Today, I'm briefly tempted to give up hope in the
human race. The University of Houston's College of
Engineering presents this series about the machines
that make our civilization run, and the people whose
ingenuity created them.
7:35 in the evening of
February 15, 1996, and I'm walking my dogs in the
neighborhood. Suddenly, a terrible sound of
acceleration behind me. I take two steps to the
right and am hit squarely by a speeding car. It
went up on the grass to get me. I lie on the ground
with two broken legs -- the anonymous victim of a
mindless, brutal attack.
Worse than the smashed bones is my broken innocence
-- having to admit that such raw and undistilled
evil exists. If my creative powers were ever put to
the test, they are put to the test here. Who can
live in a world which contains such vicious, random
evil?
Within a minute, the answer to that question begins
unfolding. A Good Samaritan passing in his car
stops to give aid. The attacking car had lurched by
him as it drove off the grass. This was a not a
situation anyone would want to be mixed up in. But
he stops, calls for help and does what he can for
me. The fire department is there in five minutes,
the police in six. Society closes in.
Thirty minutes after impact, I'm in the best trauma
center in the world, IV's running. I'm in the
center of the controlled chaos where the undoing of
evil begins. Twelve hours later, a team of surgeons
has done a stunning feat of engineering on my most
damaged leg. They've run a titanium shaft through
the ten or so broken fragments of my tibia. They've
left me with a couple of minor incisions -- no
cast, not even any bandages to speak of. It seems
impossible.
Even before surgery, friends close in on me and on
my wife. The old canard, "What can I do to help?"
takes on new meaning. People invent answers to that
question -- invent means for easing the trouble
that's entered our lives. Day five: I have a
pulmonary embolism, kicked loose by the trauma. A
complex 3-D scan shows that blood isn't reaching
part of my lungs to pick up oxygen. I'm under a new
threat.
Within days, a well-choreographed team effort has
that under control as well. Meanwhile friends keep
converging. My students visit the hospital. Nurses,
therapists and orderlies work with authentic
concern for my well-being. Doctors treat me with
candor and intelligence.
My friends are all embarrassed to ask one key
question: "Were your dogs hurt?" One was bruised
and spent a night with the vet, I explain. I want
to shout, "Of course that question is worth
asking!" This whole business is about the value of
life: my life, the dogs' lives, your lives -- in a
world seemingly poised to forget the primacy of
life.
So, beyond the thin veneer of pure evil that
brought me down is a revelation. It is the
synchronization of a creative, inventive society
that does care about its members. Evil is there,
all right, but evil is only veneer. I've seen the
core of my people -- of my society -- and it is
good. In the end, I am very proud to be a member of
the human species.
I'm John Lienhard, at the University of Houston,
where we're interested in the way inventive minds
work.
(Theme music)
