December 4, 2005

In the end, it is the strength of the man that overwhelms.

Here sits Christopher Harmon. He can’t move, hear, see, speak -- can’t even breathe without a respirator. The outward signs of humanity have been ripped from him by a rare neurological condition, spino cerebellar degeneration.

Starting from age 6, the condition, which blocks communication between the spinal cord and the brain, has attacked the 35-year-old man.

But beaten him?

No.

Harmon can’t see, but he has vision. Can’t hear, but has imagination. Can’t move, but in his mind, he can dance and sing and dream about giving the rest of us films with messages of hope and triumph.

With the vital assistance of incredible sign language interpreters, Harmon communicates vividly. The interpreters sign, holding their fingers close to his eyes when Harmon listens. They read his lips to translate his speech. His vocabulary is rich. He weaves stories of how he has come to this place in life.

His physical place is a group home in St. Paul, though he soon will be moved to Burnsville.

His spiritual place seldom has been higher. He’s moving ever closer to producing an independent film through Legacy Pictures, a company of his creation. With writer Doug Klozzner, Harmon has completed a script for a film, "Sparkle, Serena!" The script, sort of a contemporary version of Shirley Temple’s song and dance films, is about overcoming challenges. It’s received positive feedback from people in the movie industry.

Harmon’s next challenge is to raise the $5 million he’s budgeted for the film’s production. It’s a daunting number.

"But challenges and I have been best friends since I was 6," he said.

That’s how old he was when his behavior began to change. A fun-loving kid became rude and reckless. The behavioral change coincided with the birth of a sister.

"Sibling jealousy," doctors said, adding that heavy doses of discipline would shape up the little lad.

Cracking down caused only more distress.

His parents, who lived in Indianapolis at the time, took their son to the hospital at Indiana University. After a month of testing, doctors discovered the child was suffering from a combination of hearing, vision and balance loss, but it wasn’t until he was taken to Children’s Hospital in Philadelphia that the grim diagnosis was made.

"Doctors told my parents I would die by age 10," he said. "When that came and went, they said I’d die by 12. That came and went, they said 15. When that came and went they said, ’Christopher will die when he’s damned well ready to.’ "

Facing his hurdles

There have been many times when Harmon has wanted to die. Not surprisingly, his life has been filled with periods of confusion, anger and depression.

Shortly after the Philadelphia diagnosis, his family moved to Eden Prairie. The school district figured an impairment-riddled kid belonged in special ed.

"That was very difficult," he said. "I couldn’t figure out why I was being treated this way."

Ultimately, testing showed his IQ far above normal. His family moved to Bloomington, where he was mainstreamed, in time to graduate from Jefferson High School.

But his condition is cruel. It makes accomplishment so difficult and setbacks continuous.

In his early 20s, he lost use of his hands. And in his late 20s, the worst: He was fitted to a feeding tube and the respirator.

A climb out of despair

All the while, the government was fighting him in court over who should pay for the interpreters, who are all that stand between Harmon and total isolation. Eventually, he said, he won the fight, but "my family was left almost bankrupt."

"I couldn’t face life anymore," he said. "I remember lying on my bed, asking God for death."

Instead, he got this: a memory of a Shirley Temple movie, "The Little Princess," he’d seen clearly years earlier at a group home.

"It’s an embarrassing confession," Harmon said of this connection of Shirley Temple, God and inspiration. "When you’re deaf and blind, you’re a little isolated."

The key connector in all of this is that for reasons he never has been able to understand, he saw the old black-and-white movie clearly.

That night of despair led to this movie project, now entering its fourth year. The project, to him, is the essence of life.

"When you’re as dependent as I am on others, you sometimes feel like all you do is take, take, take," Harmon said. "What gives joy is when you can give back."

Doug Grow, Star Tribune

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