Quadraplegic tragedy shapes a giving life

At 55, a much honoured psychiatrist looks back in wonder

By Elizabeth Wasserman

Ask Dr Jacques Voyer how he's doing on any given day and he's liable to deadpan: "Not bad for a psychiatrist." The 55-year-old MD refuses to be either pitied or pigeonholed; certainly his commanding, witty presence tends to overshadow the wheelchair he's been bound to for the past 34 years.

Growing up in Rivière-du-Loup, Quebec, Dr Voyer always knew he wanted to be a doctor. But his childhood fantasy of himself in a white coat and stethoscope striding through hospital corridors was suddenly shattered one summer day in 1970, just before his third year of medical school at the Université de Laval, when he dove into a swimming pool, struck his head on the bottom, and broke his neck. In a split second, the robust 1.9m tall athlete and self-described ladies' man became a quadraplegic.

His initial disbelief gave way to suicidal depression. But a few weeks after the accident, the vice-dean of the medical school visited him at his bedside and spoke the magic words that restored his hope: "He said, 'You know, people with your condition have completed degrees in architecture and law. If you want to come back to school, we'll take you.'"

PLAYING THE SHAME GAME
In the years that followed he finished med school and was accepted to the prestigious psychiatry residency program at McGill University, all the while going through the mentally and physically arduous process of adapting to his condition. But as he began doing rounds at the Jewish General Hospital in 1974, there was one obstacle he couldn't overcome: "I felt terrible shame at being a doctor in a wheelchair." It was his work with concentration camp survivors in Montreal that finally helped him deal with his shame. He found that many of them had been going through life without ever talking about their experiences � because they felt ashamed. "Talking to them, I saw the absurdity of it," Dr Voyer recalls. "If they should not be ashamed of their misfortune, of course I should not either."

Since then he's worked with dangerous patients, assessed criminals' insanity pleas, acted as a palliative care and bereavement consultant, and maintained a private psychotherapy practice. He says that his disability has often been a subject of discussion with his patients but, except in rare circumstances, hasn't affected their confidence in him. "With patients, as with everyone, it's always the same � for the first 10 minutes they see only the chair," he says. "After that, they see the person."

DON'T LET IT DEFINE YOU
Although he's made a point of not allowing his disability to become a focal point of his life, his career, or his personality, Dr Voyer has always reached out to help people who've had similar misfortunes. When he meets them � in the past as vice-president of the Paraplegic Association of Quebec and currently as chairman of the Institut de r�adaptation de Montr�al (Montreal Institute of Rehabilitation) � he has one piece of advice to impart: "It's very important, even though it is massive, that you do not define yourself by this tragedy."

So insistent is he on this point, that when he was informed in 1998 that he was to be made a knight of the Order of Quebec for outstanding contribution to healthcare, he initially refused, on the grounds that there was nothing exceptional about his medical work. When he did finally accept the honour � which was followed this year by an Order of Canada � he chose to acknowledge it as a tribute to his family, for giving him the stability and values to achieve what he has.

In 2002, Dr Voyer published an intimate, uninhibited book about his life since 1970, entitled Que Freud Me Pardonne (Freud, forgive me). The title refers to his violation of the psychotherapist's golden rule: be discreet about one's personal life. Though he generally agrees with this rule, Dr Voyer felt that publicizing his story would do more good than harm. And unexpectedly, writing the book had a cathartic effect on the author himself. In an interview with the newsletter of the Association of Francophone Doctors of Canada he described his feelings when reading the finished manuscript: "At 52 years old, I was suddenly struck by the incredible experience � of being paralyzed, of losing feeling in 80% of my body at the age of 21. That your life can change in a matter of seconds. Wait a second! Can I redo that dive, please? But there's no rewind button on the diving board."