Iron Will

A horrific childhood accident leads to a life of beating the odds

John Jenkins has a simple goal: do the impossible. He's spent the last 24 years accomplishing everything his doctors told him was impossible for a person with his disability to do.

On Nov. 16 at the World Association of Benchers and Dead Lifters World Finals in Reno, Nev., he did it again. Jenkins became a world champion by dead lifting 436 pounds off the ground with one hand, a carbon fiber prosthetic and an iron will.

"I tried for 551 pounds," Jenkins said. "I had it, but it slipped out of my hand."

Competing in the 220-pound disabled class, Jenkins also placed second in the bench press by pushing 236 pounds off his chest.

Everyone in the crowd was in awe.

"So many people were coming up to me and saying I was an inspiration," Jenkins said. "People come up to me at meets because they've never seen someone like me before."

Most people think he lost his arm recently. How else could someone with only one hand get so big? The judges in Reno were even placing bets on when he lost his arm.

Losing his right arm below the elbow at age 7 has slowed him down at times but has never stopped him.

Becoming a world champion power lifter is one more item on a long list of achievements that includes playing football and guitar, going to stunt school in San Diego and becoming a bodybuilder.

"It takes some nerve and guts to go down to a gym and lift weights," Barbara, Jenkins' mother, said. "To perform in front of a group of people with one arm, that takes courage."

In a sport where others are lifting mountains of iron, Jenkins still manages to draw the most attention. It's not every day a one-armed man competes in a weight-lifting competition, let alone wins world championships and sets state records.

"I'm extremely proud of John," his father, David, said. "I've watched him accomplish things that I never understood an amputee could do. He's done everything people said he couldn't do. A lot of people fall for that and do nothing."

Although Jenkins has been competing in power lifting for less than a year, he has found that the events are a great way to encourage other amputees. He has a deep passion to help other amputees feel good about themselves.

"My goal - I would like to get a lot of disabled people into this," Jenkins said. "If they see someone like me up there, they can get motivated. This is how I get the word out."

He would also like to work with soldiers coming home from Iraq who have lost limbs.

"John's a person who has a huge heart," Barbara said. "He's very dedicated. When he has that vision in front of him, he stays it out."

Unfortunately, upper-body amputees have very few outlets in sport. Jenkins learned this the hard way as organizations for the disabled, including the Paralympics, gave him the run around. Like the doctors of his youth, people kept telling him what he couldn't do.

Jenkins began competing at WABDL events at the suggestion of his friend, Mitch Klindt. Klindt said Gus Rethwisch, the president of the WABDL, would accommodate him in any way possible.

One accommodation is allowing him extra time to set up his lifts. In order to train and compete, Jenkins has devised special tools that allow him to lift weights with his prosthetic.

To complete the dead lift, Jenkins uses a strap sewn into loops. He attaches one end to the bar and the other just above his elbow joint. For his prosthetic to support the amount of weight he lifts, he also created a system of back straps and supports.

Because his prosthetic ends with a metal grip, he clamps pads onto the bench press bar so he can hold on to it.

"I've never let it hold me back," Jenkins said of his disability. "I've figured out how to do things."

Jenkins grew up in Stanwood, Wash., a small town on Camano Island about two hours north of Seattle. He lived with his parents and his brother, David, in a small log cabin built from the trees on the property they owned.

The family lived without running water or electricity. Jenkins took baths in a metal basin, and if he wanted to watch television, his father had to bring in the car battery to hook up the T.V. The bathroom was a small outhouse near the cabin.

"We weren't very wealthy, but you get used to it," Jenkins said. "I loved to play in the woods and climb trees."

Jenkins' father owned a barbershop in town, and Jenkins would play around town with his friend, Lance, after school until it was time to go home. On a rainy day in March of 1982, just two weeks after his birthday, Jenkins' inexperience with electricity nearly cost him his life.

He and Lance were riding their bikes a couple of blocks from the barbershop near the town's electrical substation, looking for something to do.

"We were bored," Jenkins said. "I said, 'let's go play on that thing. Last one over is a loser.' It looked like a big, fenced-in playground to me."

A short, chain-link fence without any warning signs was hardly a deterrent to the two boys.

"I was amazed at the stuff to climb," Jenkins said. "I opened up some breaker boxes and started turning knobs. I even caused the lights in my father's shop to dim."

As Jenkins began climbing one of the towers, Lance called up to him and said it was time to go home.

"Lance said 'let's go' and boom, I was out," Jenkins said.

Jenkins had grabbed on to a live wire with his right hand, sending 7,200 volts ripping through his little body.

Death row inmates sentenced to the electric chair are killed with just 2,000 volts.

"I was conducted to the wire - I couldn't let go," Jenkins said.

Such high voltage doesn't leave the body gently. It explodes out of the softest parts of the body, generally the eyes, the testicles and the bottoms of feet.

The electricity blew out the knuckles of his left hand and tore gaping holes in his left thigh, right knee and shin. His face was covered with flash burns and caused his right eye to fill with blood.

Jenkins' electrocution caused an explosion that blew him off the live wire and on to the ground 12 feet below. The explosion shattered windows a block away. He lay on the ground with his burnt clothes and smoking body.

A man from a nearby grain tower saw the explosion and carried Jenkins over the fence as David ran over and found his shattered son. David served two years in Vietnam and said his son looked like a bombing victim.

An ambulance rushed Jenkins to Mt. Vernon, which was 30 minutes away. During the trip, his right arm began to swell so much that his skin was tearing. With his dad holding him down, an EMT took a scalpel and slit his right arm from the middle of his bicep to his wrist to relieve the pressure.

"I turned my head to the side and said, 'I'm a fighter, I'm a fighter,'" Jenkins said. "My whole arm opened up like a flower. There was no blood; everything was cooked."

From Mt. Vernon, Jenkins was flown to Harbor View Seattle where he woke up two days later in the burn unit.

His right arm below the elbow was gone.

Doctors had told his parents that his arm was lost and gangrene was setting in. If they didn't amputate, their son would be dead within 24 hours.

"It was a nightmare," his mother, Barbara said. "You have extreme grief, and you go into shock mode. I couldn't comprehend what the doctors were talking about, and they were very blunt about it."

For the next two-and-a-half months, orderlies would come to Jenkins' room twice a day. They would take him to a room and place him in a steel tub filled with warm water, dump iodine over his body and scrub his wounds as he bled and screamed.

"You get used to it," Jenkins said. "It doesn't hurt as bad after a while. I learned how to take a lot of pain."

The twice-daily scrubbings prevented infection and kept his burnt skin from warping and becoming like leather. His legs healed so well the doctors decided not to take skin grafts from his back.

"The burn unit was the most horrible," Barbara said. "You could hear people screaming through sound-proof rooms. I had to leave the whole floor."

Jenkins, in his hospital pajamas and missing half an arm, was able to keep his spirits up during his recovery. He'd goof around with visitors and ham it up for relatives taking pictures.

But Jenkins was tired of being in the frightening burn unit. The hospital taught his father how to treat his wounds every day, and they released Jenkins.

Once he was back home, Jenkins had to relearn everything - how to tie his shoes, put on clothes and how to write. Special tutors and physical therapists helped with the process.

"I didn't let it get to me too much," Jenkins said. "I had moments of sadness and feeling sorry for myself, but I was very determined to get on and learn this new lifestyle."

The harsh realities of life as someone "different" in grade school quickly set in. Other kids quit picking him to play on their teams, and friends began to push him away.

"The feeling of not being wanted - I don't think you ever get used to it," Jenkins said. "But it made me even more determined."

His parents struggled with the emotions of watching their son deal with rejection.

"I've seen his obstacles," David said. "I've seen the kids and the reactions. Grade school was the worst. I never understood how cruel kids could be. I'm amazed at it."

Doctors also offered little encouragement for a child without his right arm.

"Doctors would always tell me what I couldn't do," Jenkins said. "I never accepted that. I thought, 'I can do whatever I want to do.' There is always a way."

David and Barbara sued the electric company over the accident, a painful event that took more than five years to complete.

Lawyers for the electric company painted the jury a picture of a delinquent youth breaking the law on purpose. Because of Jenkins' fights at school, lawyers told the jury he was a troublemaker who got what he deserved.

"They were so arrogant," Jenkins said. "They made me look like a punk. They had millions of dollars to throw around, and we didn't have the money for a good lawyer.

"At one point, a lady in the jury stood up and yelled at me, saying I deserved it."

David and Barbara decided to end the lawsuit. They settled out of court for hospital costs and a small, monthly annuity for their son. They also moved from Stanwood and settled in Kalispell.

When Jenkins was 13, he convinced his mom to let him have his ATM card so he could get money for a school project. With cash in hand, he walked to a pawnshop and bought a Flying V guitar.

His parents quickly discovered his purchase, but instead of punishing him, they sent him to Larry Miletich at Music One for guitar lessons.

Jenkins took his hook-style prosthesis and taped a pick to the end of it so he could strum.

"John was very enthusiastic," Miletich said. "He loved music, and I supported him 100 percent. His love for guitar and music stood out in front of his handicap. I looked forward to him coming in every week. It was an adventure for both of us."

After three years of lessons, Jenkins toured with a band from Youth With a Mission through Europe as a lead guitarist.

Jenkins got married right out of high school, and his wife still had her senior year left. She enlisted in the Air Force after graduation, and the couple was stationed at Biloxi, Miss.

At the base, Jenkins noticed the bigger, more muscular airmen his wife worked with every day. At 5-feet-8-inches tall and 130 pounds, Jenkins wasn't happy with his body.

"I had always wished I was bigger," Jenkins said. "I started working out and reading every magazine out there. I went to bodybuilder stores and asked questions."

Jenkins' workout routine was simple: train hard and eat 'til you puke. He drank 2,000-calorie shakes and sometimes ate 12 eggs a day. His life revolved around bodybuilding and his muscles began to grow.

Unfortunately, problems in his marriage also began to grow, and Jenkins moved back to Kalispell while enduring his divorce.

He also began to experiment with steroids during this period. He found that the drug not only helped him gain muscle mass, but it also alleviated his depression. As his tolerance to steroids grew, he became moodier. Even his supportive family didn't want to be around him.

"I'm so glad I'm not into that anymore," Jenkins said. "Now I think what a joke that stuff was. I tell people not to touch the stuff. The most important supplement out there today is food. You keep your gains with food."

Bodybuilding has been the key to unlocking his confidence and boosting his self-esteem.

"Before, I couldn't talk to people," Jenkins said. "I was withdrawn and self-centered. Bodybuilding is better than any drug or shrink. I started getting respect from people. I thought, 'Wow, some respect instead of being told what I couldn't do.'"

Jenkins is already looking ahead to next year, when he plans on defending his title as world champion. He hopes to dead lift 550 pounds and bench 335. He will also be competing in numerous events as well.

Along the way, he will continue to show people that people can embrace their disabilities and even be proud of them. He is living proof that the word impossible is just a lack of will and imagination.

"When he used to body build, he would bench one plate on each side, and I never thought he'd be able to do much more than that because of his disability," Klindt said. "But you can see what he does now. He's amazing. He's defied all the odds."