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Slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
One slip alters a Broken Arrow boy's life and reveals his spirit
Adam Moore was injured in a 1987 archery accident. He's since gone through more than 40 surgeries. MIKE SIMONS / Tulsa World
By MATT GLEASON World Scene Writer
Published: 11/30/2009 2:21 AM
Last Modified: 11/30/2009 4:51 AM
Eight-year-old Adam Moore gathered up his arrows at Cub Scout camp in the summer of 1987. Then he made sure to walk with the sharp points aimed at the ground.
"Then it happened," Adam wrote in his 1990 contest-winning memoir, "Broken Arrow Boy."
"Suddenly I either slipped or tripped, and I fell forward. When I hit the ground, one of the arrows hit my left eye and went into my head. I remember hearing a soft noise like a SQUISH!"
Once a helicopter flew the boy to St. Francis Hospital, Adam recalled the doctor explaining: "I was a very lucky boy — the arrow had gone through my eyelid, but it had not hit my eyeball. It had also slipped between two big arteries in my brain without cutting into them.
"If the arrow had nicked either artery, I would have died quickly."
Michael Vogt — Adam's best friend since before they were both in kindergarten — recently thought about that day.
"Being only 8 years old, it was difficult to understand the severity of the situation," Vogt recalled. "But when I got home, my parents sat me down in the kitchen to explain what had happened. Seeing both of my parents cry scared me."
Despite being in and out of the hospital, Adam dressed up for Halloween that year as a Cub Scout with a toy arrow poking out the sides of his head.
"I wanted to trick-or-treat all night," he wrote, "but soon I got tired and had to return home. It was still the best Halloween I have ever had."
'Difficult recoveries'
It's been more than 20 years since that Halloween, and the little boy in the memoir is now a 30-year-old man living alone in Broken Arrow. His neighborhood is called Arrow Springs.
Since the accident, Moore has undergone more than 40 brain and spinal surgeries, the last in August.
Vogt said of his best friend: "He has tackled some of the most difficult recoveries anyone could ever have to go through. It's as if he comes out of each surgery, or hardship, even stronger than before."
For several years now, Moore has mostly used a wheelchair, which is a bright shade of yellow and sports pricey chrome wheels deserving of a tricked-out low-rider.
Some day,
Moore — who can see out of both eyes, although he has double-vision in the left — would like to drive a yellow Scion, complete with shiny rims to match his chair. But he hasn't driven in years.
Moore's parents, Rebecca and Paul Moore, live a few miles from their son. Rebecca Moore handles his housework and most of the driving. She's also "the one who understands me the best." Adam Moore said.
Paul Moore "is the one I go to when I have a major life decision," he said.
Twice a week, Moore helps his father, who owns a computer consulting business, turn his office into a paperless workplace. The job gets Moore out of the house, which is something of a gallery for his graffiti-like artwork.
In many of his pieces, Moore curls the letters of virtues such as "valor" and "dignity" into swirling designs. He especially likes the piece "loving kindness," which is how he treats everyone he meets.
Moore's friends have been known to tattoo his artwork on their bodies.
Beyond his art, Moore uses a World War II-era manual typewriter to express himself. More than once, he's started typing out a follow-up to "Broken Arrow Boy," but "I just don't think I'm all that interesting a person," he said.
"I don't think anybody would want to read about that. It would be good toilet reading."
He shall overcome
At that, Rebecca Moore, seated on her son's living room couch, couldn't help but laugh.
When Moore is in the mood to read, he prefers texts that will guide him through his unique existence. He's especially fond of Buddhism.
"What attracted me to Buddhism is the teaching that life is suffering," said the man who studied philosophy at the University of Central Oklahoma in Edmond. "Everything is suffering. And you have to eventually overcome your own suffering."
Appraising his own life, Moore said: "My youth came to an abrupt halt at the age of 8. It was during this time that my life changed. I faced it, recognized it for what it was and was faced with a life-changing decision: Should I stay or should I go?"
He stayed, of course, and he learned to live with a brain injury that claimed a fourth of his frontal lobe, which controls executive functions.
His mother explained: "Adam lost the ability to fit actions with consequences. It's just weird. It's gone. And his sense of time — he can't tell you what day it is, or what time it is, or if he's been sitting there drinking coffee for three hours or thirty minutes. Doctors say time is not real to him. That caused a lot of frustration with his girlfriends."
Moore has good days and bad days, but his mother said he never complains.
Vogt said: "Adam is a beautiful soul and a fighter."
"I envy his patience and understanding," he added. "No matter what small hardships I have to endure in my life, Adam has a way of reminding me that things aren't so bad after all."
Amigos
Not long after the accident, actor Bill Murray heard about Moore through Vogt's grandfather, Jack Ackerman, who worked with Murray on the movie "Scrooged." Hearing the news, Murray sent an autographed picture to young Adam. His note read: "I think of you whenever I somersault, vaya con Dios, amigo."
Later, Murray called to check on the boy. The next morning, just before Adam left home for another hospital stay, Murray's package of Nintendo games arrived in the mail.
Over the years, Murray must have called 20 or 30 times. He once even had dinner with Moore's family during a stop on a cross-country road trip.
Moore still has Murray's autographed picture, and four 18-gallon Rubbermaid containers full of letters from people he's never met who wished him a full recovery that never came.
And Moore still has
the
arrow, although he couldn't tell you where it is exactly. It's better that way.
"I don't like it," he said. "I don't want to be near it."
Each year, on the anniversary of that single arrow's changing his life, Moore celebrates his "rebirth day."
"That's the day I very well could have died," he said. "I was born again that day."
Given a choice to rewrite his life, Moore pondered whether he would change that summer day in 1987.
"I never would have lost my childhood but rather would have been a normal kid," he said. "This is what I originally wanted. On the other hand, I never would have come to know all I know now. This life — the one I have today — I never would have known.
"I love life and now feel I cherish my days here more than ever."
Matt Gleason 581-8473
matt.gleason@tulsaworld.com
By MATT GLEASON World Scene Writer
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