Why My Mother Forced Me to Play Piano...Even Though I had No Fingers

On this episode of Our American Stories, John O'Leary, the bestselling author of On Fire tells the story of why his mother forced him to eat on his own and play the piano despite having no fingers after having been burned on 100% of his body as a nine-year-old.

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:12):
This is Lee Habib and this is our American Stories,
the show where America is the star and the American people.
Up next, a story from John O'Leary. John's the author
of the best selling book on Fire, which recounts his
harrowing near death experience of being burnt on one hundred
percent of his body when he was just nine years old. Today,

(00:34):
John recounts his homecoming from his long stay in the hospital,
a homecoming that many expected never to happen. Let's get
into the story. Take it away.

Speaker 2 (00:44):
John, coming home from the hospital. We loaded into our
Mercury station wagon wood on the side, purple in color,
beautiful car, mid eighties vintage, loaded in the dog is
with us man and I thought that was the party,
That's what we had planned. And then I always remember
sweeping around our little turn right before we enter into

(01:04):
our subdivision, and in the distance I saw a firefighter's
ladder up near that another firefighter's ladder up between the
two of them, in American flag hanging over the street.
There was a marching band there. It seemed like the
entire community had come out for this thing, not just
neighbors and firefighters and few nurses. It was this incredible celebration.

(01:26):
Eventually the party dies down and now our family gets
to begin life together. This is the moment that we
planned the homecoming to be about. The dinner. My mom
made my favorite meal, which at that time, if you
can imagine, was og rotting potatoes. My whole time in
the hospital, man, I just dreamed of agg ronning potatoes
made by my mother. So she made those and made chicken,

(01:48):
made a little salad, and French bread. It's all on
the table. The house is rebuilt, the dogs in the corner.
We pray before we eat, and then it's the go time.
The only challenge was I'm in a wheelchair and I'm
missing my fingers, so I can't eat. My sister, her
name is Amy. She scoops some potatoes, brings them toward

(02:08):
my mouth, and right before the enter, my mother says, Amy,
drop the fork. If John is hungry, he will feed
himself tonight. And even in saying that, and I like
an emotional thinking about it, because like what mom doesn't
want to feed their baby. So I look at my
mom shocked and I say, Mom, what are you talking about?

(02:31):
Like I can't eat? And she says to me, hey,
if John's hungry. He'll feed himself. He'll feed himself. So
at first I can't do it. A moment later, I
spill the entire plate on the floor. The dog gets fed,
will eventually my mom fills up a second plate. I
can't figure it out again. My sister can't feed me.
Everyone else is leaving in the dinner table. It ultimately

(02:53):
ruined the celebration, But about two hours into it, a
little boy with no fing figured out a way to
wedge that fork just precisely between two hands using a splint,
picked up some potatoes, moved it toward his mouth, started
chewing on a potato week goodness. And the entire time

(03:14):
as I'm chewing and then getting ready to swallow, I
remember thinking, I hate my mom, this mean lady who
would not feed me. I hate my mom. But no
one ever had to feed me again after that day.
The following morning we had breakfast together, and eating breakfast
together was a little bit easier, and then lunch and
dinner the following day, and then eventually progressing through life.

(03:37):
A couple weeks later, when I was unable to do
anything still, like anything real, get dressed, that kind of
stuff I was telling my mom that I'll never do
anything in my life, and a couple hours later the
doorbell rang and her piano teacher showed up. I mean,
I have no fingers. And this piano teacher comes into
our house, walks into the kitchen, looks at me. I

(03:59):
look up at her and I say, my mama, why
is she here? Not a word was spoken. My mother
just so hooks the brakes of my wheelchair. She rolls
me away from the kitchen table down a hallway. She
takes me. She locks the brakes in front of a piano.
She walks out. I'm stuck in a wheelchair with missus Bartello.
She puts her right arm around me, and she says, John,
this will be hard, but we can do it together.

(04:21):
She then tethers a pen to my right hand. I've
got morphine course in through my veins. My left arm
is in an airplane splint, but with my right hand
and a pen sticking out of it, I'm playing the
piano the entire time, thinking I hate my mom. Why
does she do this stuff to me? I cannot believe this.

(04:41):
And the only time I hated my mother more than
that day was the following day when the doorbell rang,
and the teacher came back, and then she came back,
and then she came back. For five and a half years.
This teacher came into my life teaching a little boy,
not how to play the piano, although that's one thing
she did. She taught a little boy and a young

(05:02):
man that he can do hard things in life when
he believes it possible, maybe not all by himself, but together.
So what kind of mother? What kind of mom is
my mom? Today? I'm able to travel around the country
and around the world. I'm able to change kids diapers
and feed them in high chairs. I have full ability

(05:24):
physically to do everything, not because I'm great, but because
my mother was. Because she saw a moment in time
where her son could do nothing, but she knew that
that was a lie. And so although my mom might
have roomed dinner that night, I think she gave me
something far greater than a warm meal. She gave me agency.

(05:44):
I don't know of any other mother who would have
done what she did. I have never heard another story
in fact of a mother as challenging, as difficult, as expectant.
She's the kind who believes she can do all things
for God, who strengthened you. She believes a little boy
with no fingers can feed himself. She believes a little
boy with no fingers can jam cold blay on the piano,

(06:06):
and he can. She believes he can learn how to
become a man. She believes that he can eventually be
convicted enough in his own walk he can graduate from college,
start his own business, start a family. The vast majority
of the success that I've been able to achieve in
my life rest on the shoulders of the foundation my
mother poured for me. So today, as a dad myself,

(06:29):
I try not to snowplow. I try not to make
it easy. I try not to make my children's lives
without their bruises and scrapes and missteps. I'm the kind
of dad who will let them fall and be the
kind of dad who is there for them when they
come back, to wipe them off, to clean them up,
to put the band aid on, to hug them, to
pat him on the bottom, and to have them run

(06:50):
right back outside. And I think we need a little
bit more of that in our parenting today, to love
our kids enough that they can get hurt. That's certainly
what kind of father we.

Speaker 1 (07:00):
Have, And a special thanks to John O'Leary, author of
the best selling book on Fire and my goodness what
his mom did for him. Well, not enough of parents
today do these kinds of things, but we must, and
you heard why the story of John O'Leary and of
his mom. Here on Our American Stories. This is Lee Habib,

(07:31):
host of Our American Stories. Every day on this show
we tell stories of history, faith, business, love, loss, and
your stories. Send us your story small or large to
our email oas at Ouramerican Stories dot com. That's oas
at Ouramerican Stories dot com. We'd love to hear them

(07:51):
and put them on the air. Our audience loves them too,