I had this odd sibling rivalry with America.
Some people, when they die, leave so much life behind that we wonder how they did it.
After September 11, I got to understand a little bit of his deep love for this country.
You know, if you hang around this earth long enough you really see how things come full circle.
And as far as false hope, there is no such thing. There is only hope or the absence of hope-nothing else.
The memories stayed with him for so long, and stayed vivid. And it didn't matter to me that he'd already repeated that before. I could hear it forever.
I did what most writers do when something happens that's overwhelming, fascinating, moving, all of that. I didn't know what else to do about it except write about it.
Christopher Reeve understood that... everything begins with hope. His vision of walking again, his belief that he would be able to in his lifetime, towered over his broken body.
America had taken my father from me. And over most of the years of his illness, I gradually started feeling this support system from this country who-people grieving along with us.
I felt that the best I could do for my father, and the best I could do for myself, and my mother and my family was to stay open to the experience, and learn whatever I could at every step of the way as it was going on.