Thursday, Oct. 9, 2003 | 8:22 a.m.
I HAVE been very sad.
And I have not been alone. All of Las Vegas and a significant part of the rest of the world has been saddened at the news last Friday night that Roy Horn was critically injured while performing during what may have been the last act of the Siegfried and Roy spectacular.
The immediate sadness, of course, was for Roy's situation. Life or death was a question of moments; of a surgeon's skill; of a will to live that might have lapsed.
I watched Friday night while Siegfried and Roy's longtime manager, Bernie Yuman, and MGM Mirage's Bobby Baldwin stood vigil outside the trauma center at UMC, surrounded by cast members and friends, all the time trying to make some sense of what had happened and what would happen, once Roy recovered. If Roy recovered.
There was shock. There was incredulity. There was sadness. And, as much as everyone there was focused only on Roy's survival, there was the slightest hint in peoples' eyes that showed a concern about their own futures should their worst fears be realized.
That was Friday. The rest of the weekend was just as somber, if not more so. The shock was wearing off but the news was not getting any better. More surgery was needed, the kind one suspected that carried life and death consequences. And, then, there was no news, which in Roy's case had to be good news, or so we all hoped. The world's tears did not stop, nor did the fears of his friends and extensive Las Vegas family.
I have known Roy practically since he and Siegfried made their first Las Vegas appearance, almost 30 years ago. He is one of the most disciplined and demanding people on the planet. Disciplined in the way he conducts his life and in the kindness with which he treats his animals, and demanding in the quality of performance he expects from his friends, his colleagues and, most importantly, from himself.
Mentally, he is as tough as they come. Physically, he is even tougher. So as we wait and worry, we do so with the belief that if anyone can survive the kind of injuries that he sustained last Friday night, it will be Roy Horn.
But, even with all the mental and physical preparation, even with the incredibly talented and dedicated surgeons who have worked non-stop to deal with each crisis as it happens, even with the quality of care he continues to receive, sometimes a person needs more.
I believe in my religion but no one would call me religious. I have faith, and some might even think me spiritual on some level, but I don't wear it on my sleeve or try to force it on others. Like most Americans, I believe and, therefore, I am. But I witnessed something the other night that cannot be explained just as great medical care or even great personal strength and a will to live, although both are present in abundance. What I saw and heard is in a different category or, at least, I want to believe it is. And so I want to recount what happened.
Sunday night marked the beginning of Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement for people of the Jewish faith and the holiest day of our year. Our religious services started after sundown.
In the middle of the service, as he always does, Rabbi Sandford Axelrod gives a blessing for the sick and injured. After singling out Roy Horn as someone to pray for, he asked the congregants for names of their friends and loved ones to include in the prayer. Bernie Yuman stood strong and repeated the name of his colleague and partner -- in his own way looking for any help, Divine if that's what was needed -- to save his friend.
The Rabbi's sermon followed. He spoke about the unhealthy rise of anti-Semitism in Europe and right here at home in America. He also talked about the importance of maintaining and growing our own Jewish identity in the face of such ignorance. As I had been doing all night, I turned toward Bernie to make sure he, at least, looked OK. He was not in his seat.
When he returned following the sermon, he was smiling for the first time since Friday night.
"Roy was pounding his fist on the bed," Bernie whispered, barely able to contain an emotional outpouring that is difficult to describe. As he shared the news and his elation with me, all I could think about was the word miracle.
We had entered the sanctuary uncertain of life or death. A roomful of Jewish people prayed for a man born in Nazi Germany to heal when most hope for healing was gone. He is our friend. He is Las Vegas' friend. He has earned our prayers.
Within minutes those prayers were answered by a pounding of a fist as if to say, I am still here and I will get better. The timing was uncanny.
Whatever the reason for the good news that night, the fact remains that the pounding followed the prayer. It could have been coincidence or it could have been the prayer. It really doesn't matter except to people who don't believe in miracles.
For those of us who accept the possibility, though, miracles do happen and a small one happened that night.
Roy's continued recovery gives each of us hope that as he returns to his friends and family, this sadness will go away.
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