebratory, excused himself to go to the bathroom. “What happened to Bill?” someone finally asked. They went on a search. He was not anywhere in the house or on the grounds. They even looked in his truck. Finally, when somebody had to use the bathroom and they couldn’t open the door, they located Bill. He was passed out the bathroom floor, with his feet wedged against the door. The door would not budge. “Are we going to have to take the door off?” Phil asked. Mike, who always took his responsibilities seriously, now had a wife and two stepdaughters for whom he had to provide. The family rented a house in Catoosa near the Murphy Gauge Plant where Mike worked. Helen was a natural homemaker who loved to cook and sew. She fell easily into the role of wife and homemaker as she continued to work at Blue Cross and Blue Shield. In September of that year when Helen learned that she was pregnant, Mike’s world became complete. He was going to be a father! The secret longing of his heart had been realized. Helen, for whom life had not been easy, was a strong woman and continued working throughout her pregnancy. After all, she had been through this twice before. She was at work when her labor pains began. She called Mike at work. “I’ll be right there,” he told her. “Helen’s in labor,” he said as he began cleaning up his work station. “Go ahead, Mike,” his co-workers said. “We’ll close up your station.” He took time to call his mother. “I’m going to pick up Helen, Mama.” “I’ll meet you at the hospital,” Barbara told him. Although her features and coloring don’t show it, Helen has Native American ancestry, and therefore is entitled to government benefits for Native Americans. She had her “Indian Card” and consequently received free hospital services. The closest Indian Hospital was in Claremore, Oklahoma, some fifteen miles from Catoosa. Mike picked up his wife and drove her to the hospital where she was admitted and assigned a room. Mike stayed by her bed sponging the sweat from her forehead and timing her contractions as Helen struggled to bring their child into the world. There’s a reason it’s called labor, he thought as he watched her at work. The hospital, although adequate, was not the St. John’s with which the McGees were familiar. Barbara, the grandmother-to-be, waited outside the door on an uncomfortable chair in a dark hallway. Mike went out to

report Helen’s progress, or lack of, to his mother from time to time. “Go home, Mama,” he finally said. “I’ll call you when something happens.” Barbara left, and the day crept into evening. Mike ate a hurried supper in the cafeteria and then returned to his wife. The hospital settled down for the night, except in Helen’s room where, between contractions, husband and wife rested. He prayed as he had never prayed before. By the time the sun came up, Helen’s blood pressure was also rising. She was exhausted, and Mike, bleary eyed, sat beside her bed holding her hand. The nurses monitored Helen’s blood pressure throughout the morning, and Barbara returned to sit in the hall and wait. By midday the doctors were growing concerned. “I think we better do a C Section.” A Caesarean, is so named because Caesar Augustus was the first child to be brought into the world through a surgical procedure. Since it was first performed it has saved countless lives of both mothers and babies. Helen was wheeled into surgery and prepared. Nurses helped Mike into a surgical gown and gave him a mask. He scrubbed his hands as the doctors showed him, awkwardly fitted sterile gloves over his stubby fingers. Then, he stood beside his wife as the anesthetic lowered her into a comfortable level of sleep. The pushing, the panting, the tearing of her insides was over. Amber McGee came into the world on May 11, 1982. “You have a daughter,” the doctor said. Mike was there to see her being lifted from her mother’s womb. He was there to hear his daughter’s first cry. The nurse wrapped the baby in a towel. “Sit over there.” She pointed Mike to a chair. He sat. She placed his brand new, yet unwashed baby, in his arms. He looked down at this tiny creation, this complete human being, fragile and vulnerable. Tears ran down his cheeks. He was the first one to hold this life he had helped create. She was a beautiful baby with tiny, pink, heart-shaped lips that sought her mother’s breasts. The second day a cherry colored birthmark, about the size of a quarter, appeared on her left cheek. It did not distract from her prettiness, but seemed to make her more endearing. However, her parents had the birthmark surgically removed when she was three years old. Today Amber wears a faint scar in its place. During an interview with Mike I asked him, “What was the most exciting thing that ever happened to you?” I expected an answer like when I won my first race; when my car won best engineered car of the year, or some such thing, but he said, ‘when Amber was born.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Saturday morning, May 16, 1983, began for Mike and Helen McGee as it did for most families in which husband and wife both work; doing weekend chores—grocery shopping, laundry, yard work, and errands. One of the errands Mike had to do that weekend was to pick up a lathe from the workshop in his dad’s garage. Barbara and Phil had the house in Johansson Acres for sale. It had served the family well for twenty-five years, but they no longer needed all that space. The garage was no longer used as a workshop, and much of the equipment—welders, air compressors, and a lathe sat idle. Neighbors no longer saw lights or the intermittent blue flash of an acetylene torch in the McGee’s garage late at night. However, cars of family and friends still crowded the driveway. “I was never able to put my car in the garage all the time we lived there,” Barbara said. Mike and Helen had bought a home in Owasso. Even though the house was small, it was big enough for his family with four bedrooms and a garage for him. He could continue working on engines for other people as a source of extra income. He could use the lathe. A lathe is an expensive, precision machine in which a fixed tool rotating around a horizontal axis shapes the most intricate fittings. It weighs 1000 pounds. In this case, the lathe had been essential in the exacting work of building the best racecar in the area. Sunday morning Mike borrowed a friend’s pick-up truck, stopped by the hardware store to rent a hoist, and went to his parent’s house. Paula and Susan, the two older daughters, were off on their own activities for the day, but Helen and baby Amber came along. When they arrived, Barbara was showing the house to a prospective buyer. She paused long enough to introduce the client to her son and his family. Helen brought Amber inside while Mike and his dad went to the garage to load the lathe. Barbara continued her tour of the house. Mike backed the truck up to the open garage door, and then they attached the hoist to a beam in the ceiling. They secured heavy ropes that were controlled by pulleys around the lathe and began inching the machine up off the floor. Vices attached to the ropes, locked them in place, enabling them to maintain their forward progress. The heavy machine swung clumsily in

its hammock. Mike moved to the side of the truck to guide the piece of equipment into the bed. Suddenly there was a loud pop as the ropes went slack. The lathe crashed to the floor, crushing Mike’s foot underneath. His piercing scream filled the garage and penetrated the house. Barbara, Helen, and the client tore out of the house and into the garage. Mike was lying in the bushes beside the garage door, writhing in pain, his face deathly white. Phil knelt beside him. Somehow he had managed to pull Mike’s foot loose. His shoe had come off and was lying several feet away. “Don’t move him,” Barbara yelled as she ran to the phone and called an ambulance. Then she called her daughter, Phyllis. Helen was hysterical and Amber was sobbing. “Oh, Mike. Oh, Mike,” Helen wailed. Barbara raced back with a pillow and put it under Mike’s head. “Calm down, Helen,” she said as she took Amber from her. “Can you take care of the baby?” Barbara asked, shoving the child into the arms of a now distraught prospective buyer. Phyllis came wheeling into the driveway, arriving just ahead of the ambulance. Mike gritted his teeth as he moaned with pain. Phyllis called her husband, Jody. “Mike’s been hurt. The lathe fell on his foot. I’m driving Mom and Helen to the hospital. Can you come get Amber? We’re leaving her here with a man.” “What man?” Jody asked. “A man who was here looking at the house.” Nobody would ever consider doing such a thing today, but in 1983, we were all more trusting. “The man didn’t buy the house,” Barbara said. “I think we scared him to death. He never came back.” At the hospital, Mike was given something for pain while the staff tried to locate his doctor. They found him on the golf course; it was, after all, a Sunday afternoon. Barbara has always been meticulous about keeping Mike’s medical records, carefully noting dates, appointments, and treatments. Her records here are no exception. She drew a crude, hand-made calendar for the months of April and May 1983. This record, although brief, indicates the pain and agony Mike must have gone through. Sunday, April 17 — Admitted to the hospital. Sedated. X-rays. Surgery. Monday, April 18 — In ICU Wednesday, April 20th: Went back to

surgery and under anesthesia, did trimming but foot not ready to do skin grafting—Dr. Martin. Friday, April 22 — Went back to surgery, but foot not ready to do skin graft. Infection was still bad. Monday, April 25 — Changed bandages in room. Foot not ready. Wednesday, April 27 — Went to surgery but foot looked worse. Friday, April 29 — Amputated big toe and took bone out of 2nd toe. Did not sew up but left to drain. Too bloody and abscessed to do skin graft. Dr. Dumetz did surgery. Wednesday, May 4 — Attorney came up. Dr. Murphy changed dressing in room. We were present and saw foot. (It is noted here, to avoid confusion, that Mike’s doctor Murphy is not the same as his employer, Frank Murphy.) Friday, May 6 — Surgery. Amputated rest of toes. (Mike had already had his little toe on each foot removed when he was young because they were formed at right angles to his foot.) Did not do plastic surgery. In surgery 3 hours. Dr. Murphy did surgery. Moved back to ICU. Saturday, May 7 — ICU. Started running a fever. After midnight temperature rose to 103.5. Started taking extensive blood tests. Sunday, May 8 — Mother’s Day. ICU. Put Mike in quarantine. Blood count dropped to 2. Took off all antibiotics. Monday, May 9 — ICU. Blood count started upward, slowly. Hematologist called in. Did bone marrow test. Dr. Sexauer, hematologist. Tuesday, May 10 — ICU. Bone marrow test was negative. Blood count was 4. Released, partial quarantine. Wednesday, May 11th. Blood count starting to improve. Monday, May 16 — Tried crutches for the first time.

Tuesday, May 17 — Released from hospital Tuesday, May 24 — Dr’s. appointment with Murphy The extensive damage to Mike’s foot was not only documented by his mother’s notes, but by his doctors’ clinical observations, and by a series of graphic color photographs almost too gruesome to view. On the Sunday afternoon that Mike was admitted through the emergency room, x-rays were taken and there was an attempt to surgically put Mike’s foot back together with pins and wires. Dr. Murphy wrote, There is such marked developed and post traumatic change that it is difficult to get a good estimation of the overall anatomic arrangement here….” It was also noted in Dr. Murphy’s report that there was a contusion and abrasion to the left frontal skull. Over the next several days evidence of progressive necrosis was observed and the decision was made to amputate Mike’s toes and the forepart of his foot. During his long and painful recovery, Mike agonized over the fact that he lost several weeks of work, and that he was a burden to his family. He sunk into depression and didn’t shave during his month-long stay in the hospital. By the time he was discharged he had a heavy beard. Today Mike still wears a beard which is neatly trimmed, and a full mustache has replaced the handlebar of his youth. He visits his barber once a month. He left the hospital depressed, with a pair of crutches he had to learn to use, and a long period of recovery. Eventually his foot healed. He was fitted with a prosthesis and learned to walk with his “new” foot. In 1985, Phil McGee was forced to retire from the phone company because of his health. His co-workers gave him a grand send off, recognizing his years of service, and encouraging the McGees to “go and have fun.” That’s what they planned to do. Phil had his retirement and Barbara could juggle her real estate appointments to fit their schedule. Both of them liked to gamble and now, since both of their children had lives of their own, they often drove to Laughlin, Nevada, for a weekend of shows, slots, and blackjack. The years between 1983 and 1991 were uneventful for Mike and his family. Helen enjoyed the status of “wife” and both she and Mike worked

hard to provide conveniences she had never had. Because she liked to cook, she delighted in having all the latest kitchen gadgets, and, because Mike liked to eat, he enjoyed buying them for her. Helen loved to sew, and liked dressing her pretty young daughter in clothes she’d made. From the time Amber was a year old, until she was four, Helen entered her in area beauty contests in which Amber often placed or won. By the time she was five she was taking dance lessons, as had her Grandmother Barbara, and her Aunt Phyllis. Amber was active in school. She took twirling lessons, was a cheerleader, and played basketball. For a while she even took modeling. Mike was the only father figure Paula and Susan had ever had. They respected him, and Mike, who always paid special attention to children, was easy to love. There is some inconsistency in Mike’s later medical records. While some records note that he is the father of one child, others list him as being the father of three. This is understandable because Mike truly accepted Helen’s children as his. However, with Amber receiving so much attention, Helen’s older daughters, now in their difficult teenage years, felt neglected. They began acting out. They were truant from school, hung out with the wrong crowds, and brought home questionable boyfriends. With three growing daughters and the life style his wife wanted, finances seemed always to be stretched. Mike took a second job with a janitorial service that cleaned the Warren Petroleum Building in Tulsa. Each year at Christmas time, lights were hung from the twentieth story of the building, cascading all the way to the street to form the shape of a Christmas tree. It was Mike’s job to string these lights. He started at the top, bunching the strings at the pinnacle, attaching additional strands and spreading them at each floor. The ropes of lights, finally secured at the ground floor, when lit, formed the tree that was seen by all of Tulsa during the holiday season. Occasionally Mike and his family went to the races, but they had little time for recreation. Most of his racing buddies had drifted away into their own lives, but Buddy Cagle still kept in touch and once in awhile they would go to races together. Certainly, Mike had no time to work on engines for other people. He sold his equipment—his precision machines, compressors, welders, and that 1000 lathe that took up space in their garage. He certainly didn’t need it anymore; besides, they could use the money. After his regular shift at Murphy, Mike had just enough time to go

home for supper and maybe do a couple of chores, before he headed off to his job at the Warren Building. When he read in the classifieds that a hospital in Claremore needed additional janitorial help on weekends, he took on a third job. They needed help; Helen needed a new washing machine. On his way from one job to another he would sometimes stop by his parents’ house for a short visit. “Could I borrow your ladder, Dad?” he asked one afternoon in late April. “Sure, Mike. What’s up?” “I’m going to paint the trim on the house.” “Are you sure, Mike?” his mother asked. “Won’t it wait? You look tired.” “Yeah, I am, a little,” he admitted. “But it won’t take long. Now’s a good time to do it before the weather gets too hot.” Mike and Helen’s house on Eighty-First Street in Owasso was a one story, multi-toned buff brick, and, with slight variations, looked like those of their neighbors. The portion that needed painting was the wide overhead door of the attached double garage, the trim around the recessed front door, the trim around the windows, and the peaked ends of the house above the brick. Mike fit in the job when he had time. He worked carefully, methodically, always doing the best job he could. On Friday afternoon, May 3, 1991, Mike tied the forty-foot ladder to the top of his car and returned it to his parents. The painting was finished.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

If one were to describe Michael David McGee they would have to describe two men, the Mike McGee before May 4, 1991, and the Mike McGee after that date. The month of May had always figured prominently in Mike’s life. He and Helen married in May; Amber was born in May, and Saturday May 4, 1991, changed his life forever. He climbed out of bed that morning, leaving the rest of his family asleep. He’d slept so soundly he hadn’t heard Paula or Susan when they’d come home from their Friday night partying. He looked in on Amber; her breathing was steady and her face relaxed in the innocence of a ten-year-old

—well, almost ten. In seven days she would be having her birthday. He felt so blessed, thanking God as always for this miracle that was his. He made his breakfast and, backing out of his driveway, paused long enough to admire the new paint job on their house. He then drove the fifteen miles to the gauge plant. He was tired, and admitted to himself that he would have liked to stay home that day. But, he rationalized; he would get time and a half pay. Mike greeted his co-workers who were also working the extra shift, and went to his station. He took time for a coffee break hoping it would give him the lift he needed. Toward the end of his shift he began putting away his equipment. He got up from the stool at his workstation carrying a tray of his supplies. One could never say for sure what happened next because nobody actually saw the accident. His feet flew out from under him and he crashed to the floor. In an account, recorded two years later in his own handwriting, he stated that, “he had to stand on one leg to store his tray up on a rack.” There was also some recollection of having to move a trash can that was in the way. He thinks he may have slipped on some cardboard and remembers landing hard on his seat, and then nothing more. Possibly he hit the side of his head on the metal rungs of a stool. Possibly he hit it on the concrete floor. It is not known how long he lay there, probably only moments, but it could have been longer before his friends found him. When he woke up they were gathered around, peering down at him, and breathed a collective sigh of relief when he opened his eyes. He tried to focus on their faces but they seemed strange. They looked distorted and he thought it was because his glasses had fallen off, but when he felt his face he was still wearing them. “Are you okay, Mike?” “What happened? Should we get a doctor?” “I’ll be all right,” he assured them. “Just let me lie here a few minutes.” Someone got a pillow and put it under his head. When two of the fellows tried to help him to his feet, he felt dizzy and unbalanced. He grabbed the corner of a table to steady himself. Being a Saturday, there was no one in the medical office so the accident went unreported. It was the end of the shift and everybody was eager to get on with what was left of their weekend. “You guys go ahead,” Mike insisted. If anyone offered to drive him, he refused. Mike waited until the parking lot was empty. Somehow he managed to

get to his car and slid behind the wheel, but he was so dizzy that he knew he couldn’t drive. The scene before him looked like a mismatched jigsaw puzzle. He crawled into the back seat of his vehicle and lay there for several hours. At home nobody missed him; they thought he’d gone to his other job. Mike finally felt well enough to drive to his house. When Helen saw him she knew something was wrong and called his parents. Barbara rushed over, but Mike refused to go to the hospital, assuring his family that he would be better by Monday. Monday came and he was still dizzy. He was unsteady when he walked or stood, and he noticed that he tended to veer to the right. He also noticed that sudden noises caused pain in his left ear and made him jump. On Monday, May 6, Barbara called the plant and reported the accident and told them Mike would not be in to work. They asked him to come in to fill out the proper accident report forms and made an appointment for him to see the work-med physician, Dr. Ray. For Mike, that was the beginning of a medical journey that would last for years, involving appointments with dozens of doctors in several parts of the country, mounds of paperwork with insurance companies, and countless tests and examinations. Neither of the McGee households would ever be the same. Mike’s symptoms were described as unsteadiness, loss of balance, increased startle reaction to sudden noises, considerable sensitivity to bright light, and a high pitched roaring in his left ear. He found that he couldn’t remember information that he was certain he knew; his thinking was slow, and he was unable to find the right words when speaking. He was no longer the man who could take apart and rebuild automobile engines, or perform the intricate job he’d been doing for many years. A month later, on June 4, 1991, Rebecca Rhodes, a workers’ compensation nurse with Blackman Associates took over managing Mike’s case. She scheduled all his doctors’ and therapists’ visits, notified Barbara of his appointments, and along with one or both of his parents, went with him to all of them—appointments that would consume much of their day for longer than anyone, at this point, could imagine. The doctors asked him questions—dozens of questions. “Mike, tell us how the accident happened.” “I was putting away my—my thing…” and he realized he didn’t know the word. He became irritable and frustrated as he repeatedly could not find the

words he wanted. They simply were no longer available to him. He also developed “hiccups” which persisted for two years and sometimes caused him to regurgitate. “Mama, what am I going to do?” he asked one day after an appointment. “If I can’t work, how can I take care of my family?” “We’ll figure this out, Mike,” his mother said. “We’ll keep trying until we do.” Helen, who preferred to let her mother-in-law deal with Mike’s schedule and his problems, continued to work at Blue Cross. More than ever they needed her paycheck to help support the family. As she tried to keep the household running smoothly, she realized she had depended on Mike for so many things. Anxiety crept in as she saw that their family structure was being threatened. She began badgering Mike to do work around the house he had always done. He couldn’t. During the next four years Mike would be seen and evaluated by close to twenty physicians including Drs. Edwards, Brockman, and Galusha, ophthalmologists; Dr. Vosburgh, an orthopedic surgeon; Dr. Campbell, specializing in ear-nose-throat; Dr. Mask, a pulmonologist; Drs. Sikka, a neurosurgeon, and Dr. Hastings, a neurologist who continued until his retirement in 2008. Mike underwent psychiatric counseling, neuropsychological testing, and physical therapy. Barbara, who has always kept detailed records, was able to put together an accurate history of Mike’s evaluation and treatment. There were sometimes three or four appointments a week, lasting from two to three hours. The worst part of the interview with each new doctor was that Mike had to tell his story over—and over—and over. Bouts of hiccups interrupted his speech and prolonged his testimony. In addition, each unexpected noise—a door closing or the scraping of a chair elicited Mike’s involuntary response of ducking his head and jerking his hand to his ear. His doctors apologized. Most of them were considerate and tried to control behavior that might cause this reaction. One doctor had to stop tapping his pen on his desk. They consciously tried to control their coughing, or clearing their throats; habits that usually went unnoticed. The visits were agonizing for everybody, and left Mike exhausted and discouraged. None of the tests shed any light on his problems. An MRI done in June of 1991 determined the brain to be normal, and later that same year auditory brainstem studies were also reported as normal.

The following month Dr. Vosburgh reported that x-rays of Mike’s neck and lower back showed degenerative spondylolisthesis with scoliosis and osteoarthritis in the lumbar area, not uncommon in a forty-three-year-old man of short stature, but unrelated to the injury. An electronystagmogram suggested left peripheral vestibular dysfunction. There was increased hyperextension of the neck to the left, suggesting the possibility of a cervical spine component. Dr. Vosburgh recommended physical therapy, and, after having sessions on the dates of September 1, 5, 7, 9, 14, 16, 19, 23, and 26, Mike’s instability worsened so the doctor stopped treatment. At the insurance company’s request, on November 8 & 9, 1991, Dr. Fritsch, a psychologist at Broken Arrow hospital, evaluated Mike. The evaluations lasted all day. On the 29th, Dr. Fritsch had a meeting with the entire family to explain his findings. He recommended counseling for all of them. A claim for these services was filed with the St. Paul Fire & Marine Insurance Company for the sum of $900. Mr. Lucas, a professional counselor, saw Mike from October of 1991 through April of 1992, and treated him for depression and anxiety. They also dealt with issues of his coping with his various physical conditions. This was not a new assignment for Mike McGee; he’d been coping for forty-four years of his life. Mr. Lucas noted in a report that “he has made considerable progress, and that his concerns were more proportional and pertinent to his current status,” alluding to Mike and Helen’s troubled marriage. Mike’s mental attitude improved, and in spite of the fact that no improvement had been noticed, and no diagnosis had been made concerning his other problems, in February, 1992 Dr. Hastings released Mike to go back to work. Mike returned to the factory on a trial basis, first working a limited number of hours and then gradually working up to an eight-hour day. When his supervisor reported that Mike could no longer perform the precise tasks he’d done before, the owner, Frank Murphy instructed them to find a simpler job that he could do. Mr. Murphy was fond of Mike, and remembered how proud he’d been of the little racecar driver with a big desire to win who had represented the company so well. Frank also assured Mike and his mother that they would continue to support him through the company insurance plan. If Mike was no longer able to perform jobs at work that he had done for

twenty years, neither could he fulfill the role he had assumed at home for the past ten years. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, he didn’t remember how to in some cases, and because he was always dizzy and often fell, he just couldn’t in other cases. Helen grew more agitated and critical. She accused him of being lazy, and Mike, who always tried to do the best he could, tried harder. Helen, and even his children, seemed incapable of dealing with this change in their husband or father and the change it brought into their lives. The McGee’s marriage further unraveled. Throughout the summer of 1992, Mike continued to drive his car, and somehow was able to get himself to and from work. He drove slowly—so very slowly, so much so that drivers honked their horns and shook their fists at him. He knew that he kept running into curbs on the right side of the road but there was nothing he could do about it. Between trying to do his job, and keeping the countless appointments set up by his caseworker, Mike was exhausted at the end of every day. One evening when he got home no supper had been prepared. The family, which now consisted of Helen, Amber, Paula, Susan, and Susan’s boyfriend, decided they wanted take-outs from McDonalds for supper. They gave Mike their orders and told him to go pick up their food. When he returned with their meals, he had gotten some of their orders wrong. Rather than accept what he’d brought, or offer to go in his place, they insisted that he go back and change them. So, in his usual attempt to please, Mike got in his car and drove back to the golden arches. Barbara and Phil knew that Mike’s family was not always kind to him, but they always stepped back from interfering in his life until they were needed. Phil had his own issues as well. His diabetes was relentless in torturing his body so that he was either fighting low blood sugar or having an insulin reaction. In June, Mike saw Dr. Campbell, an ear-nose-throat specialist who tested him and followed his progress for several months. The patient complained of tinnitus and unsteadiness of gait. He was initially diagnosed as having a mixed hearing loss of the left ear associated with trauma. The doctor did not believe that his lack of balance and unsteadiness of gait was due to vertigo but he prescribed Dramamine. Later that month Mike reported that the tinnitus had improved and that there was no fluid in the left middle ear. The doctor recommended that he wear earplugs to help decrease external noise. Mike’s hearing loss was ultimately determined to be 9.4% in his left ear. His auditory brainstem responses were normal.

Annoying to those around him and exhausting to Mike, his hiccups continued to plague him. Barbara took him to see Dr. Mask, a pulmonologist, who could not find any pulmonary etiology for this condition; nor could Dr. Lantz, a gastroenterologist. Although they received no answers regarding the etiology of Mike’s symptoms, they gained lots of information. Mike’s visual problem is best explained in that what he sees as being directly in front of him is actually four to five feet to his right, which accounts for the fact that he is constantly veering to, or steering toward his right. Dr. Brockman carefully checked the visual fields and found no defects. “I can’t find anything wrong,” he reported, but he did prescribe glasses for his astigmatism. Dr. Edwards, who also saw him, was unable to explain the cause of the light sensitivity of which his patient complained. He did detect early manifestations of keratoconus and referred Mike to Dr. Galusha who fitted him with contact lenses to treat this condition. Dr. Covington, a neurosurgeon, was recommended when Mike continued to complain of low back pain. He experienced dizziness, dropped objects, and had tingling in his left arm and leg. By now he walked with a recognizable staggering gait. He grew afraid of falling. The doctor diagnosed a post concussion syndrome and ordered a head CT that showed a sensory neural hearing loss, greater in the left ear. Dr. Covington’s diagnosis did not agree with a previous one. He felt that the patient seemed to be experiencing some true vertigo so Antivert was prescribed. Dr. Covington also ordered a Romberg’s Test. Romberg’s test, so named for the German neurologist Moritz Heinrich Romberg (1795-1873), is used to assess the dorsal columns of the spinal cord to determine if the dysfunction is sensory or cerebellar. It is also sometimes used as an indicator for possible drunk driving. The subject is asked to stand with his feet together, eyes open and hands by his sides. The subject then closes his eyes while the examiner observes him for a full minute. Romberg’s test is positive if, and only if, the following two conditions are met: that the patient can stand with his eyes open, and that he falls when his eyes are closed. If the dysfunction were cerebellar, a patient with this condition would generally be unable to balance even with his eyes open. Maintaining balance while standing in a stationary position relies on intact sensory pathways whose main sensory inputs are carried in the dorsal column of the spinal cord, and vision. Mike tested, in Dr. Covington’s

words, “very positive” for Romberg’s Test. Through the long months of consultations and examinations tests after tests came back as normal. 6/20/91, MRI of the brain with and without gadolinium—normal. 10/31/91, Dr. Campbell noted normal ENG, and that auditory brainstem responses were now normal. 1/16/92, chest X-Ray—normal 1/21/92, ultrasound of gallbladder—normal Phil accompanied his wife and Mike to his doctors’ appointments when he could, and of course, Roberta Rhodes, the workers’ compensation nurse, was always there. One day they had a ten o’clock appointment. Mike, his parents, and the nurse were seated in the doctor’s office when Phil had a diabetic reaction. One moment he was sitting in his chair and the next he was tumbling into the wastebasket beside it. He had passed out. The doctor flew out from behind his desk and rushed to help Barbara and Mike as they tried to lift Phil out of the wastebasket. Roberta Rhodes retreated across the room with a wide-eyed look of shock on her face. “What happened?” the doctor asked. “Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?” What was it a doctor and a nurse didn’t understand about a diabetic coma, Barbara wondered, and she and Mike stretched Phil out on the floor. “No, you don’t need to call an ambulance. Do you have a Coke? Do you have any orange juice?” They looked at her, confused. “Don’t you have a Coke machine?” she asked in frustration. “You won’t kill him,” Phil’s doctor had told her years earlier when he’d first prescribed the procedure. “All it’ll do is bring him around when he starts to choke.” The doctor had been right. Barbara struggled to force her husband’s mouth open while Mike tipped the coke bottle and poured liquid down his father’s throat. It was never a pretty sight, with the brown sugary drink running out the sides of Phil’s mouth and wetting his neck and shirt, but it was a scene with which mother and son were all too familiar, and had long since lost any sense of embarrassment or need for apology. It was just something that had to be done, and it worked. When Phil was stabilized they helped him to their car to rest until Mike’s appointment was over.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

When the children were young the McGees went to church as a family. It was a practice instilled in both Barbara and Phil by their parents and grandparents. Belief in God was part of their foundation, and being in church on Sunday morning was part of their routine. Besides, although on the fringes, Oklahoma was part of the Bible belt and Tulsa, in particular, was the home to Oral Roberts University. Growing up, Mike and Phyllis went to Sunday school and sang in the children’s choir. Even as teens no matter what they did on Saturday night, they were expected to be up in time for church. Barbara and Phil who often stayed out late dancing imposed the same rules for themselves. When racing became part of their lives it consumed their weekends, and attending church was no longer on their schedule. After Mike and Helen married there was always too much to do on weekends, especially after Mike took on extra jobs. Amber was the only one in the family who did go to church. She went with her girlfriend whose grandfather was a minister. However, Mike McGee continued to live by principles inherent to his nature. He was a gentle man with strong moral values. Doing what was right, being honest, working hard, and constantly giving anyone the benefit of the doubt was the way he lived. As much as he loved his stepdaughters their behavior bothered him and he didn’t care for some of their friends who hung around the house. He was also hurt by the fact that, after his accident, Paula and Susan’s treatment of him changed. Their friends sometimes ridiculed him. One day he came home from work and found that Susan’s unemployed boyfriend had moved his belongings into his stepdaughter’s bedroom. “What’s he doing here?” Mike asked Helen. “He’s living here,” she told him. “He has to leave,” Mike said. “He has no right to be here.” Helen took on her stubborn look. “I’m not going to tell him to move.” Mike became upset. The atmosphere grew tense. When he tried to enlist his wife’s support she sided with her daughter. “If you don’t like it, then you move out,” Helen told him. Mike was crushed. He could not approve of something he believed was morally wrong. If he stayed it would be like giving his approval. The thing that hurt the most was that his wife and his family aligned against him. He

felt helpless. It was the hardest decision he’d ever had to make. He called his parents. “You have to come get me, Mama,” he said. “What’s wrong?” “I have to leave," he said and explained what happened. “We’ll come get you,” his mother said. Phil exploded. “Calm down, Phil,” Barbara pleaded, afraid his anger would set off a diabetic reaction. “I’ll call Phyllis to go with me.” Over the next couple of days Barbara, Phyllis, and Phyllis’s husband Jody drove to Catoosa to collect Mike’s belongings from the house. Mike did not go back. When they arrived on Sunday morning the boyfriend was in the garage. When he saw them get out of the car he tilted his head and gave them an indolent smile of triumph. Barbara was furious. She slammed the car door and marched up the drive toward him. “You get your things and get out of here,” she said. “This is my son’s house and he does not want you here.” The boyfriend sneered at her. “You can’t make me.” Barbara, who by nature is a happy-go-lucky person, was used to dealing with obstacles, particularly where her son was concerned. She was not intimidated. She pointed her finger in the young man’s face. “I can make you and I will. If you don’t get your things, get in your car and get out of here, I’m calling the police and having you arrested for trespassing.” She waited while he collected his belongings and left. Neither Susan nor Helen interfered. The next several months were a nightmare for the McGee families. Mike was devastated at the rejection by his family. Having no place to live, and struggling to keep his part-time job at Murphy Manufacturing, he moved in with his parents. He became depressed; the doctor put him on Prozac. Phil’s distress caused his blood glucose to roller coaster, and Barbara’s heart ached for her husband and their son. Helen began having second thoughts as the life to which she’d grown accustomed was threatened. She would come over to the McGees to see Mike, begging him to come back. Encouraged by his parents and his doctor to go through with the divorce, Mike, even in his vulnerability, knew that things would never again be the way they were. The divorce turned bitter. Mike had been a good provider. He had saved some money and knew how to invest, and Helen, remembering what

life “before Mike” was like, was frightened at the prospect of being without her dependable mate. The nucleus of her family was now gone, in fact, was no more. She fought to get as much out of the marriage as she could. There were numerous court hearings about custody and child support. The house on Eighty-First Street was given to Helen, and she was awarded custody of their eleven-year-old daughter. Mike was granted visitation rights, however on weekends when it was his turn to be with Amber, Phil would drive out to the house to pick her up only to find nobody home. If Barbara thought things couldn’t get any worse, she was wrong. In November 1992, Mr. Murphy phoned her. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to let Mike go,” he said. “We feel he is a danger to himself and to others.” She could hear the sadness in the voice of this man who had stayed with them far beyond what many other employers would have. “Do you want to be with him when we tell him?” “Yes.” On Veteran’s Day, November 11, Barbara drove to the plant and sat with Mike in the office at Murphy Manufacturing as he was given the news. Mike was not, however, terminated without recognition. As he stood before a company of his peers and co-workers, Uncle Frank Murphy himself presented Mike with a gold watch and recognized him for his many years of dedicated hard work, and the fame he’d brought them during his racing career. In a letter written by Dr. Sikka to the St. Paul Fire and Marine Insurance Company, he explained that while many tests continued to show up as normal, Mike’s condition, i.e. balance, coordination, memory and cognition were getting worse. He concluded that many of Mike’s symptoms were psychological, and placed Mike on antidepressants. The McGees refused to accept that conclusion. How could a psychological problem make a person see in the distorted way Mike now saw things? How could a person’s mental state cause sensitivity to light and noise that wasn’t there before the accident? When the insurance company wanted to settle the claim they refused. “We don’t care about the money,” Barbara insisted. “We never cared about the money. We just want him back the way he was before the accident.” Hoping it would help, Dr. Sikka recommended cognitive retraining treatment four days a week at the Neurologic Rehab Insititute day program. Barbara McGee is an artist of recognition in the Tulsa area, and is known for her lifelike portraits. While she takes great pleasure in painting, a

talent she inherited from her mother, sitting before an easel creating beauty out of a blank canvas was often her retreat from the daily problems with which she dealt. One room in every home they’d ever lived has been designated as her studio. That was her refuge. During those dark weeks and months following Mike’s accident, and during the divorce proceedings, when she was not accompanying her son to his various appointments and treatments, Barbara was in her studio painting. This way she could monitor Phil and be there to prepare four meals each day for him. Phil’s life now consisted of sitting in his chair in front of the television set in his robe and pajamas, and smoking a cigarette, or being hospitalized when his reactions became life threatening. He would stay in the hospital long enough to be stabilized, or as long as his insurance would allow. Mike continued to live with his parents. One day Mike was watching his mother paint. Barbara remembered that it was during the Easter season because she was painting the Head of Christ, a portrait that still hangs in her home. Mike sat watching her. “Is that hard to do?” he asked. “No,” she said. "Let me set you up with some paints and brushes and you can try it.” That was the beginning of Mike’s newly discovered passion for painting that opened a world for him in which he could explore and express the vivid visions in his mind.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Even though his employment had ended, the workers’ compensation case remained open as the search to find answers to Mike’s health problems continued. Barbara asked questions, sought opinions, and researched innovative treatment as she had as a nineteen-year-old mother when she and her three-year-old son traveled across country to the Mayo Clinic. Finally, after two years of seeing local doctors with little results, Dr. Hastings referred Mike to Dr. Marcelo Puiggari, a neurologist in Oklahoma City. Once again, Mike went through the agony of answering hundreds of questions, and submitting to many of the same tests he’d already endured. Disappointingly, Dr. Puiggari’s conclusion was not much different than previous ones. He states, “As you know this patient has had a number of studies performed which have failed to show any consistent pathology. I

cannot find any definite evidence of neurological impairment. I feel that most of his symptomatology is likely to be on a psychological basis and that he may need a comprehensive approach such as that of a neuro-rehab facility to help him reach a stage of functional adjustment.” When Barbara read the report she confronted Dr. Hastings. “What is a neuro-rehab facility? Where is one, and why has nobody mentioned this before.” “I’ll check them out,” the doctor told her. He recommended The Centre for Neuro Skills in Irving, Texas. “What do we need to do to get Mike in there?” she asked. “I’ll find out,” Dr. Hastings replied. The following is a letter Dr. Hastings wrote on Mike’s behalf: TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN: Re: Michael McGee Michael McGee has been followed by me since June of 1991. He suffered an injury at work in May of 1991. Since that time he has had symptoms which have been functionally disabling, including dizziness, loss of balance, headaches, easy startling and some intermittent hiccups. He has had exhaustive testing by me, by neurosurgery, by ear, nose and throat physicians, by other neurologists, by pulmonary physicians and by numerous other examiners. He has had multiple scans and other studies. We have been unable to demonstrate a surgically or medically correctable cause of his continued functionally incapacitating dizziness and loss of balance. He has been unable to return to a work setting. At the present time he is still undergoing testing and will see a neurosurgeon, Dr. Covington, on April 15th in follow-up. There are plans to send him to a rehabilitation facility in Texas in the near future. He has not been able to function as yet. Sincerely, John D. Hastings, M.D. There are three campuses for the Centre for Neuro Skills, one in Irving, Texas, a suburb of Dallas, another in Bakersfield, California, and, more recently, a facility in Los Angeles Califlornia. Dr. Mark Ashley founded the institutes in 1980 after a devastating brain injury left his twenty-one-yearold brother Steve totally disabled. None of the conventional treatments the family sought provided any improvement, any solution, or any hope.

Dr. Mark, a neurologist, had worked successfully with other individuals with brain injuries, and was convinced that rehabilitation for his brother was possible. Who, more than he, would want to rescue a brother trapped inside a physical and emotional prison? He knew that the effort would be strenuous, time consuming, and often discouraging. We have seen the illustration and read the caption, No mister, he’s not heavy. He’s my brother. Doctor Mark set out to “carry his brother.” To quote from the home page www.neuroskills.com 2007: Steve Ashley was the first CNS client. His journey to recovery became the model for CNS ongoing philosophy and practice. Intensive therapy revealed Steve’s unique physical and emotional needs. He needed to be functionally independent. He wanted to master some basic living skills…. Most of all Steve needed to be treated like an individual and a whole person. After months of successes and setbacks, celebrations and frustrations, Steve Ashley found a new life. He was able to speak, drive his electric wheel chair, use the bathroom, feed himself, and to live alone in his own apartment. At the Centre for Neuro Skills, each and every client is a Steve Ashley. Our bias for action is to do whatever it takes to return the person with a brain injury to the highest level of independence possible. Barbara McGee felt her prayers had been answered. She and Dr. Hastings filled out the application papers and Mike was accepted. “Mike,” she told her son, “I’ve found a place that may be able to help you.” “Okay, Mama,” he replied in the singsong, nasal voice which he had developed after the accident. “But it’s not here. It’s in Texas.” “Like that other place we went before?” “What place, Mike?” “When I was little.” “You mean, the Mayo Clinic?” Mike nodded. Barbara was astounded—and encouraged. If Mike could remember something that happened to him when he was three years old that meant that what he knew was still in his brain. Surely there must be someone who could find a way to get it out. “No, Mike, not exactly like that one. This is a place where you’ll go and live for awhile so they can study your symptoms and train you how to

do things. I’ll go with you, but I can’t stay there. You may be there for several weeks.” Mike hesitated. “You want to get better, don’t you?” Mike nodded. “They’ll take good care of you, and you’ll be so busy you won’t have time to get lonesome. They told me I can come see you every weekend,” Barbara rushed on. “But you know I have to come home to my job and to take care of Dad.” “All right.” Barbara’s throat closed up with love for her son as he looked at her with the same trust he’d had since he was an infant. In April, 1993, Barbara arranged for her daughter Phyllis and her sisterin-law Dorothy to look after Phil. Mike was nervous as he prepared for the trip. He folded several pairs of new khaki pants Aunt Dorothy had shortened for him and put them in his suitcase. Mike was a favorite of Aunt Dorothy who had never married. He adored her and always looked forward to her visits. “It’s like Christmas when Aunt Dorothy comes,” he said. “She always brings presents.” He was not looking forward to being away from his family, but he wanted to get well. The Centre was located at 1320 West Walnut Hill Lane not far from where Route 114 and Route 161 intersected in the greater Dallas area. The main building was a white, rather unpretentious one-story building with lots of floor to ceiling windows, and surrounded by paved parking areas. A few trees provided shade against the intense heat that rose from the pavement. Across the parking lot there was a series of two story brick apartment buildings where residents live as they relearn functions and basic living skills. Listed on the CNS web site under FAQ (Frequently Asked Questions) is a section that indicates that families come to the Centre with anxiety, dozens of questions, and hope. The patients themselves, trapped in a world over which they have no control, come with their own confusion and fears. It is consistently thought by professionals that the sooner rehabilitation begins after the acute trauma of brain injury; the greater the chances are for the patient’s more complete recovery. This would not be the case for Mike. He had lived almost two years with his injury. The battery of doctors who’d examined him numbered more than two dozen, and hours devoted to

examinations, tests and therapy were impossible to count. On April 26, 1993, Mike McGee was admitted to the Centre for Neuro Skills. Mother and son were given a tour of the facility and Mike was introduced to his assistant who showed him to his room. Barbara helped him unpack and get settled. The length of stay usually varied from two to five weeks, but Mike would be there for two months. Patients were housed in a residential setting that was typical of a normal living environment, in which they could maintain their privacy as well as interact with others. Depending on the case, when necessary, more than one assistant was assigned to a client. The human brain and its capabilities is the most complicated of organs. Professionals at CNS—doctors, therapists and caregivers—have spent years studying the actions of the brain and the results of trauma to it. These descriptions of the functions of the lobes of the brain have been taken from the CNS web site. The brain itself is divided into five lobes with each lobe controlling specific functions. It has been compared to a filing cabinet. Inside this cabinet are a number of folders containing specific information that have been carefully arranged and labeled. To locate a particular function one has to simply open the correct file. However, in traumatic brain injury (TBI) imagine having had the filing cabinet turned upside down and rolled over. All the information is still there but the ability to retrieve it becomes more difficult and in some cases, impossible. Among the skills affected are ambulation, balance, coordination, fine motor skills and stamina. In addition, cognitive skills such as language and communication are often affected, depending on the portion of the brain that has been damaged. While CT’s and MRI’s were routinely used to determine areas of brain damage, the trained staff at CNS learned much from spending time watching a patient’s actions, or in conversation with him. For the next several weeks it would be the job of the staff to observe, interview, test, examine, and educate this new patient to determine the source of his problem, or at least to help him adapt to his situation with as many tools as they could give him. The day after his arrival Mike’s lengthy records that accompanied him were reviewed. He was then, again, given one more physical and one more examination. The conclusion of the examining doctor was that his evaluation and examination were consistent with those that had already

been reported. So, what else was new? Barbara wondered. Next, physical therapists, occupational therapists, speech therapists, vocational therapists, and counselors, met with doctors to work out a schedule for Mike. This would include several off-site examinations as well as those on campus. To determine the location of damage, and possible treatment these specialists and trained personnel would have to look at every part of the brain. The largest lobe of the brain, the Frontal Lobe, controls our consciousness, how we react to our environment, and the judgments we make in our daily living. It also controls our aggressive response, our expressive language, and assigns meaning to the words we choose. Damage to this portion of the brain sometimes results in paralysis. It may also produce the inability to complete multi-stepped tasks such as making coffee, loss of flexibility in thinking, and the inability to focus on a task. Social behavior and personality may also be altered. The Pariental Lobe, located near the back and top of the head, integrates the different senses that allows for the understanding of a single concept. It also directs visual attention, touch perception, voluntary movements, and manipulation of objects. Problems arising from trauma to this area may result in inability to name objects or locate the proper words for writing or speaking. The patient may have trouble doing mathematics, lack awareness of certain body parts and/or surrounding space, be unable to focus visual attention and difficulties with eye and hand coordination. Certainly Mike’s symptoms seemed to indicate a problem in this area. Tests indicated that Mike, who could take apart an engine and put the hundred or so parts back together so that it ran better than ever, could no longer do math. In fact, he no longer knew his street address or was able recite his phone number. He had also lost the vocabulary for certain words. Today, everything to him is “a meeting” whether it is his doctor’s appointment, a trip to the grocery store, or his bible study group. “That was a good meeting,” he will say. An elevator is now a “lifter.” Mike definitely had problems with spatial relationships given his distorted vision. For some unexplained reason when he walks, his left leg and foot sometimes will simply lift off the ground, almost like walking on air, which causes him to loose his balance. Without the aid of his cane, or someone there to catch him, he falls. In falling, of course, there is always the potential of additional injury.

Therapy at CNS was intense with the client spending six to eight hours a day working with various members of the team. Therapists even went so far as to strap Mike to a board, approximately four foot by five foot. Four technicians, one at each corner of the board, then would vigorously shake him back and forth to see if something in his brain could be unscrambled. Although this test was repeated several times there were no positive results. Evaluations indicated that while he has some damage in the Pariental Lobe, he did not seem to have problems with eye and hand coordination. The Occipital Lobe, at the back of the head, directs our vision. There was most likely damage to this lobe as Mike has continued to have eye problems since the accident, and is acutely sensitive to bright light. Mike compensates for this by keeping the heavy gold drapes in his apartment closed, using low wattage light bulbs, and wearing a baseball cap and dark glasses. He puts on an additional pair of wrap-around darkly shaded sunglasses when he goes outside. Trauma to the occipital lobe also may cause the inability to accurately recognize words and objects. At the sides of the heads above the ears, are the Temporal Lobes that are responsible for hearing ability, memory acquisition and categorization of objects. Problems that can arise from trauma in these areas are difficulty in recognizing faces, understanding spoken words, identification of and verbalization about objects and short-term memory loss. Right lobe damage can cause persistent talking and increased aggressive behavior. The only symptom Mike seems to exhibit in this category is verbalization. Further testing indicated Mike’s memory was intact, confirming his mother’s observation when he remembered a trip they’d taken when he was very young. However, his response time is slow and he doesn’t always have the words to describe what he remembers, such as important events as his daughter’s birth, weekends at the lake with his grandparents, and racing days. The Brain Stem, protected deep in the brain, leads to the spinal cord and controls breathing, heart rate, swallowing, sweating, blood pressure, digestion, and temperature. Perhaps it was damage to this organ that caused the hiccups that plagued Mike for two years. It also controls the sense of balance as well the ability to sleep. Among other functions, it controls something called the “startle response.” For Mike, the startle response was the involuntary bringing of his right hand to his head, and covering his ear as though to ward off a blow. It

would seem that damage in this area could be responsible for this extreme discomfort. Lawn mowers, weed-eaters, sirens, and construction noises were excruciating. When any such noises were near him, he simply had to leave. The Cerebellum, located at the base of the scull, is relatively protected and coordinates voluntary movement, balance and equilibrium, and some memory for reflex motor acts. Mike complained of dizziness and had been diagnosed as having vertigo, which is one of the effects of trauma to this area. Other losses include ability to coordinate fine movements and the ability to walk. This could account for his staggering gait and tendency toward falling, as well as his inability to judge distance.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Centre for Neuro Skills encouraged as much family participation as was possible and practical. They felt that it was vital for the client after leaving the Centre, that the family continued to participate in therapy on a regular basis, and to encourage their loved ones to be as independent as possible. Barbara said her good-byes that first week, promising Mike she would be back the following Friday. “He’s going to be a busy man,” Mike’s assistant told her in his presence. She went over the appointments they had scheduled for the coming week. “We’ll keep our eye on him,” she told Barbara privately. “Any time he’s feeling too stressed he can go to his room. However, we encourage him to participate in activities with other clients. For those who want to go, we have a van that takes them to church.” Each weekend Barbara flew to Dallas to visit Mike, as did families of many of the other residents. She stayed at a nearby Holiday Inn that shuttled out-of-area visitors to and from the center. She got to know one family whose husband and father was admitted the same time as Mike. Her heart went out to then. The man was injured when he fell from forty-foot-high scaffolding. During visits this man, a devout Christian, a good father and husband, sat and swore at his wife and children using unrepeatable profanity they had never heard from him. They were embarrassed and humiliated even though counselors explained that was typical for persons

with brain damage to the Frontal Lobe, and that he had no control over what he was saying. During each visit Barbara reviewed the findings and evaluations of Mike’s tests for the week and then privately asked Mike to describe what went on. She knew her son well enough that she could detect improvement, or lack of, regardless of what the report stated. Dr. Peter Bringewald, at the Neurological Clinic of Texas examined Mike on May 14, and concluded that his cognitive disabilities were from the accident. A thorough eye examination indicated: significant bilateral astigmatism, intermittent convergence spasm and two small bursts of involuntary nystagmus. His letter was graciously signed, “Thank you for allowing me to participate in his care.” One weekend when Barbara checked into the Holiday Inn she was given a room on the fifteenth floor. During the night there was a power outage at the hotel, leaving guests in darkness and disabling the elevators. An emergency, backup power system provided dim lighting as guests were urged to evacuate their rooms. “Just grab your personal belongings and head down the stairs,” they were told. Barbara threw on her robe and grabbed her purse. As she raced out of her door so did the man in the room across the hall from her, wearing nothing but his cowboy hat. I hope someone gives him a blanket, she thought as she made her way down fourteen flights of stairs. Therapists who worked with Mike found him willing and compliant. He was a perfect candidate for therapy for it was his nature not only to learn a skill but also to improve in each task assigned. Numerous notes in his medical reports indicate the respect those who treated him had for him. On May 21, Mike was taken to the University of Texas Southwestern Medical School where he was given audiovestibular tests. Dr. Peter Roland mentioned many of the findings of previous doctors. He said: I believe he has bilateral hypofunction of his labyrinth with a specific right unilateral weakness. He recommended aggressive vestibular rehabilitation and physical therapy. He was the first doctor to suggest that if there was not improvement operative intervention (doctor talk for surgery), might be considered. He did not say what that intervention might be. He also stressed that, he (Mike) is currently quite unable to ambulate without a walker. Copies of Dr. Roland’s findings were sent to CNS and to the insurance company. A neurological evaluation was done at Harris Methodist of Fort Worth

on May 27, 1993. There was no doctor’s signature, but in this lengthy report indications were: …decreased processing speed, forgetfulness, balance problems, speech problems, coordination problems and headaches. He stated that the patient could only read for two or three minutes before words became blurry. The report continued: the patient admitted to being depressed, but that he was not depressed before the accident, nor did he have any marital problems before that time. He denied being suicidal, but the examiner noted that there had been suggestions of “impending psychological break-down.” The examiner also noted that hiccups could be due to anxiety and recommended a trial of antidepressants. Lists of some seventeen complex and time-consuming psychological tests are mentioned in the report. It was stated that, reading was hesitant but error-free; ability to solve math problems was slow, but correct; difficulties with names, although he was always correct when the word finally came out. Adaptive ability was measured using the Halstead Category Test. Mike made 119 errors, a number that significantly put him in a compromised range of function. I did not observe decreased frustration tolerance, but did note that he grimaced and jumped each time the buzzer sounded and never habituated to this. Hiccups also started towards the end of the session, but then resolved. In a final observation the examiner noted: this patient presented as alert, extremely cooperative, and fully oriented. Testing was very slow due to the decreased psychomotor speed as well as halting and labored speech. He put forth an excellent effort. During his stay Mike was issued a rolling walker and it was noted in his records that he did very well with this device. It was recommended that he only rent such a walker when he returned home, because they felt that it was unlikely that he would need it for any period of time. They also stressed to Mike that he not become dependent on it, but to use it only in the community or out of doors. Midway through his stay at CNS Mike was released to spend a weekend at home. There are a number of apartments on the campus where clients, while being monitored, are trained to live individually and independently. While other patients might live for an extended time in this setting, Mike lived there for only one week where an attendant monitored him twenty-four hours a day and recorded all his activities.

The apartments were designed specifically for people with disabilities; people in wheel chairs or, as in Mike’s case, “a person of short stature.” There were ramps, rails, and raised toilets. Patients had to be able to reach the sink to brush their teeth, reach the microwave, the dishes in the cupboards, and the toilet paper holder. On June 15, Mike was taken to the Baylor Rehabilitation Institute where he was given a driving test. Again, the report came back with positive results. The client performed well with visual skills and safety awareness, lane position and direction following. He kept up his speed in highway traffic and was able to perform all areas of evaluation without difficulty. In a way this was not surprising. Mike was a professional racecar driver. Subconsciously he knew what to do—how to respond. Even if he could no longer perform with his previous agility, it was enough for him to pass the test. The report was forwarded to appropriate parties, including the insurance company and the Oklahoma Department of Motor Vehicles, with the stipulation that he was not allowed to drive at night because of his vision problems. Above all else this encouraged Mike toward his independence and elevated his self-esteem. In his discharge summary of June 24, 1993, in addition to the above observations, it was recommended that the patient performed better with memory skills when he used a “memory journal.” In retesting some of the studies the staff found that in spite of therapy Mike did not improve on certain tests, and in fact, tested worse in some of them. They also observed that an intense one-on-one therapy session did not work as well for him as did environment with a structured group program. All of this information was funneled to Rebecca Rhodes and Blackman and Associates who followed Mike’s progress, or lack of, and who, in turn, passed it along to Murphy Manufacturing. Regarding the possibility of his returning to work, was there any work Mike might still be able to perform for them? The insurance company pushed for that evaluation. With this in mind, therapists at CNS simulated a work situation for Mike. They had him perform a task of putting five items in an envelope while sitting. The staff tested his performance of this function for six days. Diligent in his effort to succeed, Mike completed the task without difficulty, finishing forty to sixty envelopes per hour. His workstation was adjusted when he complained of pain in his neck after sitting for any length of time. Did Murphy have any envelopes to stuff? It was unlikely. In spite of all the tests and all the discussions it seemed to be a

consensus among the doctors that, while all the symptoms of brain injury were there, no definite sites could be identified as having lesions or atrophy, and that many of the client’s symptoms were indeed, psychosomatic. “Why then,” Barbara asked when she came to take him home, “is he not the way he was before the accident.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Another significant May date occurred while Mike was at NCS. His divorce became final. Although proceedings had begun in September of the previous year, it had taken nine months to come to a settlement. Mike’s twelve-year marriage had ended. He returned to Tulsa on June 28, 1993 to live with his parents while they looked for an apartment suitable for him. “We’re just going to have to put that behind us, Mike,” his mother said, “and move on.” If the years from 1991 to 1995 were not easy for Mike McGee, neither were they for his daughter, Amber. The stable family she had known was gone. She was allowed little contact with the father she loved still in spite of the changes in his behavior. She understood it was something he could not control. Teenage years, in the least are difficult, but being a teenager in the household with a parent who had also lost her way caused mother and daughter to struggle emotionally and financially. Helen was given the house in Owasso in the divorce settlement, but she soon sold it. By this time her two older daughters were on their own. Paula, struggling with her own life, now had several children who she could not, or would not, take care of. On more than one occasion, as her life continued to spiral downward, social services intervened to remove the children from her care. Helen moved frequently and Amber attended junior high and high school in Morris, Collinsville, and finally, Stillwater, graduating from none of them. In spite of the many disruptions and having to leave friends she made and teachers she liked, she enjoyed school. She played basketball and was a cheerleader. When she was fifteen years old she left school and moved in with her sister Paula. “I came to help take care of the babies,” she said in an interview. Amber could not stand to see Paula’s two youngest children neglected. Barbara and Phil never lost track of their granddaughter, if nothing

more than being in touch with her on her birthday and at Christmas, and making sure the child support check got to her. No matter how they might have wished it to be different, with Phil’s illness and Mike’s adjustment to the world in which he now lived, it was not possible to make Amber more of their lives. On Mike’s return from the Centre for Neuro Skills, Barbara passed along to family members the recommendations and instructions she had been given. They included psychiatric treatment, psychotropic medicines, a home, and outpatient physical therapy and occupational therapy programs. When they left the clinic, the parting instructions were as they had been forty years earlier at the Mayo Clinic. He absolutely cannot live with you. He needs to live on his own and he can do it. It quickly became evident that the counselor’s advice could not be more relevant. Living with his parents was not a workable situation. Ordinary noises that most people lived with sent Mike into that “startle reflex” reaction. As Mike’s anxiety increased with these constant intrusions into his damaged brain, so did Phil’s stress. As Phil’s stressed increased, so did his diabetic reactions. The situation wore on Barbara’s physical strength and mental stamina. Were it not for her ability to “take care of the crisis of the moment” she too would have folded. She was able to find an apartment for him on Fifty-First Street not far from their home, and moved Mike into it. They set him up with furniture and a TV, making his accommodations as pleasant and comfortable as possible. Following the recommendations at CNS, caseworker Rhodes set up a régime of physical therapy pursuant to his ability to return to work. During the summer he had one evaluation and six therapy sessions at St. John’s Medical Center Outpatient Rehab. He drove himself to his appointments and used his rolling walker to get himself in and out of buildings. He had a stationary bike at home that he rode for ten to twenty minutes three times a day. Mike faithfully kept his appointments, did his assignments, and kept a daily journal of everything he did and his feelings about them. The sessions caused Mike backaches and left him exhausted. Mike had regular appointments with Dr. Reed, a psychologist, and his mother enrolled him in art classes. Mike was a busy man. On August 25, 1993, Mike had an appointment with Dr. Campbell regarding his startle reaction. Apparently the insurance company was

pushing for a settlement because Rebecca Rhodes was with him. In a letter to Mike’s primary care physician, Dr. Hastings, Dr. Campbell wrote, “I feel I have done as much as I can for this nice patient and would defer further questions to Dr. Roland (from CNS).” Mike was relatively happy in his new surroundings. He spent hours painting and although he’d learned various techniques, including sculpting and the use of several medias, his media of choice was oil-based pastels by which he transferred the vivid brightly colored imagery of his mind to paper or canvas. Mike’s driving continued to be a concern for his family. Yes, he had passed the driving test in Dallas; yes, he had a valid driver’s license and yes, he had been a good driver—one of the best. They began to worry when he told them that other cars were always honking at him. One day his parents decided to follow him. What they saw made them hold their breath. Mike kept to surface streets and crept along at ten miles an hour, slowing traffic behind him. He was constantly bumping into the curb to his right and jerking back to compensate, sometimes pulling into another lane of traffic. Drivers put on their brakes, honked their horns and sped around him giving him indecent gestures, or impatiently followed him. Barbara cringed. Phil swore. “He’s going to cause an accident,” Barbara said. “How could they possibly have passed him on his driving test in Dallas?” Phil fumed. “You saw the report. You saw what the instructor wrote about how well he did,” Barbara defended. Phil shook his head. “I don’t see how.” His parents began following Mike when he drove, to protect him and to make sure he got home safely. It was frightening. One day, when they almost caused an accident, they realized that sooner or later the inevitable would happen. “We have to tell him he can’t drive anymore,” Phil said. “Oh Phil, it’ll break his heart.” “I know, but we can’t have him causing an accident. Look what almost happened to us,” Phil argued. “We can’t let him hurt himself or somebody else.” “It’ll be the worst thing we’ve ever done to him.” “Toots,” Phil said, using her pet name, “if he has an accident his license will be taken away from him anyway. If something happened we couldn’t

live with ourselves.” Barbara thought about Mike racing cars at 80-90 miles per hour, surviving collisions with concrete walls, hanging upside down with gasoline dripping down his neck while she prayed that his car wouldn’t explode, and knew that her husband was right. As gently as they could, they explained that they didn’t want him to have an accident and hurting himself or anybody else. Mike, who never wanted to harm anybody, accepted the decision. One more avenue of independence had been taken away from him, or so they thought. Although Mike’s sister, Phyllis, and his Aunt Dorothy shared the responsibility for caring for his needs as much as they could, the burden of his care, as always, fell on his mother. Once again she began transporting him to appointments and taking him grocery shopping. One day he called his mother. “Mama, you don’t have to come take me to the grocery store.” “Why not, Mike?” “My neighbor bought some things.” “What neighbor?” Mike hesitated. “A woman who lives next door.” “What’s her name?” “Lisa.” “I’d like to meet her,” his mother told him. While she respected Mike’s privacy and encouraged his independence she had also made a covenant to look after her son. She dropped over to Mike’s apartment and Mike introduced her. Lisa was a pleasant enough person a little older than Mike, and it was evident that he enjoyed her company. “She’s had a rough time,” Mike told his parents. Barbara was glad that he’d found someone who was nice to him and ran errands for him. Mike had been shrewd with his money and made good investments. In spite of his settlement with Helen, and having to pay child support, he had some money saved. This, in addition to his disability check, took care of his living expenses. Because he could no longer manage numbers, Barbara took over his finances. One day when she was going over his checkbooks she saw that he’d withdrawn money from his savings account. “Mike, why did you take $900 out of your savings,” she asked. Mike didn’t answer right away. “I bought Lisa a car.”

“You bought her a car? Why, Mike?” “Because she needed one. Because she does things for me.” “How did you do it, Mike? How did you find a car?” “Lisa found one and then we took a taxi to the bank and I got the money.” “Mike, honey, I’m glad you’ve found a friend and I’m glad she helps you with things, but why didn’t you talk it over with me first?” “She was in a hurry.” Barbara wanted to believe that Lisa’s intentions were good, but she was suddenly suspicious. Mike was vulnerable; he trusted, and he always saw the best in everybody. His mother started keeping closer track of his expenses. That month, when his credit card bill came she opened it and realized something was wrong. “What are all these charges on your MasterCard?” Barbara asked. “Lisa bought some medicine for me and some other things,” Mike said. “But Mike, you don’t take some of these medicines.” Barbara investigated further and found out that Lisa was using Mike’s money to buy prescription drugs to which she was addicted. For Mike’s sake they didn’t press charges, but understandably, Lisa’s involvement with Mike ended. Again, there was one more thing they were going to have to take away from him. It was also evident that Mike could not live next door to Lisa. Barbara found another apartment near Fifty-First and Harvard. Mike continued to go to his therapy sessions; however, he now had to rely on the public transit system or transportation provided by social services. There was a bus stop at the corner of the block just down from his apartment building, but Mike dreaded taking the bus. It was not just the noise of the hydraulic brakes, the automatic opening and closing of doors, being in crowded spaces, and stares of other passengers that bothered him. He could no longer gauge time with any accuracy, and could not identify the numbers on the busses he should take. He would sometimes spend long hours waiting at a bus stop just so he wouldn’t miss his bus. Other times, when social services were supposed to pick him up for appointments, they never came because he would have forgotten to call them. Once he waited four hours in the hot sun for a van that never came. However, he had his rolling walker and that could take him just about anywhere. And it did. There are many types and brands of rolling walkers available that

provide mobility for those who have trouble walking. Typically they are lightweight, designed to be easily folded for storage. Their four wheels move independently, and there are hand-operated brake locking controls attached to the adjustable handles. Most walkers are fitted with cushioned leather or vinyl seats, and a backrest. There is a basket for carrying belongings, and often, a document pocket in the seat cushion. Mike did not like his second apartment. It was noisy, and he didn’t know anyone. He escaped whenever he could and wherever his “rolley walker” could take him. One of the recommendations from CNS was that any heavy cooking be restricted because of safety measures. That was all right with Mike. Even though he loved to eat he was equally happy to have someone else prepare the food. Every evening he slipped out the back door of his apartment building and, avoiding busy streets, headed for Denny’s restaurant three blocks away for his evening meal. Soon reports reached his parents that Mike had been seen at various establishments in the area. Traveling up hill was tiring but he found that it was easier if he sat on the seat and pushed himself up backward. Later he confessed to his mother that at the top of an incline he simply turned the walker around and, sitting in the seat, let it roll as far and as fast as it would go. “Mike, you could be hurt,” she scolded. “It’s fun.” In typical Mike fashion he had figured out a way that worked for him. Mike had trouble sleeping in his new apartment because there always seemed to be a party going on in somebody’s unit. People came and went at all hours. Doors slammed; people laughed. The noise agitated him. When he couldn’t sleep Mike would get his trusty walker and make his way to an all night coffee house at the corner of Fifty-First and Harvard. There he would sit and drink coffee for several hours. However, deprived of sleep, Mike was less able to function during the day. On more than one occasion the security that patrolled the neighborhood would pick him up and take him home. Finally someone called the McGees. “We just thought you’d like to know,” they said. Among his medical records there is a confession to one of his doctors that, in order to sleep, he moved his bedding into his small bathroom, closed the door, and slept in the bathtub. This way, he explained, there was less light and it was quieter. As far as is known Mike never mentioned this to anyone else. I have learned from my cousin Mike, and other friends with physical

disabilities, that they do not want to be waited on. Their method of managing for themselves and taking care of their needs is not the way others of us with two working arms, two working legs, and the ability to stand or reach would do it. But they develop a system that works for them, however laborious it may be. This was never more evident than one day when Mike and I had been out to lunch. We were going to his apartment to look at some of his latest work. Mike led the way in his motorized wheelchair. The key opening in the door was typically some forty-five inches from the floor, waist high for an average person. For Mike at four foot three inches it was at eye level if he was standing and out of reach for someone with short arms in a wheelchair. My first instinct was to offer to open the door for him, but then I thought, he opens his door every day and sometimes more, and I’m not here to help him. I waited while he used the controls on the right arm of his chair to back it close enough to the lock for him to reach the opening. With the key in his right hand he stretched his arm across his chest and over his left shoulder. Still he could not reach the lock. It took him three or four tries, easing his chair forward and backward until, by twisting his body and rising out of his seat, he was able to insert the key in the lock. As I waited I noticed a two by four inch brass plaque on the door just above the required “peep hole.” This security window that allows a person to stand inside a room and see who is on the other side of the door is eyelevel in most doors. In the door to Mike’s apartment the “peep hole” was several inches lower; the height of a person in a wheelchair. In the dimly lit hallway I squinted to make out the inscription. It was a paraphrase from verse 8 of the 12th chapter of John in the New Testament, and it read, “He who walks in the light will never be in darkness.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The worker’s compensation case for Mike McGee had gone on for two and a half years and the insurance company was anxious to settle. They requested another evaluation by a doctor of their choosing. In a letter to Attorney Marvin E. Spears dated November 3, 1993, Dr. Michael Farrar, D.O. listed his findings, stating the history now so well known to many people. Dr. Farrar believed that the aggressive therapy required to rehabilitate Mike had not been done, and that he remained

remarkably symptomatic and has been unable to return to work based on these symptoms. He stressed that Mike was no longer able to do all the things he did before the accident, and that it was premature to consider him for permanent impairment, but that the onset of the problem was due to the injury at Murphy Manufacturing. With Dr. Farrar’s diagnosis being inconclusive, the insurance company requested yet another independent evaluation. On July 5, 1994, his rehab nurse, Jean Smith, R.N. accompanied Mike to The Hearing and Balance Center for an appointment. Mike McGee was now forty-four years old, and as far as the Workers’ Compensation Board was concerned they were ready to bring this case to a conclusion. There was one person however who would never consider “the case closed,” who still sought any new information concerning Mike’s condition and his quality of life. That was his mother, Barbara McGee. When it came to her son, she was a sleuth—a Sherlock Holmes, a Miss Marple— investigating, asking questions, and researching medical literature. She was a bulldog refusing to let loose unless there was something better she could grab. In spite of the fact that Mike had never shown any interest in associating himself with The Little People of America, the national organization that networks and supports some 6000 members with this often genetically linked condition, Barbara continued to subscribe to their magazine and research their literature. In 1994, she ran across a questionnaire in an issue of LPA Today, to be filled out by one who might qualify for medical evaluation and assistance. She encouraged Mike to fill out the questionnaire. His answers were written on lined notepaper in his now crab-like handwriting. When he didn’t have enough room on a line he continued the sentence above, not below, the line making his statements sometimes hard to follow. His History: built pressure & temperature gauges for 20 years. different jobs. soldered with both wire and iron and a hand torch & taught other people. ran a automatic drilling machine. Drilled six holes at one time. Approx 1,000. ran an automatic wire cutting mach. & taught other people. built one type of gauge from start to finish, folded, cut wire, filed.

calibrated to finish & taught other people ran a press machine that makes a big mold. cleaned ports & calibrated & checked ports to see if they were in tolerance. raced a super-modified dirt track car & represented the company in races. Made my own gauges. In the races had six gauges installed, where others had maybe 2 or 3, & advised. built 5 (racecars) built everything from scratch 2 years airplane, automotive mechanic, 8 or 9 years…. Notes after accident: immediately noticed trouble with balance as soon as I stood up assisted. thought glasses had fallen off when actually they had not. on the way going to carry the ports to the rack had to stand on one leg, removed a trash-can in the way. had trouble driving car as soon & hitting curbs & ditches. people were honking horns and shaking fists at me. get lost nearly forget things. get confused balance. loses balance a lot. stopped driving the car unable to read for long periods of time. Eye spasms. stomach spasms when in movement doing things. Mike concluded, “without assistance of walker it is like you have to fight to keep your balance. Have even had spasms occur as soon as leaving bed after sleeping. All these problems did not have before the accident.” … “things cannot do now: work, drive car, walk for long distances without assistance of walker, read longer than 2 or 3 minutes, go without dark glasses outside or in light room, have to use ear plugs practically all the time, when go to show. do not go to races any more due to noise, having recurring stomach spasms. had to move to different apartment awhile back to get to a quieter apartment.” Mike’s answers and a letter written by Barbara and dated June 6, 1994, which follows, were directed to Dr. Michael Goldberg in the Department of Orthopedics at New England Medical Center in Boston who was a physician affiliated with Little People of America.

Dear Dr. Goldberg: I am writing you on behalf of our son Michael D. (“Mike”) McGee, born an achrondoroplastic, on 4-20-50, now 44 years of age and with a height of 4 feet 3 inches. Mike has answered and is returning your questionnaire, but we feel you should have additional information so we are giving you this letter. Prior to May 4, 1991, Mike’s answers to your questionnaire would have been quite different. On that date he fell at work on a cement floor, was temporarily unconscious and a diagnosis of traumatic brain injury was given later by several physicians. In all fairness to other achrondroplastic persons Mike should fill out two questionnaires— one prior to the injury and one for after the injury. My husband and I are the parents of two children: Mike, age 44, and a daughter, age 42, of full stature and apparently normal in all respects. Mike is the only short statured person in our family. Prior to the injury Mike lived and did everything anyone would hope to do plus some, and was an inspiration to anyone who knew him because of his wonderfully happy attitude toward life—and also his accomplishments. Some people might feel he had a handicap by being short, but not Mike. He lived a wonderful and fulfilling life before the injury. Mike graduated from high school, attended college and earned a degree in Automobile Mechanics. One of his greatest loves and accomplishments was building and racing super modified racecars and was sponsored by his employer for ten years. He built 5 new racecars during his career, and won a Best Engineered Trophy and numerous other awards. He raced nationally and locally with the NCRA Racing Circuit, with no bodily injury to himself at any time during his racing career. Mike was one of the most popular drivers in the southwest and raced in several states weekly for 10 years. He had quite a fan club and thousands of racing fans followed his career. After each race he always took time to sign hundreds of autographs. Mike married in 1981, has a daughter, 12 years of age, of full stature and normal in all respects. Mike has raised two step-daughters. Mike was very healthy—had not even seen a doctor for 7 years prior to his injury. Mike worked for the same company for 21 years as gauge technician, building all types of gauges used in industry and did extensive intricate work. Mike tried to work for 8 months in 1992 but on Nov. 11, 1992 the

company terminated him because the company felt he was a danger to himself and others. Even though Mike has had numerous X-Rays, MRI’s, et cetera, and has been seen by a battery of doctors, nothing has shown up on any of these tests to help correct his disabling condition. I might add none of the doctors are familiar with achrondroplastics. His medical problems are: cognitive impairment affecting memory and speech; hearing in his left ear impaired, causing him to be startled and jump every time he hears a noise; visual distortion—he wears sun glasses at all times and sits in the dark in his apartment; severe vestibular balance problems, veering to the right, causing him to fall a great deal, even with the walker, and extremely low energy levels. The Workers’ Compensation doctor, a neurologist, was Mike’s primary physician until July, 1993. He did not recommend any type of rehabilitation after the accident until April, 1993. In April of last year, they sent Mike to the Center For Neuro Skills in Irving Texas, as an “inpatient” for two months. They discharged him in June, 1993, recommending he have further rehabilitation, as had been recommended last year. If my husband and I had known as much at the time of Mike’s injury as we have since been informed about brain injuries, we would have insisted on rehabilitation much earlier, rather than two years following injury for start of rehabilitation. Mike’s life style has changed drastically since the injury. He is divorced now, lost his job November 11, 1992, lives in an apartment, has lost his independence and depends solely on his father and me for transportation and every need. With his impaired cognitive thinking, his unstable walking, even with a walker, he is in danger to himself unless someone is with him. His daily activity now is watching TV and painting in pastels and oils. (I am a portrait artist.) My main reason for writing you Dr. Goldberg is to ascertain if you might know of any new or advanced technologies pertaining to achrondroplastics which might be used in the treatment of Mike. The local doctors are not familiar with the problems of short statured people. Could there be something about Mike’s genetic make-up that has contributed to his prolonged disablement after the brain injury? Are you aware of any medical doctor who might be knowledgeable in treating brain injuries such as Mike has experienced? If you would like further information or if you have any suggestions to

make, we would greatly appreciate hearing from you. We could arrange to come to the Little People’s Convention in July, if a personal interview with Mike would be desirable. Thank you for your attention and for you time. Yours truly, Barbara McGee Mrs. Phillip D. McGee In response to her letter Dr. Goldberg referred her to Dr. Orest Hurko, an Associate Professor of Neurology at the Center for Medical Genetics at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland. He also called her attention to an address, Neurological Considerations in Short Stature, by Dr. Hurko printed in the 1992 March-July issue of LPA Today which discussed some of the neurological problems commonly encountered in short-statured individuals. Although the talk was given to a group of his peers and is filled with medical terminology, Barbara grasped for hope in some of Dr. Hurko’s premises. In his introduction he stated: neurological problems commonly encountered in short-statured individuals are frequently not recognized by parents, physicians or the individuals themselves until they have progressed to the point of severe disability. He stressed that early recognition is important so that action can be taken before they cause, perhaps, irremediable dysfunction. Barbara was particularly interested in his remarks about treatment and prognosis of dysfunction of the central nervous system. As she read further, finally, after twenty years, she had an answer to the question as to why Mike stopped breathing following his appendectomy in 1974. Dr. Hurko explained that: The craniocervical junction is where the top of the neck attaches to the bottom of the head. Through this region pass all the nerves that communicate between the brain and the rest of the body, with exception of the head. In this region are located the nerve centers that control breathing. Mild compression of the craniocervical junction interferes with the respiratory centers. If sufficiently severe, respiration can cease and asphyxiation occurs. He emphasized that an accurate diagnosis is important not only for the geneticist providing counseling, but also for the neurologist, orthopedic surgeon and the neurosurgeon. The neurologist’ article raised a number of questions in Barbara’s mind. Because Mike’s size and stature had been different than others treated

at CNS was there something they had missed? Dr. Hurko had mentioned surgical corrections—was there something that could be done that hadn’t been done? “Phil,” she said one evening at dinner. “Do you think there’s something the doctors who examined Mike might not have known about? I mean, because of his size. None of them have had any training with the anatomy of a small person. Maybe,” she continued, “there’s some compression or some blockage that they’ve missed that could help Mike regain some of his skills.” Phil’s look was skeptical. “Why do I think you’ve got on your selling shoes?” She smiled. Her husband knew her too well. They’d been down this road too many times. “I’ve found out about this doctor at Johns Hopkins who specializes in people who are dwarfed. I want to get in touch with him.” Phil waved his hand. “You don’t have to plead your case,” he said. “You’re going to do it anyway.” Barbara contacted Dr. Hurko. When she received a reply that he would be willing to evaluate Mike, she scheduled an appointment, and made airline reservations. The insurance company would not be paying for this trip. Barbara and Mike flew to Baltimore on September 10, 1994. Although his mother was there and there were flight attendants to help him, the plane ride was agony for Mike. Noises, crowds, confusion bombarded his fragile stability. And, if the plane ride was bad, travel by taxi to their hotel and the unfamiliar surroundings, was excruciating. Tulsa had traffic and noise, but it was nothing like the din of thousands of vehicles jockeying for positions at exits and on-ramps, traveling five lanes abreast at seventy miles an hour, or stop and go traffic in the multi-level highway system they encountered in the Baltimore area. With its close proximity to Washington D.C., someone was always in a hurry. Someone always had some important place to go. Horns honked. Brakes screeched. Even with earplugs, Mike was constantly jerking his hand up toward his ear and ducking his head. Sunlight flashing off buildings that seemed to be made entirely of glass, even behind two sets of dark glasses, caused his eyes to blink and his head to hurt. At best, Johns Hopkins hospital and medical center is an intimidating place encompassing some thirty acres of buildings and grounds. To a

disabled stranger, it was a frightening alien experience. Barbara had booked a hotel within walking distance to the hospital, and by the time they were settled into their hotel room both mother and son were exhausted, and this was only the beginning of the week. After Barbara called home to let Phil know that they’d arrived, she said, “Let’s go downstairs and get something to eat.” Mike reached for his trusty walker. A pipe full of Prince Albert had helped calm him, and he knew a glass of wine with dinner would relax his mother. The following day Barbara followed the directions they were given. They made their way to the outpatient building. “Wait here, Mike,” Barbara said. “I’ll find out where we’re supposed to go." Mike waited. He was good at waiting. He knew the routine. He’d been here, or some place like it, before. Dr. Hurko, a bespeckled man in his mid forties, welcomed them. He had a lean face, and a shock of dark gray hair, in a long crew cut, stood at attention. His manner was easy and his smile seemed to be filled with expectation. Barbara and Mike relaxed in his presence as Dr. Hurko outlined their week’s schedule. 9/12/94 blood work—elevated platelet count. 9/13/94 thyroid test. 9/14/94 hearing tests with Dr. Barry Gordon which lasted for three hours. The doctor noted that, “the patient was attentive and cooperative throughout the test session and appeared well motivated.” Other impressions were that the patient was oriented with the exception of the day of the week and the conclusion was, “We cannot determine specific etiology…but the frontal lobe type symptoms may be secondary to his old CHI (chronic head injury). We cannot rule out longstanding or developmental abnormalities. The psychomotor showing may be on the basis of depression, but cannot rule out other causes. 9/14/94 X-Rays of skull, hands, spinal column. Anomaly of the odontoid with C1-C2 subluxation. 9/15/94 Electroencephalogram—Mildly abnormal. Dr. Keim noted:

Soft-spoken neatly-dressed malproportioned middle aged man with shorttrunk dwarfism who is quite cooperative, but seems in some sort of a daze. .

9/16/94 MR Angiogram ordered by Dr. Hurko 9/16/94 second blood work showed platelet count still elevated. Also on September 16, Mike was seen at the Spine Clinic by Dr. Tooke regarding his C12 instability. The doctor reported that the patient’s gait was abnormal in that he leaned toward the right and had difficulty stopping. He is unable to heel or toe walk because of balance. He also referred to Dwarf syndrome of uncertain etiology. 9/16/94 lab work, chemistry and electrolytes showed that cholesterol was high and Vitamin B-12 and CO-2 were low. 9/16/94 Metastatic bone survey indicates that the diagnosis of achondroplasia is incorrect. Wrists are unusual, with a large os centrale in the mid portion, plus a distal row which appears to contain at least 5 carpal bones on each side, and a more normal proximal row with four carpal bones. The ulna is short, and there is a triangular bone between the distal ulna and the carpus. The days were exhausting for Mike. Usually they returned spent to their hotel room, rested a bit and had dinner at the most convenient restaurant. Mid-week Barbara’s cousin, Sue, called from New Jersey and suggested she drive to Baltimore to visit with them and take them out to dinner. “That would be wonderful,” Barbara said. “It’ll give us a break.” Baltimore was beginning to take on the colors and feel of fall so they chose a restaurant that had outside dining. The host showed them to their table, helped seat Mike, and propped his rolling walker behind his chair. During dinner the “rolley walker” started to creep, gathering speed as it took off a grassy bank. The waiter scrambled after it but the walker tumbled to a stop in a ditch before he caught it. I laughed when she told me the story. “But, Kid, (she calls everybody ‘Kid,’ which I think may be short for ‘Kiddo,’ a term friends used when she was growing up in the ‘40’s) “that wasn’t all that happened,” she said. “If

we hadn’t had entertainment enough for the evening Sue locked her keys in the trunk of her car and we had to call a locksmith. “That wasn’t the worse thing that happened,” she continued. My cousin Totsy (our family name for Barbara) has a way of telling stories that always makes them funny. She is able to see humor in most situations. I wondered what was coming next. “Well, what was that?” I asked. “One day when we were going for an appointment we were crossing that busy intersection between the hotel and the hospital. It’s one of those four-way crosswalks where everybody goes at once. Mike, bless his heart, was trying to hurry. All of a sudden the left side of his body just sort of rose in the air like it sometimes does and he started to fall. I grabbed for him and we both went down in the middle of the street. The light changed and cars started moving. Oh, Kid, that was scary.” We laughed, but to me it seemed all too serious. “How have you been able to deal with everything you’ve gone through in the past forty-five years and keep your sanity? Keep your sense of humor?” I asked. “I pray.” Then she added, “but sometimes praying was just yelling at God. I’ve been angry with him lots of times. I remember one time when Phil, Mike, and Phyllis were all in the hospital at the same time. “Okay, God,” I said, “You’ve tested me, and tested me, and tested me, but isn’t this taking things too far? How much more do you think I can take? “I learned to cope. I learned to cope by taking care of the emergency of the moment. You either do that, or you just throw in the towel and don’t cope with anything. But my family depended on me and if I gave up, whom could they depend on? You know what?” she added. “I sleep at night.” “So,” I questioned, “Getting Mike and you out of the middle of a busy Baltimore crosswalk was the emergency of the moment?” “Kid, it sure was.” “And pouring coke down Phil’s throat in the doctor’s office was the emergency of the moment?” She nodded. “And when you had your mother in a nursing home and then went to South Carolina and brought our Aunt Elvie back to Tulsa and put her in a nursing home, those were just the emergencies of the moment?” “Yes,” she said. “I guess I was pretty busy.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

After X-Rays and MRI’s, measurements and evaluations, Dr. Hurko and his associates determined that Mike McGee did not fit, exactly, any of the nearly 200 classifications of dwarfism they had ever studied. While his height of four feet three inches placed him in the category of “short-statured persons,” and while his limbs were disproportionate to his torso and his cranium was slightly enlarged, he did not have many genetic, anatomical, or physiological features that other persons of short stature exhibited. Dr. Hurko confirmed that compression in the area where Mike’s neck joined his head was probably responsible for his respiratory failure following his appendectomy in 1974, yet they could find no compressed or restricted areas in the damaged portions of his brain that might offer improvement for his present problems. The doctor promised to send the results of his findings to Mike’s doctor in Tulsa. Barbara and Mike flew home. They came home with more information than they started with and had more answers to their questions than before. That was it. There was not any suggested treatment or surgical procedure that could rebuild Mike McGee. Barbara waited several weeks for the report from Johns Hopkins. It did not come. She phoned Dr. Hurko’s office and repeated her request that the information be sent. More than six months after their visit to Johns Hopkins, Dr. Hurko sent a summary of the results of Mike’s tests to Dr. Sikka. Barbara had apparently been hounding Dr. Hurko about the report because he began his letter by saying: Mrs. McGee has been calling us to remind us that we have not given you a summary of our findings after our initial report. I am sending along copies of originals, as well as this summary. Dr. Hurko stated unequivocally: Mr. McGee does not have achondroplasia. Rather, he has a unique malformation of the skeleton as well as the cerebral vascularture, probably related to his chromosomal anomaly on chromosome #1. Neither Dr. Dorst nor I have been able to recall a similar case in our experience or in the literature. The other potentially relevant part of his malformation is a very anomalous cerebral vasculature. I did not suspect this clinically as none of his clinical course suggests strokes. He concluded by saying, “Thank you for this interesting referral. I will endeavor to be more prompt in future correspondence.”

Back in Tulsa the insurance company asked Dr. Michael Farrar to see Mike for another evaluation, his first one having been almost two years earlier. Mike was growing tired. “Why, Mama? We’ve done this so many times." “I think it’s almost over, Mike,” Barbara assured him. In a second letter addressed to Attorney Spears, Dr. Farrar repeated the patient’s prior history and symptoms. He writes: …it was Dr. Sikka’s opinion that the patient had achieved maximum medical recovery as of November 10, 1994. He subsequently has been rated for impairment. Dr. Farrar said that he felt the patient was permanently impaired, quoting the American Medical Association publication Guides to the Evaluation of Permanent Impairment, Third Edition and Third Edition Revised: It is my opinion that Mr. McGee is 100 percent permanently and totally disabled. In my opinion, he is unable to earn any wages at any employment for which he is, or could become physically suited, or reasonably fitted by education, training, or experience, and is considered 100 percent permanently and totally disabled economically…. In my opinion, his 100 percent permanent and total disability status is related to the trauma of May 4, alone. … I declare under penalty of perjury that I have examined this report and that all statements contained herein, to the best of my knowledge and belief, are true, correct and complete. Mike continued to be unhappy in his living arrangement. Noise and constant activity were agony for him. He dreaded going outside of his apartment, yet he had to get away from repeated sudden sounds that elicited his startle response. “We have to find another place for him,” Barbara told Phil. “If he has to be independent, he can’t do it in that apartment.” She contacted social services and several of the doctors who had treated Mike. “He might be able to get into Murdock Villa,” she was told. The apartment building at 828 S. Wheeling Avenue, just a stone’s throw from Hillcrest Hospital, and next door to The Center for the Physically Challenged, seemed an ideal solution. Barbara filled out Mike’s application. Murdock Villa is a six-story, white brick structure that sits back from the street with a parking lot in front of it. A scattering of small trees in the parking area breaks its starkness. The facility is one of fourteen residences operated by the Tulsa Public Housing Authority and contains 144 one-and

two-bedroom apartments. There is a front and back entrance that is accessible for people in wheelchairs. Residents access the building by a key card, but, for security reasons, guests and delivery people have to be admitted from inside the building. As one enters there is a small, glass-enclosed foyer that provides a place for people to wait in warmth for public and private transportation. To the left of the entrance is an office that is open during regular business hours where a manager takes care of rents, complaints, and repairs. After hours and on weekends there is no one available in case of an emergency. To the right of the entrance there is a large recreation room where residents may watch TV, visit, engage in supervised crafts, or play games. Just ahead are the elevator and a laundry room. Mike doesn’t use these facilities as loading and unloading the washing machines is difficult for him. Directly past the laundry room is the rear entrance to the building. An elevator takes residents to each of the six floors. Wide, tiled hallways extend right and left with a railing attached at waist level along either wall. There are the obligatory stairs to each of the upper floors to be used in case of an emergency. Some residents are merely elderly, while others, like Mike, depend on their wheel chairs for mobility. It is unlikely that most of the residents could negotiate the stairs if there was cause for an emergency evacuation. Every cause needs a champion, a crusader; otherwise there is no cause. Murdock Villa is named for one such lady, Aliene Sharp Murdock, who died in September, 2007, at age 86. Aliene Sharp, dedicated to improving the lives of people with physical handicaps, moved with her family to Tulsa from Selma, Alabama, when she was eight years old. She enlisted in the Women’s Army Corps serving in England during World War II where she was promoted to sergeant. She received a Bronze Star for her military service. While stationed in England she met and married her husband, Airman Robert Murdock, returning to Tulsa with him at the end of the war. In 1957, the National Council of Jewish Women in Tulsa identified, as a critical need in their community, resources to improve the well being of the city’s persons with disabilities. They wanted a place where social, cultural, and recreational opportunities were available to all people with disabilities—not just the wealthiest whose families could afford those enriching experiences. Aliene Murdock was hired by the Council of Jewish Women in the only paid position at the newly opened Tulsa Recreation

Center for the Physically Limited. Twelve patients in that first group were housed in the old polio unit in the basement of Hillcrest Medical Center. “No one seemed to realize,” Mrs. Murdock said in an interview with the Tulsa World, “that they are people needing outlets like everyone else. They too want a reason to get up in the morning.” Within two years the center became a separate entity with its own board of directors. In 1967, under Murdock’s leadership, the nonprofit center purchased property at 815 Utica Avenue and moved to that location. By the time she retired in 1985 the center was offering recreational and learning opportunities to more than 1200 clients. In 1980 the Tulsa Housing Authority leased land next door to the center and built a public housing development accessible to disabled persons. It was named the Aliene Murdock Villa in honor of the woman who’d championed the cause of the disabled. Additionally, The Center (as it is called) founded Ability Resources, which provides peer counseling, job placement and coaching, advocacy, and independent living skills training to this group of people. Today a new 'state of the art' 35,000-square-foot building, completed in 2005, sits on the same site. The facility has been renamed The Center for Individuals with Physical Challenges. On the day that I visit Mike he guides me up a wide, smooth sidewalk to the entrance. He stops his electric wheelchair at a switch mounted on a metal pole, and activates the wide front doors that lead us into an open circular area beneath a high, sky-lighted dome. Recessed lights, embedded in the ceiling look like stars. Pleasant receptionists sit beneath the dome at desks, also circular, directing visitors and greeting those who come regularly for classes or training. Signs are pictorial, tactile and written so that information can be communicated by anyone with any condition. This reception area leads to the rest of the facility via a wide hallway known to staff, faculty, and members as “Main Street.” It was designed particularly to encourage people to sit and visit. Everything about the facility is light, open and inviting. Doors to activity rooms with large plate glass windows lead off Main Street on either side. Through these doors more that fifty classes and activities are offered each week to some 500 members whose ages range from seven to ninety years old. Services and programs offered generally fall into three categories and deal with physical, mental, and emotional rehabilitation.

Adaptive aerobics, breathing and meditation, life skills, speech communication, memory and cognition are some of the classes offered to improve strength and endurance, and overall functional independence. In addition, there are transitional services for those people with severe disabilities as well as support groups. To improve one’s physical condition and learn to live with his or her limitations would fall short of The Center’s vision if that were all there was. To repeat Mrs. Murdock’s words, “People need a reason to get up in the morning.” Services designed to enrich leisure and recreational experiences include computer classes, creative cooking, horticulture and creative writing. The art department offers classes in drawing and painting with a number of medias, sculpting, china painting and glazing, and stained glass work. This is where Mike has found his reason to be. The Center also offers recreational activities such as bowling, horseback riding, water aerobics, and outings to parks, plays, and concerts that aid members with disabilities to reintegrate into the community. The work of The Center is carried out by a board of some thirty-five officers and directors. A specially trained staff, numbering about fifteen people, is responsible for the daily operation and activities of the facility. On May 9, 1995 (another May date that figured importantly in his life), Murdock Villa became Mike’s home.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Mike’s new apartment faced Wheeling Avenue, the north side of the building. As one entered the unit the kitchen was to the left, a narrow corridor with a small sink, limited storage, refrigerator, stove, and microwave. There was little room for him to maneuver his wheelchair. He parked it just inside the door and moved around inside his apartment with the use of his cane or by holding on to furniture. Directly ahead was the living area and to the left through a double opening, without doors, was his bedroom large enough to hold a double bed and a chest. Through the bedroom the bathroom backed up to the kitchen. Both Barbara and Phyllis like to decorate, and helping Mike set up his apartment gave them an excuse to go shopping. On the day Barbara and Phyllis came to help Mike get things organized, Phyllis’s seven-year-old son Tommy came with them.

“What are you doing, Mama?” Mike asked several times as the women unpacked dishes and put them in cupboards and rearranged furniture. “We’re helping you get organized,” was their response. Tommy said little but sat quietly with a pensive look on his face. Finally they had things arranged to their liking. “Doesn’t that look nice?” Barbara said as she surveyed the room. Phyllis agreed. Mike nodded. Tommy did not comment. When they got in the car to go home, Tommy quietly crawled in the backseat. “You’re awfully quiet, Tommy,” Barbara said. “Are you all right?” “Grandma, I have to tell you something.” “What is it, Tommy.” “I don’t think you did a very nice thing to Mike.” “Why not?” Barbara and Phyllis asked in unison. “You moved things around and that is Mike’s home. He’s a grown man, and I don’t think that was very nice." Grandmother and Mother looked at each other as they listened to the wise words of a child. Yes, that’s what they had done, and no, it wasn’t very nice. “You’re right, Tommy. We’ll try not to do that anymore,” his mother said. Over the years Mike has changed his apartment to suit his needs. Because of his sensitivity to light he keeps the rooms dark. Heavy gold drapes that cover the two large windows overlooking the parking lot are held together with clothespins. Much of his living space has become his studio. His living room consists of an easy chair that has a seat, which elevates to help him get up. That is his chair. Beside it is a stand that holds his corncob pipes, his Prince Albert pipe tobacco, and an ashtray. There is a second comfortable chair and a large-screened television. The rest of the room contains bookcases, shelves and tables that hold his paints, art supplies, work in progress, and finished pieces. In addition, there are stacks of empty containers and scores of empty bottles that one-day will become a work of art. Mike doesn’t throw anything away that he might be able to use. And he can create a work of art out of almost anything. Mike gets much of his information and many of his ideas from watching television. He is current on news and events, and his art is often inspired from what he sees and hears. His favorite programs are NASCAR

races and religious programs. He also watches advertisements. One day he saw an ad for Handy Dan’s Hardware on South Memorial. They were advertising a “two for one sale” on wall plug-in radon detectors for ten dollars. Mike thought that was a good deal and decided he could use these. He put on his jacket and his cap and secured his wallet in his pocket. He rolled his wheelchair downstairs. Outside he put on his extra pair of dark glasses and his ear protectors and set out for the hardware store. He began his journey at Eleventh and South Utica, which in near downtown Tulsa. The problem was that Handy Dan’s was in the 8900 block on S. Memorial Avenue. Tulsa is laid out on a grid with named streets running north and south, beginning with Riverside Drive at the Arkansas River, and traveling west. In order to get to the hardware store Mike had to cross the major streets of Lewis, Harvard, Yale, and Sheridan and travel the east and west numbered streets from Twenty-First to Eighty-First . Mike knew Tulsa well. He had lived here all his life and whatever memory loss he may have had, his internal map of his hometown was not affected. He took back streets, avoiding major intersections where he could. As he wheeled past the open door of a bar on Sixth Street, somebody called, “Come in and have a drink.” He gave them a thumbs-up and kept going. According to Map Quest, following this route to the hardware store was 12.67 miles and by car, an estimated twenty-seven minutes. No one knows how long it took Mike. His parents later learned that a number of people who saw him rolling his wheelchair along asked if they could help. Mike thanked them and kept on rolling. As he approached the hardware store the incline of the sidewalk grew steeper. Mike was getting tired. A man in a passing car saw him struggling to roll his chair up the hill. The driver pulled to the curb and got out. “Could I give you a hand?” he asked. Mike nodded. “Thank you. It’s kinda hard going up hill,” Mike said. The man pushed Mike to his destination. However, when Mike got there, the hardware store had sold out of the item for which he’d come. He was too tired to get back home and called his mother to come get him. “It was the only time he ever called me to bring him home,” Barbara said. “He was fearless. He’s never been afraid of anything. And, he never gives up. I guess that’s why he could drive in races the way he did.” His parents began receiving reports from people who had seen Mike,

sometimes at night, and blocks away from his apartment. “We have to do something, Phil,” Barbara said. They talked with Mike’s doctor who suggested that to emphasize the seriousness of his actions they take the wheels off of his chair for a week. They did. Mike got the point. On February 5, 1996, he signed an affidavit agreeing to the following: I, Michael D. McGee, agrees to the following: I will not take the wheelchair onto any street or highway without supervision. This wheelchair was given to Michael McGee for his safety.” “Of course the affidavit was meaningless,” Barbara said. Even though it looked somewhat official with STATE OF OKLAHOMA; COUNTY OF TULSA typed in the upper left-hand corner, there was no place for a witness signature, no place for a Notary’s seal, and no indication that copies were filed. However, Mike had signed his name, and true to his nature, he was bound by his honor. “To my knowledge,” Barbara said, “Mike kept that agreement.” Not long after this incident his parents purchased him a motorized wheelchair. Although Mike is strong, particularly in his arms and shoulders, they felt it required unnecessary effort for his daily travels to and from The Center. If there are several brands and types of rolling walkers, there are even more styles of wheelchairs. There are heavy-duty wheelchairs, center driven and rear wheel driven chairs; there are chairs with power-lift seats, and chairs with handlebar controls or push-button controls. In addition, there are three wheeled, and four wheeled scooters. Electric wheelchairs cost as little as $1500 and as much as $10,000. Barbara and Phil determined that a scooter or a wheelchair with handlebars was not suitable for Mike. Even with adjustments, driving such a motorized vehicle put too much of a strain on his arms and his back. They opted for a right-handed, switch controlled chair that Mike could easily maneuver. He, of course, had the problem of running into curbs or walls to the right with his wheelchair, just as he did when he drove his car. For a brief time in the fall of 1996 Mike tried physical and occupational therapy at Kaiser Rehab Center. After a few weeks, a team of therapists who worked with Mike felt that he would most benefit from services other than additional physical and occupational therapy. At long last, his parents and his doctors came to terms with the fact that short of a miracle, or some unforeseen breakthrough in the field of genetics, neurology and/or psychotherapy, everything that could be done for Mike

McGee had been done. This eliminated dozens of hours a week that had been spent in traveling to and from doctors appointments and therapy sessions, and the exhausting hours in which Mike struggled to comply with what was expected of him. Humpty-Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty-Dumpty had a great fall. All the kings’ horses And all the kings’ men Couldn’t put Humpty-Dumpty together again. No matter what anybody wanted, “all the kings’ doctors couldn’t put Mike McGee together again.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Statements in two separate reports from the CNS where Mike spent two months in 1993, and a recommendation by a therapist at Kaiser Rehabilitation Center, turned out to be prophetic. In June of 1993 doctors at CNS wrote, “Regarding cognitive issues, it was felt that he (Mike) benefited as much from a day of structure and stimulation rather than intensive cognitive therapy per se.” Mike found that structure and stimulation in his new surroundings. If Murdock Villa was his home, The Center next door was his home away from home. It was a short trip from the back door of Murdock Villa to The Center. Mike learned that in his wheelchair he could easily maneuver his way down the elevator and out the handicapped equipped doors, across the even parking lot to The Center. Here he was able to pursue the painting that had become his passion. Here he met creative people like himself, challenged by their physical limitations, but with the need to express themselves. Some clients were there because of car accidents or injuries not unlike Mike’s. Others came for rehabilitation following a stroke or some other medical issue. By the spring of 1997 Phil McGee’s health was deteriorating rapidly. The body that had struggled for more than forty years against his debilitating diabetes was starting to break down. He spent most of his time in the hospital. When she was able, Barbara took Mike to the hospital to visit his dad. When she couldn’t get away, Aunt Dorothy came and got Mike and drove him to the hospital. Mike went as often as someone would

take him. One evening in April, a few days after Easter, Mike’s phone rang. “Hi, Mike, it’s Mom. Dad’s very bad. Aunt Dorothy is coming over to get you.” Mike was ready when his aunt got there but by the time they reached the hospital it was too late. Phil was gone. “It was St. John’s,” Mike said, “the same hospital where I was born.” He was devastated by his father’s death. He grieved privately, in his own way, cherishing the memories of those years when he and his dad worked so closely together at something they both enjoyed. Just as I’d asked Mike what was the most exciting thing that ever happened to him I asked, “What was the worst thing that ever happened to you?” I thought he might say, “The accident that changed my life” or “My divorce” or “Hanging upside down in a racecar with gasoline dripping down my neck.” He said, “The day my dad died.” Typically Mike begins his day with breakfast, usually a bowl of Wheaties with milk, and sometimes fruit. At some point Mike gave up the cigars he began smoking as a college student, and later, the celebratory cigar he smoked after he’d won a race, for a corncob pipe. He is likely to puff on his pipe filled with Prince Albert, his favorite tobacco, as he shaves and dresses. His morning routine takes a long time. If he knows that he is going out early he moves his alarm back an hour so that he will be ready, even if it means waiting, because, although he may have recorded the time in his journal, he doubts his memory. Mike, always sensitive to the feelings of others, does not want to keep anybody waiting. Mike eats lunch at The Center five days a week. Meals are ordered in advance, cooked by a private caterer, and brought to The Center at noon. On a day that I visited Mike at The Center, Barbara ordered an extra meal for me. As we went into the dining hall several of Mike’s friends asked us to join them. Some of them had brought their lunches from home; the rest of us waited for the meals to be passed out. When all the meals had been distributed there was not a lunch for me. Somehow the order didn’t get placed. Mike immediately wanted to share his lunch with me. His friend Darrell, who was eating with us, offered me half of the sandwich his wife had made for him. Others started extending food toward me. I was moved by their generosity. “I have food over at the other place,” Mike insisted when I declined.

(The “other place” was his apartment.) “This is big enough for both of us,” he said, indicating the meal before him. Indeed it was. Our lunch consisted of a large chiliburger, a generous serving of baked beans, potato salad, a tossed salad, and coconut cream pie. The woman who delivered the meals solved the problem by finding an extra paper plate and a plastic fork. The food was delicious and, like the loaves and the fishes, after we’d had our fill, Mike had some left to take home. One can still recognize the engineer in Mike in the way he has learned to take care of his needs. He has attached baskets to his wheelchair to carry supplies, including his OSHA certified ear protectors he wears outdoors, and his extra pair of sunglasses. He has a mesh bag behind his chair that he can pull forward with a string tied to the arm of his chair. In this he placed the remains of our lunch. Mike does not feel comfortable using a stove so, when he doesn’t have leftovers, he microwaves one of those little dehydrated dinner packets for his supper. If his mother wants to take him out to lunch she does so on Saturday or Sunday when there are no lunches at The Center. Often she will bring him one of his favorite meals, a “Brownie’s Hamburger.” The year 2000 was not only the celebration of a millennium around the world and a move into the twenty-firstt century; it was a milestone celebration for Mike McGee. He would celebrate his fiftieth birthday. Impossible, Barbara thought. She had been told so many times it would never happen. “If he doesn’t pass urine, he will die… People with Mike’s conditions don’t usually live past their twenties.” He deserved a party and who more would Mike like to celebrate with than his racing buddies? “Mike,” she said one day when she stopped by his apartment. “You’re going to be fifty years old, and I want to have a birthday party for you. Would you like that? Do you think you’re up to it?” “Who would come?” he asked. “I thought I would invite Buddy and Rex and Bill and Emo…” “And Vic and Bobby,” Mike added. It was a party to remember. There was plenty of beer and pizza and stories of days passed. In a photograph taken at the party, Bill Rick, ever shy of cameras, is the one with the beer carton on his head. Jon (Emo) Cummins was not there for the picture. He arrived late wearing a tuxedo. “You didn’t have to get dressed up, Jon,” greeted his arrival. “My invitation didn’t say anything about this being formal,” someone else quipped. In truth, Jon is a musician, coming from a family of musicians, and

had just come from a gig where he’d performed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

If The Center was his home away from home, the art studio was his Mecca, his holy grail, the place that feeds his soul. It was here he met his art teacher, Janice Bawden. Janice has headed up the art program at The Center since 1999. She is not only dedicated to her profession, but to helping restore and discover creative talents in those who others might dismiss as incapable. What a shame that would be, because some incredibly beautiful and dramatic art comes out of her classes and from her students. At one point, after Mike expressed his interest in painting, his mother who travels in the Tulsa art circle, signed him up for lessons with a wellknown area artist. “He didn’t enjoy it,” she said. He found following the teacher’s instructions frustrating as he tried to duplicate their techniques. “Just let him paint what he sees—what’s in his head,” Janice said. The art room at The Center is a large, light room with plate glass windows both looking out on the hall as well as on the street. Long tables are lined in rows across the width of the room where any number of students might be working. Finished pieces are displayed on ledges along one side of the room and on the walls. Janice exhibits and rotates her students’ work on a regular basis, with the most recent work being exhibited in the hall outside the art room. Mike takes lessons from Janice three afternoons a week, and, with her, is willing to try new things. He has done sculpture and ceramics but he prefers oil-based charcoal, and the ordinary artists’ paper provided by The Center. Over the years his mother and his sister have bought him expensive paints and canvases that he passes off as unnecessary. On the day that I met her, Janice brought out a stack of Mike’s paintings. She is fond of Mike and appreciates his work. “Mike is our most prolific artist,” she said. “His paintings are magical—mystical. He gets a kernel of an idea in his mind and he can see the finished piece. He should sell his paintings,” she added. “But, if people like them he just gives them away. Some people have bought them. I bought one.” Mike looked on as Janice and I browsed through his work. Although Mike has done some stunning paintings in black and white, he is drawn to

vivid reds, oranges, yellows, blues and greens. One, larger than the others, caught my eye. “Oh look,” I said, “A car.” “Not just any car,” Mike quickly corrected me. “That’s the car they buried.” “What car?” I asked. In 1957, a new Plymouth Belvedere sport coupe, chosen primarily for its styling, was sealed in an underground concrete vault in a downtown Tulsa location to be opened fifty years later as part of Oklahoma’s 100th anniversary of statehood in 2007. It was named Miss Belvedere. Preparation for the year-long celebration began well in advance of the 2007 date. It was extensive with events happening all across the state. June 14 was a special date for Tulsa. It was the date set for the resurrection for Miss Belvedere. “Do you remember it?” I asked Mike as I looked at his painting. “No, I was just a little kid.” In Mike’s painting the car, central to the picture, looks much like the model itself. It is yellow with red accents, like flames coming from it, and is surrounded by brightly colored swirls that look like they are exploding— Mike’s own fireworks display. The car, with only four miles on its odometer, was intended to be a prize to be awarded to the individual or his or her descendants who would have come closest in guessing what Tulsa’s population would be in 2007. The concrete vault was advertised to have been built to withstand nuclear attack; however, it was not impervious to the ground water that had seeped in during the fifty years. When the vault was finally opened in the presence of hundreds of people and whirling TV cameras, the car was sitting in water. The automobile was not immediately visible, but was still shrouded in its protective coverings as it was carefully lifted by a large crane and placed on a flatbed truck, where it was then paraded through downtown Tulsa to the Fairgrounds for its unveiling. In center stage, beneath spotlights, and before thousands of people the coverings were removed. A collective gasp filled the grandstand. What they saw was a fifty-year-old car completely covered with a solid layer of yellow-brownish rust. Certain items buried inside the car in their own protective vaults survived unscathed, but anything that was not protected had deteriorated entirely. Among the items that were retrieved were a case of Schlitz beer and a large can of gasoline to be used in starting the car, in case gasoline was no longer the fuel used in automobiles in 2007.

The contestant, Mr. Raymond Humbertson, whose guess closest approximated Tulsa’s 2007 population, died in 1979. His relatives shipped the car to New Jersey where Dwight Foster of Ultra One has undertaken the laborious task of painstakingly removing all the rust. Mike is a prolific painter. When he is not in his art class he is painting at home. Because of his stature, painting at an easel, or on a table, is uncomfortable. He prefers to paint on his bathroom floor. “It’s easier to clean up,” he says. It is impossible to guess how many pictures Mike has painted, but his mother has photographed and catalogued some 200 paintings that are in her possession. Mike likes to paint with oil pastels or melted crayons, and often uses a glue gun when he works. Burns on his fingers go unnoticed unless someone else sees them. Whether it is genetic, or comes from years of enduring pain, he obviously has a very high pain threshold. The walls of his apartment are lined with his paintings, and shelves hold his other artwork such as paper mache figures, cars and motorcycles. Mike sometimes names his paintings. There is “The Chariot of Fire,” conceived from a bible story he heard and saw on TV when Elijah was taken up to heaven; “The Piano Man,” and “The Foil Christ.” Only one other piece of art hangs on the wall in his apartment. It is a portrait of Mike painted by his mother. Each year The Center has an open house called May Fest in which artists’ works are displayed. The caption under Mike’s entry during the 2009 celebration read: “Horse” Oil pastels by Mike McGee. His teacher’s comments were: Mike has a distinctive style that is abstract yet still representational. His forms, even his lines, all have an aura accomplished by a feathering of the color. In Mike’s world, everything has a presence that is ordinarily unseen. He does a good job of making the invisible visible. While Mike has an idea in his head he often paints several pictures pertaining to that subject. Once, after his mother had taken him to see an exhibit of facial masks at one of Tulsa’s art museums, he began painting faces. Another intriguing group of paintings is of dogs. One series is of a brown, two-legged dog hopping on his back feet. The dog’s large red tongue is hanging out as though he is panting. Mike named this painting The Dancing Dog. The painting is owned by, and now hangs in the home of, his cousin Sue Parkinson, sister of the author. Early in 2008 this same cousin, Sue, while traveling on business was claiming her luggage at the airport in St. Louis. As she waited for her

baggage she saw a woman in military fatigues walk in to the baggage area from an outside door. A brown, two-legged dog followed her, walking upright on his two back legs. His front legs were missing. How many twolegged dogs are there? Sue wondered. Could this possibly be the dog Mike had painted? When his mother asked him where he got the idea he said he saw the dog on some show. We began the search for a brown, two-legged dog. In August of 2008 Sue received an e-mail and photographs about a dog, a two legged dog, named Faith. Faith also lived in Oklahoma. The incredible story about Faith can be viewed on her web site http://www.faiththedog.info. This dog was born on Christmas Eve, 2002 with three legs; two healthy hind legs, and one abnormal, useless, left front leg which was amputated. Her first owner didn't want her and was planning to put her to sleep. She was rescued by her fate by a neighbor, Jude Stringfellow, who wanted to take care of her. At first the puppy moved by scooting on her stomach and using her chin to propel herself. Her rescuer and owner was told that she would wear a hole in her chest. Jude was determined to teach her to walk. She named her Faith. Jude began her training by putting her on a surfboard to let her feel the movements. Then she encouraged her to stand on her hind legs by luring her with peanut butter. After only six months Faith managed to balance on her back legs and jump forward. She now walks like a human being. She particularly likes walking in the snow where she first learned to walk. As the media discovered Faith, she became nationally known and has appeared on national television. Jude gave up her teaching post and eventually settled in Indianapolis in 2010. She travels with Faith to teach the world that even without a perfect body one can have a perfect soul. Anyone who knows Mike McGee can understand that.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

During my visit to Tulsa in April, 2007, I expressed an interest in connecting with Mike’s daughter, Amber. I remember having met her only a few times when she was a child and Mike and Helen were still together. “I’d like to interview her.” I said. All the information I had were occasional bits of news and updates about her life. I knew that she had been on her own most of her teenage years. I didn’t know her. Through Barbara I

knew that she was living in Tahlequah, had married Frankie Birdtail, a Cherokee, and had three children. “I’ll call and explain who you are before you talk to her,” Barbara said. “You know I’m writing a book about your dad?” I said when I phoned her. “I’d like to talk to you and find out what you remember about him when he was around.” “Okay,” she said. “I’d be happy to drive over there.” "Maybe we could come to Tulsa," Amber suggested. “That would be great. I know Grandma Totsy would love to see the grandchildren.” We agreed on the following Sunday.” “That’s a good idea,” Barbara said when I told her. “I could take everybody out for lunch,” I said. “Oh, Kid, I don’t think you want to do that—with three little kids. Besides, it would be too much for Mike. Why don’t we have something at my house? We could make it kind of a birthday party for Mike.” Mike would be fifty-seven years old that week. He usually sees his family twice a year. Every Christmas Eve his mother has a special dinner so that Mike, Phyllis and her family, and Aunt Dorothy can get together with Amber and her family. They exchange gifts and Amber gets to spend time with her father. The other occasion is when Barbara, Mike, and Phyllis travel to Tahlequah to collectively celebrate the children’s birthday during the annual Cherokee Nation event held at Western Hills Lodge Park near Wagoner Oklahoma every July. For that event the Cherokee relatives are also there. The problem of eating was solved when Cousin Sue offered to cook the meal and take it to Barbara’s house for the gathering. It was a lovely spring Sunday when we pulled into Barbara’s driveway and unloaded the food. Phyllis had already picked up Mike. He didn’t bring his wheelchair, but managed with his cane. He wore his favorite plaid shirt, a red baseball cap, and his dark glasses. Amber, Frankie and the children arrived minutes later. Even though Tahlequah is only about a hundred miles away, it was a big trip for them with the three little ones. Frankie Birdtail is a tall man—maybe 225 pounds. He was easy going and seemed comfortable at meeting new relatives. “I am Frankie,” he said. “My dad is Frank.” Frankie is a welder by trade, but true to his Native American heritage, he lives to hunt and fish and is already teaching Eagle Bear, his oldest son, to hunt and fish as well.

The family has little means, but has recently been able to rent a small house. Frankie talked of their lack of possessions as though they have little meaning, and Amber seemed comfortable with this. He said he never had a car until recently. “I didn’t see much need of it. My father grew up riding a bicycle every where he went.” Amber is a pretty girl, plump in a comfortable way, with dark blond hair which she wore in a straight neck-length bob. On her left cheek a small scar was the only indication of the birthmark that was once there. She wore a jeans skirt with a white tee over which she had a brown vee-necked, long sleeved top. Both parents tended to their children with ease. When Hunter, the baby, needed his diaper changed, Frankie simply plopped him on the carpet and took care of the task. Barbara had moved to a different house since they had been to Tulsa for Christmas. The children were active and curious, examining everything in their great-grandmother’s house. Eagle Bear is four and Winter Hawk, his sister, whom they call “Sister”, is three. Hunter, at eighteen months, is the baby. They all have dark hair and lively dark eyes. Winter Hawk wore her hair in a buzz cut like her brother, Eagle Bear. “What happened to Sister’s hair?” Barbara wanted to know. “She found Grandma Birdtail’s scissors and gave herself a haircut,” Amber said. “We evened it up, but she found them again so there was nothing left to cut.” Barbara has a large, fenced in back yard that slopes to the back of the lot. The children were soon out there racing each other, tumbling on the lawn, and rolling down the hill. The winter grass, still dead and brown, clung to their clothes. They climbed anything that gave them a toehold. Hunter tried to keep up with his older siblings but soon grew tired and retreated to cling to his mother’s leg. Barbara had placed three chairs at the bar in the kitchen, and when it was time to eat Amber and Frankie sat their children down and served their plates. They were well-mannered and had good appetites. I asked Mike to stand behind them so I could get a picture and was awestruck at Hunter’s resemblance to his grandfather. “Totsy,” I said, calling Barbara the only name I’ve ever called her, “go get that picture of Mike you have hanging in the bedroom." Looking at Hunter was like looking at the little boy in that photograph. His head was the same shape, he had the same brown eyes, and he even had the same hair pattern.

Throughout the afternoon I observed Mike quietly watching his grandchildren. Even behind his dark glasses, looking at him from the side, I saw such an expression of love in his eyes. At first the children paid little attention to him as he sat quietly at the dining room table. When they discovered a magnifying glass, with the handle the shape of a woman’s body, on the china cabinet, Eagle Bear and Sister were intrigued. “Here, let me show you,” Mike said. He took the handle and brought the lens close to their eyes. “I see you,” he said. “You look funny.” Then he held it so they could look at each other’s eyes. “I see you,” Eagle Bear screamed as he held the glass close to his sister’s eye. “You look funny.” Sister grabbed the handle and repeated the action. Soon both children, who see their grandfather infrequently, were attached to him while he devised other games for them to play. It was not until later in the afternoon when Amber went outside to smoke a cigarette that I had a chance to talk to her. She doesn’t know me well, so her answers were reserved and general. “How did you and Frankie meet?’ I asked. “I was working as a waitress at the country club in Tahlequah,” she said. “Frankie worked there too. When he found out I didn’t have a place to stay he asked his mother if I could stay with them. She took me in.” “What do you remember about growing up?” I asked. “I remember going to the races a few times. About all I remember was that it was noisy and dirt got in your eyes. I do remember when Dad sold his machinery and the day the men came and took it away.” “What do you remember about your parent’s divorce?” “Not a lot. I had a good friend whose grandfather was a minister. I used to spend the night with her and go to church. One Sunday when I came home, Mother told me they were getting a divorce.” Amber told me that she got her GED and has several college credits. “I have credits in biology, math and English. I want to finish college, but I’m not sure what I want to do. I thought about going to Beauty College, but I think I might like to be a police officer and fight bad people.” “Do you ever see your mother,” I asked. “She came over about five weeks ago,” Amber said. “She’s married again and she’s retired from Blue Cross. She adopted my sister Paula’s youngest child. I’m glad,” Amber added. As the afternoon drew to a close we went outside for pictures, birthday cake and ice cream. Even though the bright sunlight bothered him, Mike

complied, content just to enjoy this time with his family. As the Birdtails bid their good-byes, Amber came over and gave her dad a hug. “I love you,” she said. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Mike has always been a strongly moral, caring, and forgiving person as attested to by those who know him. He is patient and never speaks harm of another person. He is devout in his love for God. Doctors meeting him for the first time refer to him as “this nice gentleman.” With the tedious years of restructuring his life behind him, moving to Murdock Villa allowed Mike to focus on the things that are important to him as the person he is today. Those things are his art, his spirituality, watching racing on television, and if one wanted to add a fourth, eating good food. Buses from area churches make the rounds Sunday mornings picking up passengers for services across the city. Mike had watched worship services from the Victory Christian Church at Oral Roberts University on television. When he moved to Murdock Villa he learned that a wheel-chair accessible bus would come to the apartments when called. Mike took advantage of this service and began attending services at Victory. Mike, of course, had a special relation with Oral Roberts University, having dug tons of mud out of their sewer pipe when he was a teenager. Mike was in the congregation the Sunday of November 20, 2005 when, following the sermon, Rev. Billy Joe Daugherty invited those in the audience to come to the altar if they wanted prayers. A number of people came from the congregation and lined up across the front of the auditorium. As the pastor neared the center of the line a man rushed from the group and slammed his fist into Rev. Daugherty’s face, knocking him backward. As the minister attempted to regain his balance the man struck him a second time, opening a cut above his left eye which later required two stitches. Several men in the group subdued the attacker and after he was led from the sanctuary, Rev. Daugherty ended the service by walking back to his podium and praying for his attacker. Because the weekly worship service was televised thousands of people witnessed the event. It made the Tulsa evening news. A film clip of the event was picked up by the national media and was replayed on CNN, Good Morning America, and The Today Show. The incident also prompted Rev.

Daugherty to write a book titled Knocked Down but Not Out. “I’d like to go to church with you next Sunday,” I said to Mike on one of my visits with him. “We have to be downstairs early,” he said. Barbara told me that the bus usually came between 9:00 and 9:30 a.m., depending on the number of people they are picking up. Mike gets up an hour earlier to be dressed and ready. Because he is not sure of the time he will often be downstairs waiting long before the bus arrives. Occasionally the bus does not come at all and Mike is never sure of the reason why. On those days, after waiting for a considerable length of time, he simply goes back to his apartment for his lunch and an afternoon of television. “Mike is never upset by this,” Barbara said. “He just tells me, ‘the thing didn’t come today'.” It was a cold, windy, February day when I waited with Mike for the bus to pick us up. He was tidily dressed in clean, pressed, khaki pants that looked new, a plaid wool shirt, a vest, a tan all-weather bomber jacket, and tan suede shoes. Because it was cold he also wore a billed beret, and gloves, and of course his dark glasses. We waited inside the warmth of the glass-enclosed foyer until we saw the bus turn into the parking lot. The bus, registered 1004C, was a yellow school bus that has been converted to accommodate persons with disabilities. I boarded the bus through the front door while the driver and his assistant hydraulically lowered a side panel on the right rear side of the bus. Bench seats in the back have been removed to make space for six wheel chairs. “I’m Mike’s cousin,” I said, and took a seat near the middle of the bus behind a woman with a small baby in a carrier. Three other children sat across the aisle from her. A woman in a blue satin party dress, high heels, and an artificial rose in her hair occupied the front seat. She nervously watched through the window as the attendant assisted Mike. Although Mike knew the routine, he jerked his hand to his ear at each unexpected noise. He turned his chair around and backed it onto the ramp. Even though he was wearing earplugs, today, because he was dressed for church, he did not have on his heavy ear protectors. The attendant locked the chair in place and the driver raised the platform. Once Mike was securely strapped in place the driver pulled out of the parking lot talking to someone on his cell phone. “We have another pick up.” he said as his assistant took his place beside the woman in blue.

We headed across town to another assisted living facility where a passenger, bundled in coat and scarf, waited at the curb in his motorized wheelchair. “'Lo, Mike,” the man said when he got on board. Mike gave him a thumbs-up. “'Lo, Tim. How are you?” “It’s cold.” Tim’s words came out slurred. He has Parkinson’s disease. “Hello, Tim,” I said when Mike introduced me. By the time we’d collected all our passengers we had nine people on board. The process of disembarking was reversed when we arrived at the church. Those who could walk headed in one direction while I followed Mike and Tim toward the back of the tall concrete building. We entered through an unmarked door that opened into a long, tiled hallway. Tim went ahead of us. It took us a long time to make our way down the hall to a cluster of elevators. Mike kept bumping into the wall to his right and constantly had to correct his course. Several people waited for the next car that opened before us. Mike waved them on. "We'll wait for the next 'lifter', Mike said. He doesn't like crowded elevators. Even in his apartment building he'll often let several "lifters" go by if people are getting on. Several stories up we were greeted by a smiling, gray-haired lady wearing a red blazer who helped us out of the elevator and told us the 9:30 a.m. service was not yet over. The auditorium was shaped in a half-circle with the platform at the bottom and theater style chairs rising in steep curved rows for several stories. Behind the last row of seats was an area marked “handicap” where rows of worshipers had already lined up their wheelchairs. Mike parked his chair in one of the vacant spaces and motioned for me to take a seat a couple of rows in front of him. The service was well choreographed. A full orchestra and a large choir provided music over a superb acoustical system, and some 900 people in attendance sang praise songs from words displayed on suspended screens. Interestingly, this noise and these lights did not seem to elicit Mike’s startle response. He leaned forward in his chair, attentively listening as the pastor gave the service. While others said, “Amen,” Mike raised his thumb in agreement. After the service we retraced our steps and our elevator ride to the waiting bus. By the time we were dropped off at Mike’s apartment there

had been an elapsed time of five hours involved in going to church. I thought, if I had been in the place of any of these people, would I have wanted to go to church badly enough to do what they did every Sunday? Mike is also part of a Monday morning bible study at The Center. I asked if I could join him. “It’s at eleven o’clock,” he said. The following day I borrowed "Totsy's" car, but I took a wrong turn and arrived late. Bible study had already begun but Mike was waiting for me in the hall outside the room. His chair was parked as close to the wall as he can get it, and he sat there not moving. I wondered if he had fallen asleep. However, I have noticed that he can sit absolutely motionless for extended periods of time. I saw that he was listening, and, behind his dark glasses he was watching. “I’m sorry I’m late, Mike. Have you been here long?” “I just got here. Those doors…” he pointed to the back doors, which, before the renovation, had been the front doors, “wouldn’t open. I had to go around.” I had seen the sign that indicated the doors were to be kept locked at all times for security reasons, and that everyone was to enter at the other end of the building. Either the doors weren’t always locked or Mike hadn’t remembered. He put his finger to his lips as we entered the room. A black man, referred to as Reverend was praying. At the “Amen” all eyes turned toward me, the stranger. I introduced myself and told them that I was Mike’s cousin. The leader, a man in his late forties introduced himself as Darrell. It was obvious from his speech that he was undergoing rehabilitation. He explained that he was filling in for Donna who regularly leads the Bible study. Darrell announced the scripture selected for today’s study and asked those who were able to read portions of it. Several, who were severely disabled, were attended by caregivers. A lively discussion followed, and Reverend, who seemed well versed in scripture, offered insight into the study. Mike did not participate but frequently gave his thumbs-up to what was said. At the end of the session, Mike and I headed for the dining room for lunch. Mike selected a table and several of the group joined us. Darrell was among them. He told me that he was in a fatal automobile accident on Valentine’s Day of 2006. “Yes, fatal,” he emphasized, “but I live.” He is just relearning how to talk and speaks in the presence tense. Darrell told me he was in a coma for five weeks; had several cracked ribs, twelve teeth

knocked out, all the skin and some of the muscle scraped from the right side of his head, face and arm. Literally, he was scalped. He was also blinded. “I sit outside heaven’s door for five weeks,” he related, “and finally the Savior say to me, ‘Darrell, what do you want to do?’ I come back.” Less than a year later he walks with the aid of a walker. Through miraculous surgery, eyesight has returned to one eye and he now can see outlines with the other. Gradually his speech is returning. “I have a very supportive wife. She make me this lunch,” he said, showing us his sandwich. Mike would not spend the afternoon at The Center today. “The lady is coming with the 'bottles',” he said, meaning that his prescription medications were to be delivered. “I have to wait for her.” “I’ll walk with you,” I said. We had to go the long way around, down the wide hall and out past the reception area. At the door Mike stopped to put on his second pair of dark glasses and his ear protectors. As we rounded the side of the building toward his apartment, a lawn crew was mowing grass and trimming near his building. Mike grimaced and quickly navigated his wheelchair away from the noise. “I’ll go over here.” He skirted the edge of the parking lot as far away from the noise as he could get. Weed-eaters, Barbara told me, were the most distressful sounds of all for him. I watched him maneuver his chair through the front door eager to escape to his sanctuary of quiet.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I was invited to go along on one of Mike’s favorite excursions, his weekly shopping trip with his mother. Thursday is the afternoon they set aside for a routine they’ve had for years. I’m in for an experience, I thought when Barbara picked me up in her sports Lexus convertible. It was really a two-seater with a narrow, cramped back seat in which she’d stacked several of her paintings. “Kid, I need to drop these off at the gallery,” she said. Mike was waiting for us at the front door when we arrived at his apartment. He was in his regular wheelchair with a pillowcase full of his dirty laundry balanced on his feet. He is unable to use his motorized chair for shopping because it is too heavy for Mike and Barbara to lift, and if they could, it won’t fit in the trunk of her small car.

I climbed out of the car. “What can I do to help?” I asked. “Nothing,” Barbara answered. “We have this all figured out.” Mike rolled his chair close to the car, handed the bag of dirty clothes to his mother who put them in the back seat next to the paintings. I watched while Mike, using his cane as leverage, got out of his wheelchair. He backed up against the rear fender, propping his cane against the side of the car. Barbara opened the trunk then collapsed the chair with an easy, practiced move. Mike braced himself with his left hand, while, legs apart, he pushed his back against the rear fender for support. He grabbed hold of the wheel of the chair with his right hand and lifted as his mother lifted the other side. Effortlessly the chair slid into the trunk. With the wheelchair filling most of the trunk and the paintings and laundry occupying the back seat, I wondered if they’d had it figured out where I would sit when they invited me to come along. “I guess I should have dropped off the paintings first,” Barbara said as I climbed over the shoulder belt on the driver’s side and wedge myself in with the laundry and the paintings. Already the car was full, and we hadn’t bought any groceries. With the use of his cane Mike eased himself into the passenger seat of the car. “I have my shopping list, Mama,” he said. He was disappointed when his mother told him that today they couldn’t go to his favorite supermarket. “Why?” he wanted to know. “They have the handicap parking area all torn up,” she said. “They’re redoing the entrance and it would be too far for you to walk.” “I can do it,” he said. Mike wasn’t convinced so we detoured to the store so that he could see for himself. “He likes this store," Barbara explained, "because the prices are cheap and the aisles are wide. He can get around easily in his chair. He hates it,” she added, “when he knocks something off the shelf.” When we arrived at the supermarket where we are going to shop today they discussed using the wheelchair, but decided to leave it in the car. The handicap parking space is close enough to the door that Mike could use his cane to get into the store and then use a grocery cart for support. We filled the cart with his usual boxes of cereal and dehydrated foods. Sometimes he chose foods just because of the container they were in, already envisioning a work of art.

Although they were not on his low-cholesterol diet, Mike dearly loves Krispy Kreme donuts. “I need some of those sweet things,” he said because he couldn’t remember the name. “I don’t know where they are,” Barbara said. Mike didn’t either because we were in a different store. “He sometimes will sneak them in the cart,” she said. Liquid dish detergent was on Mike’s grocery list. We headed down the aisle containing cleaning supplies. He pointed with his cane to a medium sized bright yellow bottle on the top shelf. I wondered if we had not been with him, how he would have reached it. Knowing Mike, he would not have asked. “Look, Mike,” his mother said. “This one is bigger and it doesn’t cost as much.” “I want that one,” he insisted. I watched Mike’s expression. It was hard to read since much of his face was concealed behind his beard, his baseball cap, and his dark glasses. “Totsy,” I said using her cousin’s nickname, “it’s the bottle he wants. He doesn’t care what is in it or how much it costs.” I noticed the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile when he realized I’d figured him out. Mike’s one vice was his corncob pipe. He only smokes in his apartment, but he gets anxious when his tobacco supply runs low. This supermarket didn’t have Prince Albert, his favorite brand of tobacco. “We’ll stop and get you some,” his mother assured him. When we got back to the car with several bags of groceries we had to do some re-arranging. We managed to fit the paintings and the laundry in the trunk with the wheelchair. I climbed in the back seat and Barbara handed me the bags of groceries which I stacked around me. When we got back to his apartment, I waited while Mike and his mother unloaded the wheelchair and then I handed the groceries to Barbara. Mike loaded as many bags on his lap as he could carry while we gathered up the rest of them. By the time we got on the elevator we were in the throes of laughter as we went upstairs to help Mike put his groceries away. Because Murdock Villa is a public housing facility, city, state, and federal governments required regular inspections for fire hazards, safety, and sanitation. Mike never looked forward to these inspections because it meant his mother and his Aunt Dorothy when she was able would invade his sanctuary. Barbara tried to explain to Mike that if he didn’t pass

inspection he would have to move. “We have to clean up your apartment,” she said. “If they find any signs of mice or any fire hazards they won’t let you live here.” “Kid, I don’t know what I’d do if he didn’t pass inspection,” she said. “Mike doesn’t want us to throw anything away.” Mike would watch anxiously as his aunt and his mother would clean out drawers and corners; filled garbage bags with trash, half finished projects, and items he was saving for future projects. “He never complains,” she said, “but when he draws in deep breaths and sighs, I know he’s upset. ‘What are you doing with that?’ or ‘Where are you taking that?’ he’d ask each time we took something out of the apartment.” “I’m just going to put these in my car, Mike, until after inspection,” she told him. Usually that was what she did. Occasionally she’d throw away some things that she considered absolutely useless. “But I never try to rearrange his home or get rid of things that are important to him,” she added.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

One tries to plan for every eventuality in taking care of their loved ones, but there are sometimes circumstances over which there is no control. Such was the weekend of the severe ice storm that covered much of Oklahoma and Kansas in December, 2007. Tulsa was among the cities that were hardest hit. On Saturday, television stations and radio announcers warned listeners of impending bad weather and advised people of the probability of icy roads, asking them to prepare themselves, and to stay off the roads unless necessary. Traditionally, Oklahomans expect their share of bad weather. There are tornados in the spring and ice in the winter. Everyone knew the weekend was going to be bad as freezing rain began to fall, coating tree limbs, power lines, and streets. The realization of how bad came Sunday as huge old trees came crashing down in the city’s established neighborhoods, landing on roofs and blocking streets. Live power lines were pulled from their poles, cutting off power all across the city. Every member of every emergency crew was called in to work. By that evening more than 89,000 customers were

without electricity. Among those customers were the 140 residents, most of whom were disabled, at Aliene Murdock Villa on Wheeling Avenue who were trapped in their apartments in the six-story building. Across the city those without power called friends to find out who still had electricity and who would take them in. Hospitals and public safety buildings switched to generators. Emergency crews began the daunting job of clearing streets for only necessary traffic. When their own phones went dead people relied on their cell phones until, unable to charge them, they too went dead. Barbara McGee was one of the lucky ones. She had just moved into her new condo and very few of her belongings had been unpacked. Boxes were stacked everywhere, but she had electricity; her house stayed warm. As had always been her approach, she dealt only with the crisis at hand. A few blocks away her daughter Phyllis had no electricity, nor did her granddaughter and her family. “Get to my house if you can,” she said. When she called to check on Aunt Dorothy who now lived at Methodist Manor, a nursing home, she learned that they were also without power. The residents had been taken to a fallout shelter, she was told. “They took us to a dungeon,” Dorothy later complained. Barbara tried to reach Mike by phone but when he didn’t answer she knew that he too had no power. He was several miles away in his fifth floor apartment alone, in the dark, without heat, and no way to get out. That first night, Sunday night, only Phyllis and a friend Sharon came to stay with her, but there was no way for them to go get Mike. Emergency crews were still the only ones allowed on the streets. They went to bed without having any idea of the extent of the damage, praying that Mike would be all right, and that by tomorrow the electric would be back on. It wasn’t. On Monday Barbara called the fire department. “We can’t do anything about it,” they told her. “We have more than we can handle.” She called the police who gave her the same answer. “I can go over there,” she said, “but I can’t carry him downstairs. What am I supposed to do?” “You might call the Community Help Line,” the officer on the other end of the line said. “Do you have their number?” “We’ll see what we can do,” the person who answered the help line said when she got through to them. “We’ll call you back.” Some of the residents that lived at Murdock who had family or friends

in the area, were fortunate to have someone to check on them. Others were not. One man used his cell phone to call his brother in Connecticut, who, in turn called help in Tulsa. Several residents lay huddled in their beds under as many blankets as they could find for as many as thirty-five hours before they were rescued. Others clustered in the foyer of the building in their wheelchairs waiting to be transported—somewhere. One man sat in his car with the motor running to keep warm. Most ate what little food they had that could be eaten cold. At Barbara’s they made do while she waited for someone from the help line to call her back. During the day her granddaughter, Carrie, great granddaughter, Mycah, Carrie’s fiancé and two of his friends showed up. None of them had electricity at their houses. The three men were working disaster relief and needed a place to get warm, catch some sleep, get something to eat, and wash and dry their wet, dirty clothes. At ten o’clock Monday night the phone rang. “Can you meet us at Murdock Villa in forty-five minutes?” asked the voice. “Oh, thank you,” Barbara said. “We’ll be there.” Phyllis and Sharon drove with her. It was like the aftermath of the end of the world. There were no streetlights and all the buildings were dark. “It was eerie,” Barbara said, “it was like being part of a horror movie.” They crept along on empty, icy streets, dodging downed trees, and sometimes having to turn around and find another route when the road was blocked. When they arrived at 828 S. Wheeling at about eleven PM an ambulance was waiting for them. The emergency vehicle’s lights and their headlights were the only lights in the entire block. The building stood in total darkness. The attendants had Mike with them. She wondered if there was anybody else inside still waiting for someone to come, but was afraid to ask. She was just so happy to see Mike. “We’re here, Mike,” she said. “We’re here.” The pavement was so slippery they could hardly stand up, and Mike was dizzy and disoriented when they loaded him into the car. “Hang on, Mike,” they told him. “We’ll get you warmed up and get you something to eat.” “I never even got the names of the wonderful people who did this,” Barbara said. Neither Mike nor his mother knew how they got him down the stairs. “I was in some kind of thing that rocked,” was all Mike could tell them. “It made me dizzy.”

At the condo they made up the sleeper sofa in the spare bedroom and put Mike to bed. Their number had grown to nine people, and what everybody had hoped would only be a day or two of inconvenience turned out to be four— five—six days of doing the best they could. In his haste to be evacuated Mike had not remembered his Prozac or his pipe tobacco. With nothing to calm him, lights and noises bombarded his senses and frayed his nerves. The men staying there who were working came in all hours of the day and night, falling into exhausted sleep in sleeping bags spread out on the living room floor. Cell phones rang constantly with somebody checking on them, or calling the men out to work. The lid to the washer and dryer opened and closed so frequently with washing the wet, dirty clothes the men wore, it was like a drum beat. The kitchen faucet made a swooshing sound each time it was turned on. All these common noises were like a jackhammer inside Mike’s head. He didn’t even have his ear protectors to help keep out the sound. He couldn’t sleep and became confused. It was a nightmare for him. Barbara woke up one morning at 1:00 a.m. to find Mike sitting at the table with his hands over his ears. She put her arms around him. “I’m so sorry, Mike,” she said as she had so many times before, “it’ll be over soon.” “During all that time I only cooked twice,” Barbara told me. “The men would stop at the Git and Go and pick up food when they came back. But, everyday I would drive by Mike’s apartment to see if the electric was on.” On the fifth day power came back at Murdock Villa and Mike was able to go home. “And was he glad to be there,” she added.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The chapters of Mike’s life are still being written. He is the same Mike McGee who was not expected to live for five days, the same person who scooted through his twenties, the decade he was not supposed to exceed, having the time of his life at the height of his racing career. He is the same man who has, out of adversities, created a life with which he is content. On Christmas Eve in 2007, the ice storm behind them, Barbara had her usual family get-together. Amber and Frankie came with their children, growing and changing daily. Phyllis picked up Mike, and they brought Aunt

Dorothy from the nursing home. Dorothy, now in her late eighties was hanging on. These days she was often confused and sometimes hostile in her unfamiliar surroundings, but remained the independent and selfsufficient woman that she’s always been. That evening, however, Dorothy was with people who loved her. When she saw Mike she was overjoyed. When they were not eating dinner or opening gifts, Mike and Dorothy retreated to a corner of the room and talked until it was time to go home. It seemed they had so much to say to each other, perhaps sensing that it would be the last time. Dorothy died a few weeks later. On a Saturday afternoon in April, 2008, Mike and I have a luncheon date. I choose a Saturday knowing that he will not have a meal at The Center that day. When I drive up in his mother’s car he is waiting for me inside the foyer at his apartment complex. He is sitting in his wheelchair, but we were not taking it with us. We store his chair in an area just inside the entrance and Mike expresses concern that it would be all right, even though that’s where he always leaves it. “I have something to show you,” I say as we make our way to the car. I don’t try to help him as he opens the door and settles in the front seat. He knows what he’s doing. I reach in the back seat and hand him a large metal object. It’s heavy. He grasps it with both hands and brings it close to his face. “It’s a Murphy!” he exclaims with such awe in his voice that I feel shivers travel across my shoulders and down my spine. It is indeed a Murphy Pressure Switch, probably made in the 1960’s. My nephew, Justin, had given it to me after I’d told him Mike’s story and he’d learned the significance of the heavy, red metal gauge he had on the wall of his garage. “I used to make these,” Mike says, “but mostly I made temperature gauges.” He went on to explain in great detail how the gauge worked. He holds the gauge in his lap as I exit the parking lot heading for lunch at a place his mother had suggested. “Can you tell me how to get there?” I ask. Mike could not tell me the names of the streets, but he tells me exactly where to turn. “You go that way,” he says, extending his left arm, “after we cross them things.” He points to the railroad tracks. As I approach Fifteenth Street he says, “That’s a good place too.” He indicates a building with green awnings shading its windows. It was not the place his mother suggested, but, it is the place he wants to go: Duffy’s Home Cooking.

He orders roast beef with brown gravy; I order the fish of the day. We discover that we both like fried okra. We talk of many things, of growing up and going to the lake, of episodes of racing he remembered, of his art. I have dessert—he doesn’t. He takes home leftovers. One of the reasons for my visit this day is to take pictures of his racecars—not his old racecars—but ones he’s now building. Yes, Mike McGee is still building racecars. These cars will never run on a track, never blow an engine, or roll over. These cars are works of art created from Mike’s collection of supplies, his memory, and photographs he’s collected. They are made of paper Mache scaled to specification and painted authentic colors. Mike McGee has not given up racing. Every Saturday and Sunday during racing season he will be in the new chair his mother recently bought him, glued to the NASCAR races on television. He keeps up with the racing circuit and knows the names of most of the competitors, their standings, their sponsors and the kind of car they drive. I’d promised I would get him home in time for the day’s event. It takes us a while to retrieve his wheelchair and get back up to his apartment. He immediately turns on the television. The races have started. “They are racing not too far from here, down in Texas, I used to race there,” he tells me. The races that weekend are, in fact, in Dallas. His apartment is much as I remembered it, drapes drawn and only a low wattage lamp in the kitchen. “You go ahead and watch the races,” I tell him. “I’ll just take some pictures.” “We can turn on the big light,” he, ever the gracious host, says. “It’s okay. My camera has a flash.” He proceeds to turn on the overhead lights anyway. I finish snapping pictures. “I’m going now,” I say and tell my cousin Mike good-bye. He starts to get up to see me to the door. “You stay put. I’ll let myself out,” I say. “Thank you. Thank you for lunch,” he says. “Thank you for coming.” “You’re welcome, Mike. I had a good time.” I turn off the overhead light and close the door behind me; the door with the brass plaque that reads “He who walks in the light will never be in darkness.” That’s my cousin Mike. That’s Dynamite Mike McGee.

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