Michael's Story

Michael Dixon had become a burden to his family. At least, that's the way the young quadriplegic saw it, so he decided to move into a nursing home.

To Shirley Greer, her brother's decision was equal to saying he had given up hope.

And that was unacceptable.

"I know there are a lot of good nursing homes, but when a young man like Michael goes there, in my mind, it's only for one reason: to die. And I knew one thing, if I knew anything, my baby brother was not going to die being tended by strangers."

So she offered an alternative. Instead of living with their older sister, Marilyn, where Michael had resided for over a year and a half and where he increasingly felt he was a hindrance because of his need for round-the-clock assistance, Shirley said she would help her brother find his own apartment.

And she would be there to care for him. It wouldn't be easy. She was divorced, with two small children, and she had some medical concerns of her own that had forced her off a good-paying manufacturing job.

She could think of a dozen valid reasons why she shouldn't be there for Michael, but none held up under scrutiny. Her love for her brother was too strong.

"Michael's the youngest, but he's always been the wisest. When I've had problems, and I've had my share, he was the one I could talk to when I couldn't talk to nobody else. He always reminded me that God would provide," she said.

She offered him the same assurance.

"God has done brought us this far, and we're too far to turn back now," she encouraged.

If it had been anyone else who made this promise, Michael might not have listened, but he trusted Shirley.

"Shirl" had never given him a reason not to.

When Dot Dixon announced to her family that she was pregnant with her ninth child, many of the older kids complained. Shirley complained most of all.

"Mama, we don't need no more babies," she whined.

But from the first day he was home from the hospital, Michael and Shirl formed a special sibling relationship.

"I toted him on my hips long after he was past the toting stage. Mama would say, "Put that boy down and let him walk,' but I didn't mind carrying him," she remembered.

Shirl was his protector, as well. When he was caught doing mischief and Dot went searching for a switch, Michael would run to his big sister who would hide him at the risk of also being punished.

"There are still some things that he did that Mama don't know because I hid him. I just couldn't stand for him to be hurting."

Shirl delivered on her promise to Michael. In October of 1995, he moved into a townhouse duplex deep in a subdivision off Brick Church Pike. It wasn't the best solution because the unit was two-story, which meant he was confined to the kitchen and living room downstairs.

But it was his own place. On the evening Michael moved in, Shirl recalled her brother's face was beaming.

Big sister accepted her role as primary caregiver as a mission. At night, she slept on the floor beside his hospital bed just in case the plastic hose from the ventilator popped off in his sleep. She fed him and dressed him.

Having his power of attorney, she wrote his checks and paid his bills. She went to Kroger's for him. She read from the Bible to him and dialed the telephone for him and scratched his nose whenever asked.

She also brushed his teeth, bathed him, emptied the urine bag and applied a suppository, if needed.

"Awkward? Sure it's awkward doing all this. He's a grown man, not some little baby, but you just do it. I just pray out, "Lord get me through this one' and go on," she said, breaking into her rolling, raucous laugh that fills a room.

Shirl schooled herself in "the system," deciphering what benefits were available from insurance companies (later TennCare), the state and social service agencies. She became the proverbial squeaky wheel and encouraged others to champion Michael's cause.

Thanks to Shirl's prodding, visits from a home health nurse were approved. A nurse began coming eight hours a day, five days a week, to stay with Michael. That meant access to much needed physical therapy for his arms and legs, while also giving Shirl a respite to give her children some quality time.

From the state vocational rehabilitation office, Michael received a computer adapted with sip-and-puff technology. It allows the keyboard to be activated by blowing through a straw-like device.

Settled into his own place, a new Michael began to blossom. He began a serious discussion with doctors about weaning himself from the ventilator.

He had tried once before, breathing on his own for as long as five hours and 20 minutes. If he wanted to go back to work or start his own business, getting rid of the ventilator would help.

Shirl was changing, too.

"If I don't ever get to marry again, I don't care," she said. "I really believe this is where I'm supposed to be. I've got a peace about a lot of things that I've never had peace about before. This is my job, and it ain't easy sometimes, but we make it."

One summer day she stood by his wheelchair, alternately feeding him bites of a ham sandwich with one hand and potato chips with the other.

Suddenly, she nodded toward the television and exclaimed: "There's Chris, there's Chris!"

The image of Christopher Reeve, the actor who was paralyzed in a horse riding accident, was on the screen.

Reeve's injury and Michael's are similar, a break high up on the spinal column, yet he was directing movies and, according to the TV announcer, going to star in a remake of the Hitchcock classic, The Rear Window.

"Isn't that something! It's just amazing," Shirl said.

"Superman," Michael said, his eyes locked onto the small screen.

James Kenneth Pleasant, the 35-year-old man charged with attempted homicide for firing the bullets that paralyzed Michael, never had his day in court.

Before dawn on Christmas 1994, less than two months from when he was to stand trial, Pleasant's bleeding body was found outside of a home on North 6th Street. He had been shot multiple times and died during surgery at Vanderbilt University Medical Center. Detectives questioned two male suspects, but were never able to produce enough evidence to make arrests.

The Dixons learned of Pleasant's death late on Christmas afternoon as many of Michael's brothers and sisters were visiting for the holiday.

Marilyn, or "Mert," as family members called her, was immediately skeptical.

She would not believe the man who had brought so much pain to her family was dead until she viewed him in a coffin.

Two days later she entered the funeral home in charge of Pleasant's services and walked directly to the open casket.

She looked down, doubtful no longer, and silently pronounced him guilty.