by Jim Bradford
We learned right up front that Karen was a reporter for the Tennessean, Nashville’s daily newspaper. She had come that night to write a feature story about this unusual Thursday night combination of bagels and bluegrass. I’m sure she assumed her assignment would include performer interviews and background material on select audience members. Instead, she found the tables turned: she was the one answering questions and providing background information.
As HK methodically presented each question, Karen politely answered every one. Just as any seasoned reporter, though, she flipped the interview and within no time was the one asking questions.
“Do you like bluegrass music?”
“Yes, I love bluegrass.”
“HK, how long have you been a fan?”
“I started coming to bluegrass with Mr. Bradford in June.”
With the precision of a skilled journalist, Karen continued her line of questioning during the short intermission, writing his responses in her thick notebook. HK shared an abbreviated version of his life story. He told her about the accident, his mother and father, meeting me in 1999, and the two of us becoming best friends. Karen smiled at his simple yet specific responses and the candor in revealing his most intimate life details. Glancing her way occasionally, I noticed a quivering chin and teary eyes.
After the band’s final song, Karen and HK continued their probing conversation outside, where we met her husband patiently waiting to take her home. We exchanged greetings with him and waved good-bye as everyone left the bagel shop. I wondered then if we’d seen the last of Karen. I had a sneaking suspicion that we had not.
I didn’t have to wait long for an answer. When we returned to our favorite music venue the following Thursday night, we lucked out and found a table with a bench seat and two straight-backed chairs. As the band tuned up, poised to start at any moment, the familiar brunette with a reporter’s notebook appeared.
“Hi, HK. May I join you?”
“Who is it, Mr. Bradford?”
“It’s Karen,” I said.
“It’s nice to see both of you,” she replied.
“Hi, Karen, are you the reporter?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you come back tonight?”
“I am still working on my article.”
Suddenly, HK, for no apparent reason, said, “Karen, I love you.”
Caught off guard, Karen paused and replied in a soft voice, “I love you, too, HK.”
She explained that she was finalizing her newspaper article, but this time she had a traveling companion assisting her. She introduced us to her photographer, Michelle, who had two expensive cameras slung around her neck and a large black duffel bag full of equipment. Michelle quickly became easy prey for the master. Although Karen had already introduced her associate, HK immediately pounced.
“What’s your name?”
“Michelle.”
“Have I met you before?”
“I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Where do you live?”
Again, I felt compelled to intervene. “HK, don’t ask Michelle any more questions. She’s here to take pictures and is very busy.”
“What is she taking pictures of?”
“Chris, Sally, and other band members.”
That explanation must have been sufficient because no more questions arose until the performance ended and we were leaving the restaurant. Just as he had done the week before with Karen, HK quickly turned to Michelle and bombarded her with numerous personal questions about her job, her hometown, even her marital status. He finally asked the date of her birthday, and she was genuinely startled when he told her immediately the day of the week she was born. She informed him she was single, and for a split second I had visions of him asking her out on a date. Much to my relief, that did not happen, and we saw no more of our two journalist friends that summer.
Late one October afternoon Karen surprised me with a phone call at my office. After catching up since our last visit, she laid out the purpose of her call. The tiny pickpocket’s magnetic personality and tragic story had snagged two more innocent victims. Just days after our last bluegrass gathering, their newspaper editor had given Karen and Michelle a green light for an in-depth profile on HK and me. The article would be published in the Williamson County section of the Tennessean.
“I’m calling to seek your permission to do the article.”
“Karen, that sounds great to me,” I replied. “However, that’s not entirely my decision since it involves HK. I’ll need to discuss it with his grandmother. She’s a very private person, and I’m not sure how she’ll react to such an offer.”
Karen understood. “I expected as much. Please tell her we think it will be an outstanding human interest story. We are so impressed with HK. Please try to get her approval.”
“I’ll call and discuss it with her and let you know what she says. I can’t make any guarantees.”
“I’ll appreciate anything you can do.”
I had an uneasy feeling about Pearl’s reaction to spotlighting HK’s life. Later that evening I called and carefully explained how we met the two journalists at Thursday night bluegrass. I told her about Karen’s phone call and her idea for HK’s newspaper profile. Thinking it would help secure her permission, I finally said that she would be included in the article.
Somehow I sensed she was cool to the idea before the last word tumbled out of my mouth. Slowly and emphatically, she responded, “I don’t think the article is a good idea. It might stir up some ghosts from the past.”
I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but I respected her decision. I didn’t question her wisdom or ask any more questions.
“That’s fine. I understand. I’ll let Karen know.”
Slowly I returned the telephone to its cradle, feeling as though the breath had been sucked out of me. My enthusiasm vanished as quickly as it had arisen when Karen made the offer. That night I barely slept at all.
Soon after I arrived at the office the next morning, my phone rang. I dreaded answering it because I knew it had to be Karen. I knew she was excited about doing the HK story and was eager to get started. I picked up the phone, groping for the words to break the bad news to her. Pearl’s voice on the line stopped me cold. “Jim, have you spoken with Karen yet?”
“No, not yet. I just arrived at the office a few minutes ago. I plan to call her later this morning. Is there something else you want me to tell her?”
“Well, yes, there is.”
She wanted to continue yesterday’s conversation, which I had assumed was a closed subject. “After thinking about it overnight,” she said, “I’ve changed my mind. The story is about HK, not about me, and it sounds like a wonderful idea. I know HK will be thrilled. It might even result in something good happening for him. I think it’s nice that Karen and Michelle see what we see in him. Please call Karen and tell her that if the offer is still open, she has my consent to write the article.”
I was elated, and my enthusiasm returned as though yesterday’s conversation with her had never happened. I dialed Karen’s number immediately and left a message. Within the hour she returned my call, this time hearing the answer she desperately wanted. She was thrilled.
“I’ll coordinate my schedule with Michelle’s and call you soon to make preparations for obtaining material we’ll need from you, Brenda, Pearl, and HK. It may require spending lots of time with all of you,” she warned. I was about to learn more than I ever wanted to know about publishing at a metropolitan newspaper.
Based on discussions with her editor, Karen assumed it would be published in the suburban edition of the daily newspaper. The circulation for the Williamson County edition of the Tennessean had a readership approaching thirty thousand. She thought she could have the article ready in two or three weeks.
“Either way, it should be ready in three weeks.”
A few weeks passed, then a month, and neither HK nor I heard a word from Karen. Based on stories I’ve heard
about competition for print space, I thought perhaps the whole article idea had been shelved. I never shared these thoughts with HK, knowing that he would be terribly disappointed.
CHAPTER 19
Cover Story
One cold November morning a week before Thanksgiving, Karen called out of the blue to apologize for leaving us hanging. Without giving any details, she explained, “I’m simply waiting on additional input from my editor before launching the project. He seems to have some different ideas than the ones we previously discussed.”
These comments naturally aroused my curiosity, but she held her ground. “I can’t share details yet. There is something in the wind that could affect the article in a positive way. I’ll contact you when I know more.”
Great. More time spent waiting and wondering. It was two months into the New Year before I heard any more. Then early one Tuesday morning in February, Karen called my office just as I arrived. I recognized her voice, but it was at least an octave higher than I remembered.
“My editor thinks the initial outline contains such a unique human interest story and HK is so special that he has given Michelle and me approval to write a much larger article, complete with photographs. Naturally, he will have the final approval for the exact content and size of the article.”
My pulse quickened as she carefully described the newspaper’s latest publication plan for HK’s article. His narrative would now be the cover story for Life, a multipage magazine insert in the Sunday edition of the Tennessean, with a circulation exceeding one million readers.
“This is the greatest opportunity I’ve had in my newspaper career so far!” Her elation came across loud and clear, and it immediately infected me with the same enthusiasm.
“Congratulations! It sounds very exciting.” Now it was my voice that high-jumped an octave. “I know HK will be thrilled. He and I look forward to spending time with you and Michelle.”
Karen mentioned that developing our story would require spending lots of time with us, but we were not prepared for the hours upon hours that would be needed to produce the enhanced profile piece. They followed us almost every weekend for four months, gathering in-depth information, conducting interviews, and snapping pictures of Pearl, Brenda, HK, and me. The two reporters became our weekend shadows, following us virtually everywhere we traveled. Karen scribbled enough notes to fill at least a dozen of the four-by-eight-inch reporter’s notepads, while Michelle took thousands of pictures from every conceivable angle on her fancy digital camera.
Occasionally our sizable entourage caused a mild furor around Brentwood, and HK loved it. Once, while the journalists recorded us eating breakfast at the local Waffle House, we noticed other customers around us trying hard not to stare and whisper. They were convinced that the little boy with disabilities at the center of attention must be a child celebrity. This was confirmed when just the two of us returned to Waffle House a few weeks later. One waitress told HK that some customers that day thought he was a child actor working on a television movie in Nashville.
“I overheard one lady even say she’d read about the movie in the local paper.”
“Mr. Bradford, I’m famous! I didn’t know they were making a movie about me!”
I worked hard to explain that there was no movie, just an upcoming newspaper article. Little did he realize that notoriety and fame were just around the corner, but there were still substantial bumps in the road ahead.
Regardless of where we visited with the journalists in tow, everyone knew HK. He was on a first-name basis with practically every employee of Brentwood’s many retail establishments. People seemed drawn to his effervescent personality like a bee to a flower. His quirky skill with dates endeared him to others; he was simply remarkable in so many ways. Slowly, steadily, his improving self-confidence began replacing his lonely, isolated world.
It was during this heady time of excitement over the anticipated newspaper story that Pearl was presented news she did not want to hear. HK had just completed his annual medical checkup, and doctors were pleased that it had been more than five years since he had experienced any seizures. His overall health had steadily improved, and his growth, while slower than that of most twelve-year-olds, was progressing normally in all but one area.
The effects of cerebral palsy on his maturing leg muscles were becoming quite severe as he grew toward adolescence. We could actually see the evidence of the problem in his worsening posture. The curvature of his spine was also more pronounced, causing him to develop a severe stoop. His leg muscles pulled him radically forward when he walked, as though he was about to fall forward at any moment. Doctors told Pearl that he needed corrective leg surgery to release his constricted hamstring muscles. They explained that without surgery, his leg muscles would tighten with age and drastically limit his mobility. He would eventually face life confined to a wheelchair.
This surgery involved a delicate process of separation, stretching, and then reattaching each hamstring muscle. The surgical team at Vanderbilt had extensive experience with this type of procedure, but not on a youngster of HK’s age or with his medical history. Under normal circumstances, recovery time was four to six weeks. HK would need longer. Pearl grappled with the decision, but not for long. The last thing she wanted was a wheelchair life sentence for her precious grandson.
The surgery was scheduled for June 2, 2003, after the school term ended. Doctors were optimistic that if everything went well, HK would be able to start school in the fall. The week before surgery I decided both of us needed a healthy dose of Thursday night church, so we claimed our regular pew and settled in for an evening of bagels and bluegrass.
I had told our bluegrass buddies about HK’s imminent surgery, and they were ready with encouragement. But all HK wanted to talk about was his emerging celebrity status. Everyone around our table got an earful during breaks in the music. Later that night some of his closest friends presented him with a surprise package. As a crowd surrounded our table, I helped as he unwrapped the gift during one of the breaks. It was a white cotton T-shirt with HOLLYWOOD KID displayed in large gold letters on the front and a big black Cadillac limousine on the back. He was thrilled, thinking it confirmed his importance as a celebrity. But I knew it was just another innocent way to spoil him.
Pearl, Brenda, and I checked in HK at the hospital early on Monday morning a week later, almost a month before his thirteenth birthday. His surgery began a little before nine, and nurses told us to expect it to last three hours.
By midmorning the surgical waiting room was teeming with families anxiously awaiting news about loved ones. Several of HK’s church friends had come to join us in our vigil. After two and a half hours, a surgery team doctor came in and told us that the operation was finished and completely successful. HK was in recovery while awaiting an open patient room.
Around noon we were told that he had been moved to a regular room but was still heavily sedated and would probably sleep through the afternoon. Brenda, Pearl, and I gathered our assorted belongings and hurried to his bedside. When we entered his room, he was sleeping peacefully with both legs in full casts from the bottom of his feet to the top of his thighs.
It had been a stressful morning and a long stretch since breakfast, so I headed to a nearby restaurant for take-out food. While I was gone, the chief surgeon came in to give Pearl a detailed update. He explained that the procedure had gone as planned with no surprises. HK’s prognosis looked good, but the next twenty-four hours would be extremely painful for him. He was heavily sedated and would likely require additional pain medication.
Before leaving the room, the doctor showed Pearl and Brenda the extra cast buildup on the bottom of his shorter right leg. Until both casts came off in about three weeks, the built-up cast would allow him to stand. “But,” the doctor firmly told Pearl, “he is not yet ready to stand. Do not get him out of bed for any reason whatsoever without assistance from the nursing staff.”
When I returned to the hospital with two bags
of food, Brenda was waiting outside HK’s room, sobbing uncontrollably.
My heart sank. “What in the world happened?” I cried.
Between tears she explained that Pearl, against the doctor’s explicit orders, had gotten HK out of bed and made him stand on his new casts. He was screaming in excruciating pain.
As I passed into his chamber of agony, a pale, wide-eyed Pearl looked up at me and offered a contrite explanation. “I think I did something I shouldn’t have done. I got HK out of bed and made him stand up.”
“Why?” I was incredulous.
“The built-up part of the cast didn’t look right. I wanted to make sure he could stand on it.”
HK was still whimpering, and my heart was breaking. Other than that day years ago when I had told him good-bye, causing his meltdown at Mrs. Winner’s, this was the only other time I have ever seen him cry. His heart was hurting that time; his legs were in pain now.
Later that afternoon some friends arranged a surprise visit from a local television weatherman who was one of HK’s favorite TV personalities. On his way to the television station, the weatherman stopped in to visit and wish the little patient a speedy recovery. Groggy and heavily sedated, HK immediately recognized his familiar voice and muttered, “Thank you for coming to see me. You are my favorite weatherman. I will stay awake to watch your forecast tonight.”
The gentleman smiled and replied, “HK, it’s my pleasure. I’ll send you a special message during tonight’s weather segment. I hope you get well soon.”
Sure enough, the weatherman kept his promise, and so did HK—with a little help. He was just barely conscious when the ten o’clock newscast began. I had to constantly work to keep him awake for the upcoming weather segment. Finally, he held on just long enough to hear these words near the end of the weather forecast: “My little buddy HK is recuperating from surgery at Vanderbilt University Medical Center tonight. Please keep him in your prayers.” I looked over to see his reaction, and he was smiling peacefully, already in dreamland.
