With a Noose Around My Neck, But with Chopa on My Hand: The True Story of Master Eduard

My name is Eduard Reznik. I am 52 years old. I was born and raised in Almaty, Kazakhstan. All my life, I was a strong, fit man. Standing at 172 cm, I weighed 82 kilograms of pure muscle. I worked as a professional driver, summers were spent fishing with friends and playing billiards, and in the winter, my absolute passion was alpine skiing. I had been skiing since early childhood, was skilled in freestyle elements, and went freeriding in deep powder. Every weekend was spent in the mountains. But one day in December 2015 at Shymbulak wiped out everything I had.

It was an ordinary weekend. I took a few runs, not pushing too hard. I sat in a cafe, had a coffee, and got into the gondola lift. To this day, I remember the faces of the people I rode up to the top station with... and then nothing. A piece of my memory was completely erased. I don’t remember how I skied down, nor do I remember the crash. I came to my senses at the bottom of the slope. My skis were nearby, and my stiff professional boots, which I always unbuckled in the cafe to rest my feet, were tightly fastened. Not a scratch, not a bruise. Nothing hurt. Only my right arm hung like a dead weight. Fueled by pure adrenaline, I managed to carry my heavy gear to the car, get behind the wheel, and drive all the way home. My partner and I joked at the time: "Well, it’s just hanging there, it’ll work tomorrow."

It didn’t. The traumatic shock kept me going for about three days with no pain, but on the fourth day, I woke up in agonizing, unbearable pain. Most likely, on the slope, the nerve near my collarbone held on by thin fibers, and while sleeping, I turned and tore it completely. The diagnosis was Erb-Duchenne paralysis. The surgery was scheduled only two months later. Because of the pain, I couldn't sleep or eat; my weight dropped from 82 to 54 kilograms.

This hellish post-op pain did not go away for more than three years. I was heavily medicated for years. Tramadol, two tablets twice a day - I lived in a fog from this narcotic for years. Then Phenazepam, then Lyrica (Pregabalin), Neuromidin... I was swallowing a handful of pills - 15 at a time, several times a day. These medications completely destroyed my body: my liver and stomach suffered, and I developed drug - induced colitis. The muscles in my shoulder and chest fully atrophied. They simply receive no nerve impulses from the severed nerve. I went to rehabilitation centers, did physical therapy, massages, and special exercises, but the muscles kept melting away, exposing the bones. My physical progress went backward. From a strong athlete, I turned into a frail man. Because of the pills, all my teeth crumbled. The last money left from selling my car went toward full dental implants. It cost as much as two good grinders. A year ago, I got my teeth fixed, but I was left completely penniless.

It turned out that the friends I had spent years with were gone. I simply disappeared from their lives, locked in my pain, and not a single soul ever called to ask: "Edik, are you alive?". The woman I loved, with whom I lived as a common-law family in her apartment for many years, only endured my night groans of pain for a year. Then she left, sold her apartment, and I was left on the street. Who needs a disabled cripple who can’t do anything around the house or in bed?

With no health, no home, and no friends, I returned to my elderly parents. Now my father is up in years, taking care of my mother who has dementia, and carrying me at the same time. In Kazakhstan, the medical commission doesn't care about your pain - they transferred me from the second disability group to the third, which is considered "working." My welfare allowance was cut, yet nobody hires a disabled person. Moreover, we used to have to re-confirm our disability every year for 5 years, undergoing a day hospital where they shock you with neurostimulation to check your nerve impulses. Now the law has changed - you have to endure this exhaustion for 6 years. These circles of hell in public clinics, endless lines to surgeons, neurologists, eye doctors, screenings, ultrasounds... To make it, I always tried to arrive before everyone else, standing for hours in corridors. There is a catastrophic lack of money even for food. I am deeply ashamed that I, a grown man, am eating my elderly parents out of house and home, living on their tiny pension. Sometimes, from this hopelessness and a perpetual sleep deprivation of 4 hours a night, a sense of complete despair fills my mind. I honestly feel overwhelmed by this mental and physical agony. It feels like you are just a dead weight. But happiness is when you are needed by someone. When nobody gives a damn about you, you are just miserable and helpless.

But there are two things in my life keeping me here.

The first is my only true friend, a human in feathers. Seven and a half years ago, I was returning from another medical commission, broken and exhausted. In a park, I saw stray dogs cornering a tiny magpie chick with no tail. I fought off the dogs and brought her home. I named her Chopochka. I never taught her to talk, but she grew up by my side, listening to me praise her: "good bird, important bird." And Chopochka learned it all! Now she always lands on my hand and praises herself with my exact words. She wouldn't survive without me; she would perish. And this responsibility for a living soul holds me to this world tighter than anything else. She turned out to be more loyal than any human I have ever known.

And the second thing is my dream of a small home knife workshop. This love was born deep in my childhood. We had a neighbor in the garage cooperative- an old grandfather, Uncle Sasha. We kids always ran to him; he taught us how to fix bicycles, showed us how to build things with our own hands. He had a large, homemade machine with a powerful motor where he made knives. I asked to try, but he strictly said: "When you grow up -the tool is dangerous." And so before the army, when I was about 16, I walked in while he was sharpening blades. I had a piece of steel at home - a forged bearing, a blank that someone wanted to make into a knife but never did. Uncle Sasha said: "If you have something to work with, come on in." He showed me how to grind bevels, I took the tool, and on my very first try, I made my first knife. It worked, and that feeling of creation captivated me for life. Many years later, Uncle Sasha passed away, but his lessons remained.

Yes, I can no longer forge metal. But doing the grinding, repairs, and sharpening is completely within my power! After rehabilitation, my arm lifts to 90 degrees, it bends at the elbow, and I can feel the blanks with my fingers and hold them securely. I want to make custom kitchen and working knives, and also offer knife repair and sharpening services to people in the neighborhood. It is routine work, and even if it won't bring in big money, it will help improve my financial situation, make me feel needed, and bring utility to others. I genuinely love doing this.

I already have basic tools: a small angle grinder, a drill, and a Dremel rotary tool. My working process is fully calculated (1 - 3 knives every three days, step-by-step so as not to overload my arm). But to grind accurate bevels with one hand, I vitally need a reliable, professional belt grinder built for 900 mm to 1250 mm belts, along with a variable-frequency drive (to adjust speed so I don't burn the steel) and a surface grinding attachment to perfectly flatten raw forged blanks. This entire working setup with attachments costs around $2,600. Raising this amount from a reduced welfare check is impossible. My previous campaign on FundRazr yielded no results because people couldn't see the living human being behind the dry lines.

It hurts. All my life, I helped the weak, protected others, and looked after the elderly. Even now, stepping off a bus or trolleybus, I use my one working left hand to catch strollers and help young mothers lower them to the ground. It’s not hard for me, and it makes my soul feel good to be of use. But when I needed help myself, the world turned its back.

I am not writing this story for pity. I do not want sympathy. I want simple human understanding. Being alone, feeling thrown overboard, existing as a dead weight - it is terrifying and painful. I am looking for people, makers, and like-minded individuals who will see me as a man ready to work, and help me launch my workshop. As long as we have compassion and a dream inside us, and our hands are ready to hold a tool - we are alive.

In conclusion, I want to speak to those who are currently walking through their own personal hell. To those sitting in a hospital room after a severe injury, shattered by a diagnosis, or driven to despair by endless medical boards. I know what it feels like to wake up in shock, to look at your altered body, and to feel like a dead weight that nobody needs.

Please, do not give up. Losing your job or having the people you counted as friends walk away is not the end of who you are. It is merely a dividing line, beyond which a completely new chapter begins. Admitting that you can no longer live the way you used to is not a sign of weakness. It is the first and hardest step toward accepting your new reality and rebuilding yourself from the ground up.

Look for whatever makes your heart beat - whether it is caring for a defenseless living creature or finding a craft into which you can pour your soul. As long as we retain our capacity for compassion, as long as we hold onto our dreams, and as long as our hands are ready to hold a tool - we remain human. We remain the masters of our own lives. Hold on, no matter what. You are not alone.

  In conclusion, I want to speak to those who are currently walking through their own personal hell. To those sitting in a hospital room after a severe injury, shattered by a diagnosis, or driven to despair by endless medical boards. I know what it feels like to wake up in shock, to look at your altered body, and to feel like a dead weight that nobody needs.

  Please, do not give up. Losing your job or having the people you counted as friends walk away is not the end of who you are. It is merely a dividing line, beyond which a completely new chapter begins. Admitting that you can no longer live the way you used to is not a sign of weakness. It is the first and hardest step toward accepting your new reality and rebuilding yourself from the ground up.

   Look for whatever makes your heart beat - whether it is caring for a defenseless living creature or finding a craft into which you can pour your soul. As long as we retain our capacity for compassion, as long as we hold onto our dreams, and as long as our hands are ready to hold a tool - we remain human. We remain the masters of our own lives. Hold on, no matter what. You are not alone.