EMBRACING A NEW LIFE

By Wayne Drehs
ESPN.com

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Shoes shined. Hair gelled. Tuxedo pressed to perfection. Brad Hurtig looked like Oscar de la Renta himself. But he was already an hour late -- too late for pictures, too late to meet the parents -- and had begun to wonder if he'd ever make the prom at all.

He was waiting for the smoke to stop. The smell to go away. For wires to be soldered together in his hands. Then he'd be on his way.

“I wasn't sure how it was all going to turn out,” he said.

The day before, Brad's $25,000 mechanical hands quit working. Without them, he couldn't pin his date's corsage. He couldn't hold her hand. He couldn't pull her close on the dance floor.

Worker's compensation officials moved quickly to approve the new prosthetics in time for the prom. But while everyone else was schmoozing with parents and smiling for pictures, Brad stood in a garage and waited for his prosthetist to put his new hands together. Eventually, some workshop ingenuity mixed with modern technology sent Brad on his way. Two hours late.

“I never got to meet her parents,” Brad recalls. “Still haven't. But I guess they understood; I told her I was late because I needed to pick up my arms. Tough to argue with that one.”

Brad would be the first to tell you that his life has never been the same since an industrial accident left him a bilateral amputee two years ago. But he'll also tell you that “99 percent” of the things he used to be able to do, he can still do. Thanks to modern-day technology. And perhaps the most twisted of fates.

Because Brad's accident happened at work, all his medical expenses and the cost of purchasing, repairing and replacing his fragile prosthetics are covered by the Ohio Bureau of Worker's Compensation. He also receives a weekly check that covers lost wages.

“In a way, that was a blessing,” Brad said. “If this would have happened falling off the back of my ATV, we never would have been able to afford any of it.”

Representatives from worker's compensation also ensured that Brad had everything he needed to function in high school. It meant making lockers and classroom doors easier to open. Getting Brad a laptop so he could do his homework. And hiring an assistant to carry his books and take notes in class until Brad could do those things himself.

Next year, Brad plans to attend nearby Northwest State Community College and, already, worker's compensation representatives are meeting with school officials to brief them on Brad's situation and the special needs he requires.

“It takes a lot of teamwork,” said Jan Burch, a catastrophic nurse advocate for Ohio's worker's compensation division. “The school, the managed care organization, the doctors, the family -- everyone working together makes this a success. And Brad's so highly motivated. He sees a challenge and immediately says, ‘Let's get going.' ”

At the cost of a new, fully loaded Honda Accord, Brad's limbs are among the most technologically advanced in the world. They operate with the use of tiny sensors that rub against the muscles in the remaining parts of his arms. Flex those muscles by making an imaginary fist and then bend that fist upward, and the hand opens. Bend the fist down, and it closes. Clench a quick fist, and the hand rotates counterclockwise, 360 degrees, so he can pick up a stack of books from below, then lift them above. If Brad fills a jug with water, the hand senses the change in weight, adjusting its grip as the jug becomes progressively heavier.

Six months after the accident, when Brad first picked up his new arms, it took him only five minutes to get the hang of it. He grabbed a copy of The Crescent News, a local newspaper that had a story about him on its front page, and autographed it for everyone in the office.

Sam Santa-Rita, the prosthetist who fits Brad with his artificial limbs, said he has never seen anyone become acclimated to his new hands so quickly.

"He acted as if he had worn them for a year,” Santa-Rita said. “I think he was so tired of depending on people, he just took off. It was pretty amazing."

Visually, they seem almost lifelike, with their flesh-like coloring and the folds of skin painted on them to look like knuckles. If not for the muffled grinding sound the motor makes when the hand moves, like some sort of real-life robot, nobody beyond an arm's length could tell he has artificial limbs.

"We were at a banquet the other night and Brad shook this guy's hand and the guy about fell over," said Bob Olwin, the head football coach at Fairview High. "He didn't know about Brad's accident. He nearly jumped out of his shoes."

But reliability remains a problem. Under the strain of Brad's active lifestyle, the prosthetics break down every few weeks. He's bent the aluminum frame, pushing the gears out of alignment and killing the motor. He's crushed the microprocessors in the fingertips, crippling the device.

Even with a backup at the ready, Brad can sometimes find himself without a working prosthetic. Santa-Rita has ordered a new model made of stainless steel, which he hopes will prove more durable.

“He's the most active amputee I've ever seen,” Santa-Rita said. “And the technology sometimes can't keep up.”

A person missing one limb opens and closes a mechanical hand 5,000 times every two weeks. Someone who has lost both limbs will perform five times as many "cycles." And an active 19-year-old teenager like Brad can really give the motor a workout.

“So that's the challenge,” Santa-Rita said. “For these companies to design something that can cycle 1.2 million times a year.”

When the hands are working, there isn't much Brad can't do. He can squeeze toothpaste from its tube. Grab a bottle of water off the ground. Hit the cutoff man from the outfield. Or clutch the accelerator on the handle bars of his ATV during a wild escape through the farm fields.

It was a little more than a year after the accident that Brad was knocked out of his arms when he jumped a pile of brush on his four-wheeler. With his artificial limbs still squeezing the accelerator, Brad hugged the seat with his legs. Seconds before crashing into a tree, he managed to slam his foot onto the brake. Then he slipped back into his arms, took a deep breath and drove home.

“I don't think I told my parents about that one,” he said.

The only thing he says he can't do, the only thing he truly misses, is the ability to feel. To touch. Yet it isn't uncommon to see him lift his mechanical hand to scratch an itch on his nose. He deftly uses his elbow to control the touch-pad on his laptop. And when it comes time to tie his shoes, a friend suggests a creative tip: Ask a cute girl.

"I go through life now and many days, I don't even think about it," he said. "I feel like the same Brad before the accident."

Wayne Drehs is a staff writer with ESPN.com. He can be reached at wayne.drehs@espn3.com.