Survivor's Fight Continues -- Struggle Goes On As Spotlight Dims

NEARLY FIVE YEARS since his arms were reattached after being torn off in a farm accident, John Thompson is trying to face his emotional and physical adjustment.

BISMARCK, N.D. - The waitress at the new Oasis truck stop just off Interstate 94 placed a platter of chicken strips in front of the young man.

A middle-age couple seated nearby tried not to stare as John Thompson used his closed left hand to unfasten the Velcro binding on the soiled white strap encircling his right hand. The strap was attached to a small, hooklike device that, once unfastened, dropped to the table. Thompson brushed it aside.

In one fluid motion, Thompson used his left hand to jam the handle of a fork between the clenched thumb and fingers of his right hand. He stabbed a chicken strip and lifted it to his mouth.

Their curiosity satisfied, the couple turned away and resumed eating.

It's been nearly five years since the 23-year-old North Dakotan made headlines around the world with the remarkable tale of a farm accident that tore off his arms and the successful surgery to reattach them.

Since then, the glare of the spotlight may have dimmed, but the adjustment to his new life continues daily.

Thompson is adapting to his physical limitations and, after successfully battling a serious bout of depression last year, is settling down to a not-quite-normal life in North Dakota's capital city.

He made headlines again recently when he announced that he is writing a book about the accident and its aftermath. He also plans to resume lecturing on farm safety and pursuing a music career.

Thompson and his roommate, Chad Hager, 22, live in a four-bedroom home in a well-groomed subdivision of Bismarck. His neat back yard borders a small creek.

Lifestyle is comfortable

Although Thompson doesn't have a regular job, he supports his comfortable lifestyle with income from his farm-safety speaking engagements and the interest on donations he received after the accident.

His vehicles - a new black BMW 325 si, a Chevrolet Super Sport and a newly restored 1979 Chevrolet Blazer - are parked in his garage.

Since moving here to attend the University of Mary and study music - a brief and disappointing experience - Thompson has made many friends. He hosts parties and accompanies his friends to nearby bars to watch football and socialize.

Thompson uses his right forearm to pry open the fingers of his left hand so he can grasp things with it. But the fingers of his right hand are permanently locked into a tight clench.

Despite the minimal use of his hands, Thompson is satisfied with his decision to have his arms reattached.

"I can do more with them than I could with prostheses," he says of his hands. "I can do anything I want - croquet, even Ping-Pong."

For the most part, the people around Bismarck leave him alone. But every once in awhile, someone will request an autograph or ask whether they can touch him. When that happens, his friends intervene.

He has had at least two serious girlfriends since the accident. But neither relationship lasted, he says.

Despite that, Thompson often talks about rearing children and says he intends to resume dating this winter, "when I have more time."

Emotional recovery continues

Karen Thompson says her son is doing well now but still has his bad days. "We all have our bad days," she says, "but John's bad days are a little worse."

Dr. Allen Van Beek, one of the surgeons who reattached Thompson's arms, says his famous patient "still struggles with his emotions. I don't know if he'll ever fully recover emotionally. He must deal with the challenges every moment of every day."

Even though it's been nearly five years since the accident, Thompson is still in the denial stage, says Van Beek, a plastic surgeon at North Memorial Medical Center in Robbinsdale, Minn. "John won't get back to the recovery phase until he gets a job and begins living a normal life."

Virtually everywhere you look in Thompson's home, there are reminders of the accident.

A large, framed color sketch of Mickey Mouse surrounded by "Good Luck" messages and signatures from the staff at Disney World hangs on the living-room wall. A nearby wall is decorated with a framed color photo of a shuttle launch signed by NASA employees.

A framed letter from President Bush and a signed photo from Barbara Bush hang nearby. Next to them is a framed photo of Thompson seated with Hillary Rodham Clinton at a health seminar in Yankton, S.D.

When Thompson left the hospital, it took three pickups and a semi trailer to haul all the letters, cards and gifts to the basement of his parents' home near Hurdsfield, a small community about 90 miles northeast of here.

Since then, the Thompson family has gone through all the cards and letters and deposited thousands of checks. Nearly five years later, Thompson still hasn't had time to open all the gifts he received from strangers.

Fame has its drawbacks

Farming is one of the nation's most hazardous occupations. But most farm accidents get little attention.

But Thompson's case was different. On Jan. 11, 1992, while unloading barley from a farm truck into the hopper of an auger, his shirttails got caught in the power takeoff shaft driving the auger. When he regained consciousness, he saw that both his arms had been torn off.

The teenager used his wits not only to save his life but also to help direct his rescue. Even after the seemingly miraculous operation to reattach his arms, the newly crowned hero couldn't understand what all the fuss was about.

"It became a real circus," Thompson said with a hint of disgust.

Besides money, gifts and get-well messages, Thompson received marriage proposals through the mail. Others thought he possessed a supernatural healing power and asked whether they could come to the hospital and touch him.

Others called to ask whether he would be a godparent for their children.

After six weeks of treatment, Thompson was discharged from North Memorial Medical Center and flown home in a helicopter provided by the hospital.

Besides his mother, Karen, and father, Larry, Thompson has a sister, Kim, 28, and a brother, Mick, 27. Thompson says the accident has been harder on them than it's been on him because they didn't get the support that he received.

"My dad feels bad because the power takeoff shaft didn't have a shield. My mom feels bad because she wasn't here to help me after the accident. My brother feels bad because he was supposed to be home but stayed an extra night in Fargo instead," he said.

Physical recovery arduous

Although his recovery seemed miraculous to the general public, it was in reality a long, arduous trip complicated by many operations and skin grafts, countless hours in therapy and repeated frustrations.

The accident shredded the biceps muscle in Thompson's left arm, so surgeons had to replace it with a muscle from his back. But even though doctors tried everything they could think of, including shock treatments, they could not get the muscle to perform its new job.

Thompson finally went to a physical therapist.

"She reached under my arm and put a little pressure on my elbow, and I immediately was able to lift my forearm," he said, still surprised by the sudden reversal. "It's been working ever since."

It took more than a year after the accident before the feeling finally began to return to Thompson's hands. When it did, his fingers became so sensitive that even a gentle touch felt painful.

To desensitize them, Thompson kept rubbing his fingers on his pants. It worked. Now he can sense the difference between silk and cotton but says his fingers remain highly sensitive to temperature changes. "Warm water feels boiling hot," he says.

At the time of the accident, Thompson weighed 157 pounds and stood 6 feet tall. Today, he's an inch taller but weighs only 128 pounds.

But like most people with physical disabilities, Thompson has found ways to overcome barriers.

Thompson uses both hands to operate his computer mouse, and his feet to do some of the things he no longer can do with his hands, such as light his cigarettes.

A sense of independence

During the five years since the accident, Thompson has grown self-confident, bluntly candid, highly independent and keenly interested in politics.

In high school, Thompson was so shy he never went out for sports because he didn't want people to watch him. Now he can stand in front of a packed Metrodome crowd and sing the national anthem or walk into an auditorium and talk to hundreds of farmers about his accident.

Three years ago, several people asked him to run for the state Legislature. He turned them down, saying he was too young and too busy, but now says he often thinks about getting into politics as an independent.

Although Thompson freely talks about his life before the accident, he has constructed a psychological barrier that prevents him from constantly contrasting his current disabilities with his past abilities: He refers to the pre-injured John Thompson in the third person - as "him," as though he were someone else.

"There's not too much I remember about him anymore," he says.

Thompson talks candidly about his darkest period since the accident.

It began on Christmas Eve 1994. His mother wanted to make homemade ice cream for the family, so Thompson and his father left in Thompson's pickup to get ice. As they left, they felt a slight bump but thought nothing of it.

When they returned, they discovered that Thompson's pet, Tuffy, apparently had run toward their moving pickup, slipped on the ice and was run over and killed.

The devastating loss was exacerbated by Thompson's hectic speaking schedule. Eventually, his friends began telling him that he seemed depressed. When his insurance company advised him to see a psychiatrist, he agreed.

Mental state deteriorates

The psychiatrist put him on three medications. When they didn't work, he began switching to other medications.

"It really screwed me up," Thompson says.

During the next few months, Thompson's mental condition continued to deteriorate.

"One day I was walking with my girlfriend. She said something, and I blew up. It was nothing, really, but I began chasing her down the street. If I would have caught her, I would have hurt her," he said.

Luckily, a friend jumped in Thompson's path, wrapped his arms around him, dragged him to the ground and lay on top of him until his temper cooled. Soon afterward, his family admitted him to a hospital.

Thompson and his family persuaded doctors to wean him from the anti-depressant medication. He also put his public speaking and singing careers on hold.

Since getting off the medications and getting plenty of sleep, he says, he's doing fine. But Van Beek remains worried about Thompson's bouts of depression and says he would like him to undergo additional counseling.

Thompson says he never was able to determine precisely how much money he received after the accident, partly because the donations were collected in different locations and partly because some of the money was spent in the confusion-filled weeks after his accident.

He used more than $300,000 in donations to help pay his medical bills - his insurance company paid more than $400,000 - and he still has enough left to keep him financially comfortable.

Money drew attention

But the money has caused some problems.

"A lot of people tried to take advantage of me shortly after the accident - and a few succeeded," he says.

Thompson's money and lifestyle also have spawned a number of rumors. Some claim he is a multimillionaire, others that he became rich by selling drugs. Others claim that he was either drunk or on drugs when he became entangled in the power takeoff shaft.

Thompson says he is financially secure but not wealthy, that he augments the interest from his investments with his speaking fees, and that he wasn't drunk or on drugs when he was injured.

At one point, Thompson became so angry with the rumors that he threatened to give away all his money. But when his doctors learned of his threat, they warned him that when he reaches his 50s, he will have developed severe arthritis and will need all the money he has for his care.

Despite his life-changing accident, Thompson says he doesn't believe in wearing motorcycle helmets or seat belts.

He loves to fly and now plans to try skydiving, a dream that upsets Van Beek, who warns Thompson about taking unnecessary risks.

"He's just protecting his investment," Thompson says of Van Beek. "He's got so much time invested in me, he doesn't want me to screw it up."