One Inspires Many: Be the One

By Peter Schmitz and Mark McKoy

"One Inspires Many" is the motto of the Dare2tri Triathlon Team of disabled athletes that Peter Schmitz races with. Peter says that his fellow athletes inspire him every day to excel in sports and life. Peter now wants you to "Be The One" that inspires others as well. In this book, Peter's inspirational story is guaranteed to motivate you.

We are all different in what inspires us, who inspires us or how we respond to being inspired. Many people tell Peter they are inspired by him, yet they never take any action on that inspiration. Peter believes people are amazing and believes it would be even more amazing to get people to take action based on the inspiration that comes from others. It does not have to be a triathlon. The important thing is to get inspired and take action. You can and will make a difference! Be The One!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781772771596

Book preview

Jones

Chapter 1

Fateful Summer Job

The summer I was sixteen was going to be a great one. I had my first job at the local grocery store and was excited to be earning my own money. I worked at the meat counter, where I learned how to slice sandwich meat, grind hamburger, and cut steaks. I’d then wrap up the various cuts of meat for pricing and deliver them to the customer. It was a good job to have in a small, locally owned grocery store in the small town of Allouez, Wisconsin.

On a Friday in July, I wore my brand new short-sleeve, white uniform shirt and tie to work. I vividly recall that it was a Friday because I was thrilled to be going scuba diving with my good buddy, Steve Pfeiffer, over the weekend. I was a swimmer and loved all kinds of water-related activities, especially escaping to the underwater world of scuba diving. It was a beautiful, sunny day and I looked forward to a fun-filled weekend.

I was also excited to be going to work because my boss, Jerry, was there to oversee me as I operated the meat grinder. I was enthusiastic about learning as many aspects of the meat counter as I could. The commercial grade grinder was large, the kind used to process huge trays of meat at a time; in fact, it could process four pounds of meat per minute. Here’s how it worked: the operator placed the meat into the large, stainless steel tray that fed into the grinder. Once the meat dropped in the chute, the auger did the actual grinding of the meat into hamburger. There was a guard in place to prevent the grinder from catching anything other than the meat while the operator used a plastic plunger to push the meat down into the grinder. The ground meat would be churned out of the grinder, then the operator would catch it and put it onto a tray. The only thing the grinder could not grind was metal, so as long as it was turned on, it would grind whatever was pushed into it. It was a pretty simple process, but the job was an important one, with many safety procedures to follow.

The Accident

My job was to cut up all the meat into chunks, then feed it into the grinder where it would be transformed from steak to hamburger. The safety guard on our grinder was held in place by only one screw, instead of the two or three screws that were supposed to hold it in place. On this day, for some reason, the guard had been entirely removed from the grinder. At the age of sixteen, I didn’t know any better and didn’t pay much attention to the state of the grinder. I got right to work, feeding the steak in with my left hand, catching the ground hamburger with my right hand, and putting it on the tray.

I had a good rhythm going with my left hand, my right hand, and the grinder until I accidentally plunged the meat too far into the grinder and my finger was caught by the auger’s teeth. I screamed at the top of my lungs and frantically reached around, trying to turn off the machine. The off switch was against the wall on the opposite end of the machine from where I was standing. I just missed reaching the switch before the auger twisted my body around. Fortunately, Jerry made it to the switch and turned it off.

At this point, I was twisted around and stuck with my arm halfway down the grinder. The steel tray was jammed in my armpit as the auger pulled my arm down the chute while I screamed at the top of my lungs. Blood was everywhere. This is it, I thought to myself, I’m 16 years old and I’m already done. This can’t be true. However, I thought I was surely going to die. The pain was so intense that I began screaming that I was going to die. Jerry was there telling me that I was not going to die and that I would be okay. The machine was so powerful that if Jerry had not been there, my arm would’ve been ripped off at the shoulder. After nearly fifty years, I still remember every moment I spent hunched over that machine with my arm caught in the grinder.

It felt like it took forever for the paramedics to arrive. The whole time we waited for them, I screamed, and Jerry consoled. Once they arrived, they were dumbfounded at my predicament. They did not know what to do, and spent precious minutes (which felt like hours) debating whether to cut me out of the machine or take me and the machine to the hospital. The paramedics knew they might not be able to stop the profuse bleeding that would occur if they cut my arm off on location, so they loaded me and the meat grinder onto the ambulance. It was quite a sight to behold, I am sure.

I actually walked out of the grocery store, twisted and hunched around the grinder, while three paramedics struggled to carry the cumbersome, steel machine to the ambulance. All of my screaming must have drawn a crowd because there were lots of onlookers craning their necks to see me as the paramedics led me outside to the ambulance. I noticed the young blond girl that I’d been chasing that summer among the crowd watching me. That’s just great, I thought; but what could I do?

Once loaded into the ambulance, we could not leave right away for the hospital because the paramedics had to stabilize the grinder so that it would not shift or roll during the ride to the hospital. The handful of blocks to the hospital felt like forever. As I was jostled around in the ambulance, the pain really set in. I wished I would pass out, rather than remain fully conscious during the ride. I was in shock but was fully aware of every bump the ambulance hit as we raced to the hospital.

Once we arrived at the emergency room, I breathed a tiny bit easier, knowing that relief from the blinding pain would arrive soon. Instead, I was told that there was nothing they could do for me. Since I was underage, they had to wait until a parent or guardian signed my release forms. In the meantime, the nurse cut off my brand-new shirt. I was so mad at her! I bought that shirt with my own money and needed it for work! (Yes, I know, after all of this I was still thinking about work. In traumatic situations the mind has a powerful ability to distort.)

The nurse came over to ask me how to get in touch with my parents. Well, they both worked in sales and were on the road traveling around to their various customers. In those days, there were no cell phones, so they were unreachable. Regardless, the hospital called my house and my little sister, Jenny, answered the phone. They wouldn’t tell her anything other than I’d been in an accident and that they desperately needed to reach our parents. At the time, she thought it was a prank call. Someone ended up getting in touch with my aunt and uncle. They never came into the room where I was, but I heard their anxious voices coming from the hallway. They must have signed a release for my care because the next thing I remember is a needle in my arm. I don’t remember anything after that.

Mom’s Memories

On the other hand, my mom remembers what happened from her point of view:

I stopped my car in the driveway as usually this Friday afternoon.

Jenny ran outside, screaming, Peter’s is in the hospital and everyone is looking for you!

Which hospital? I almost screamed back.

St. Vincent’s, she breathed.

I was out of that driveway, like a cheetah, and on my way. What could have happened to Peter? My mind was going crazy. I arrived at the hospital, parked in any place I could find, and ran to the information desk.

Where is Peter Schmitz? I frantically asked.

The woman did the slowest file look possible before she gave me the floor. The elevator could not go fast enough, but I arrived on the floor and I saw my son Peter, unconsciousness, being rolled out of the surgery door. The nurses were accompanying him and very matterof-factly told me he had surgery, after getting his left hand caught in the grinder at Austin’s Meat Market. There is not a word or phrase that can express what I felt at that moment.

The nurse told me, His left hand and part of his arm are gone, but he is doing fine at this moment.

Is she crazy? How can he be doing fine?

The nurses wheeled Peter into the hospital room and rolled him into the bed, did a few necessary tasks, and told me he would wake up shortly. As they prepared to leave, one of the kinder nurses told me that he didn’t know what happened. Now I was crying so hard I was sure first floor could hear. A few minutes later, Larry Piumbroek and another of Peter’s friends came into the room. No doubt, I was in shock and did not expect to see them or anyone else. They had heard about the accident already from the neighborhood folks who had witnessed the ambulance and the whole gross scene at the Meat Market. Of course, they had no idea exactly what happened, but wanted to see their friend right away.

I was overwhelmed by the entire happening and instead of asking them to leave, I said, Sit down. Peter will wake up soon.

As I look back, I wonder how I did that, but it meant I had to pull myself together and prepare to speak when Peter woke up. My head was going crazy, but I did not want Peter to see me crying.

Suddenly, Peter opened his eyes, looked directly at me and said, Mom, what did I do? What’s this on my arm?

I was not crying at this moment, and I got as close as I could get to my son and said, There was an accident at Austin’s and your hand stayed in the grinder.

He did not comprehend what I said exactly and he responded, as he lifted his left bandaged arm, You mean it’s gone? It cannot be. I want it.

I hugged him tightly and said to him, Your head is fine, your brain is terrific and we will manage to get you another arm.

I have no idea what his friends heard, but by this time, both of the boys said Hey Peter, you’re famous. There was a large crowd at Austin’s and everyone knows you are here.

That broke the horror of the moment, Peter joked with them for a moment and then a newsboy delivering newspapers at the hospital poked his head in the door and said, Newspapers, anyone?

Peter, only half awake, squeaked out, Get a paper, Mom, maybe I’m in the paper.

Just reacting and unable to think, I did just that. I bought the newspaper, walked over to the bed, and handed the newspaper to Peter. He picked it up with his unbandaged hand, then looked at me with a terrible look on his face and said, I can’t open it.

I don’t know how I ever did what I did, but I remained in the chair seated close by, looked at him and said, Well, Peter, I guess you will just have to figure it out. I then ran out of the room, sobbing inwardly, shut the door behind me, and wanted to die. I have never felt inner pain like that, and I did not know how to deal with it.

I walked the floor for several minutes and decided that the friends had to leave. I returned to the room, saw the boys bantering with each other, as high school boys do. I realized no one there was cognizant of the seriousness of the moment. Looking backward, it was a blessing the friends had come. Peter was returning to being drowsy, the boys said goodbye, which I don’t believe he even heard. I sat in the chair closest to the bed and contemplated the tough times ahead. I had no idea where or how to begin.

Waking Up

When I, Peter, next awoke, it was dark; I heard snoring and looked over to see my dad sleeping in a chair next to my bed. I was pretty disoriented and looked around for a while, trying to figure out exactly what was going on. Soon it came back to me, and I immediately looked down at my arm. I could still feel my hand and saw that my arm was bandaged, so I thought I must be okay. Then I looked more closely and saw that there was no hand at the end of my bandaged arm.

I was pretty drugged up, but still got agitated when I saw the bandages. My dad woke up and tried to console me. I remember that