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Saturday, Apr. 25, 2009
James Burns: Buhach Colony's Baker on road to recovery after diving accident
They told his mom it was close to impossible. That her son, Eric Baker, had a 3 percent chance to recover fully, to really be Eric again. "Six months ago, the doctors told me he’d have no movement from the neck down," said Michelle Hafer, whose cheerleader spirit belied her tired eyes. "They told me that he was a quadriplegic."
Indeed, recovery seemed out of the question.
Not after the spill Eric took into the pool at the DeLong water polo tournament at Johansen High, crashing uncontrollably into its cement bottom during warmups, landing squarely on his head.
Merced Sun-Star - Eric Baker has defied the odds since being deemed a quadriplegic after a diving accident in October. Given a 3 percent chance to walk again, Baker has regained movement and feeling in his arms and legs. He’s even begun to play the guitar, too.
Merced Sun-Star - Eric Baker broke his neck after a diving accident in October. It was feared he might be permanently paralyzed, but in recent months has shown signs of progress. He can wiggle his toes, move his arms, but, more importantly, his spirit and wit have made a full recovery. He can also do wheelies in his wheelchair.
Merced Sun-Star - Eric Baker works with therapist Jessica Cahill of the Anberry Rehabilitation Hospital in Atwater. Baker was deemed a quadriplegic after a diving accident in October and given a 3 percent chance of walking again by his doctors. The Buhach Colony senior is defying those odds. He's regained movement and feeling in his arms and legs, and has plans of standing to accept his diploma in June.
Merced Sun-Star - Eric Baker during physical therapy with therapist Jessica Cahill at Anberry Rehabilitation Hospital in Atwater.
James Burns, sports editor
And certainly not after breaking two vertebrae in his neck and shattering his skull as if it were made of porcelain.
"Of course, all of this would happen to me," the Buhach Colony senior said from the comfort of his living room, six months after the horror show.
"I'm kind of accident-prone, so, yeah...
"It had to be me."
ERIC CRADLED the silver Ibanez guitar under his right arm, positioned his fingers along the strings and began to pluck slowly.
Three percent chance, huh? Whatevah!
He played a small sample of a tune he had memorized, before gushing over the axe he had window-shopped at Ingram's for months.
"I would go there so much just to play this guitar that the dude working there knew me. He remembered who I was," he said, pulling on a black hat -- bill tilted up and to the side -- to complete the alternative rock look.
"The frets on this guitar are smaller, which is perfect because I have small hands."
He paused, repositioning his fingers on the neck. He started to pull a string and then stopped...
"This guitar is freaking awesome."
Before his accident, Eric would lie in his bed and play himself to sleep, staring at musical notes as they danced across his ceiling.
These days, his fingers don't move fast enough for his brain. Or his liking.
"I still remember how to play, but I can't get it all down yet," he said. "I remember so many songs. I can't wait until I get to play again."
They said it couldn't be done. That Eric Baker had a 3 percent chance to recover fully, to really be Eric again.
HE SAT there in his living room, dangling his left foot in mid-air, grunting as it twitched and moved maybe a half-centimeter.
See, he says.
Did you see that?
You did, or at least you thought you did, because medical miracles like this are rare in this sometimes cruel and unapologetic world.
So he shakes it again.
"The surgeon couldn't believe I could feel and move my toes," he said. "He had to call the other doctors in to see it."
Eric surprised even himself. In January, he was sitting in the shower after weeks of no progress, lamenting his condition when...
The hamstring in his left leg began to twitch. He could feel it. This was real.
They said it couldn't be done. That Eric Baker had a 3 percent chance to recover fully, to really be Eric again.
HE GRABBED a sprinkled donut off the kitchen counter, dunked it in a glass of milk and wedged it into his mouth.
"Cinnamon rolls are good," he said, "but I really love donuts."
As he craned his head back to take a bite, you could see the four-inch scar that runs vertically along his throat -- one of many keepsakes from that fateful October afternoon.
Doctors used the opening to place a plate and four screws in his neck. The hardware holds together the C6 and C7 vertebrae. An additional three plates and 12 screws were also inserted on the right side of his head, the scar hidden by his skater-boy haircut.
