Long and painful journey stretches on

Doc Norris was alive. His condition finally stabilized a couple of weeks after the shooting. Now, the struggle to rebuild his face — and his life — began.

Underneath long white coils of bandages, the lower half of his face hung in tatters, his lower lip, chin and the remaining stub of his tongue barely discernible. The sides of his jaw hung with no connecting bone in the middle.

He breathed through one tube and ate through another. His eyes spoke of sadness and pain.

Weeks would pass before Norris stabilized enough to undergo the first of nearly two dozen facial-reconstruction surgeries. Some procedures spanned several hours as surgeons deftly blended art and

A titanium plate filled the gap between the floating hinges of his jaw, while skin and bone grafted from his shoulder blades formed a new chin.

But the new layers of skin looked thick and unnatural, so surgeons performed frequent follow-up surgeries to cut open the bulk and scoop and burn away the extra tissue. If they cut a millimeter too deep, the fragile transplanted tissue would die and the painstaking rebuilding process would have started all over.

No medical manuals existed to guide them through the complexities of re-creating and shaping Norris' lower lip, which after countless surgeries stubbornly held a deep crease that acted like a spout on a pitcher of water and caused him to drool.

Each grueling operation left Norris' face swollen and throbbing. Massive doses

of morphine deadened the pain of phantom nerve endings, but the steady drug fix formed an addiction, and Norris soon added detox to his torturous journey.

Norris spent nearly three months confined to a hospital bed in Charleston before he was able to return home to Georgetown, where he faced new challenges.

His home haunted him. At night, he bolted awake in bed, soaking wet. The nightmares repeated the same scene: He confronts a stranger in the kitchen. An explosion. Unfathomable pain.

Even his dog, Heidi, could not forget. Heidi would not go near the back door where Franklin Lee McGirt forced his way inside, and when the dog trotted through the living room, she arced around the spot on the blue carpet where Norris nearly bled to death. The family tried to get the blood out but finally had to replace the stained section.

Crippling self-consciousness enveloped Norris when he ventured out in public. He felt like a baby when saliva spilled from his mouth. Like a child clutching a security blanket, he toted a white towel with him everywhere to swipe at the spittle. People stared when the family went into the city, and Norris knew his appearance made people uncomfortable.

Norris' family shuttled him between Georgetown and Charleston for countless surgeries and speech therapy sessions.

Counselors helped him quell the hate in his heart. But for a while he despised all young black men, even though his Bible and his pastor told him that was wrong. When investigators returned Norris' rifle, his family kept it from him because they feared he would harm himself.

Coming home also meant

confronting medical bills that would grow to nearly $1 million. Payments from a state victims' fund quickly ran out, and Social Security denied Norris' request for dentures to replace the set that was blown to bits in the shooting. The hospitals wrote off all the bills they could.

His church and churches he did not attend took up collections for the family. The local diner where Norris used to sip coffee in a worn booth placed a donation jar on the lunch counter. A local motorcycle club organized a charity ride.

In a search for normalcy, Norris climbed a ladder to make a home repair. He fell and broke his collarbone. Doctors treating the injury discovered bone cancer. In the midst of his recovery and the reconstruction surgeries, Norris added radiation and chemotherapy treatments to his calendar.

***

About one year after the

shooting, with McGirt's trial set to begin, deputy solicitor Bo Bryan felt good about his

case. But juries can be unpredictable, and Bryan had seen murderers get off with short sentences. He wondered if the family could endure a grueling

trial while Norris was still undergoing surgeries and battling cancer.

Bryan proposed a plea bargain: What if McGirt plead guilty and got 25 years in prison?

The family left the decision to Norris. He accepted the deal.

Beth Norris spoke for her dad at the sentencing. She stared coldly at McGirt, challenged him to look at her dad's face. "I hope you see it every day and every night."

McGirt stared at the courtroom floor as nearly every person in the courtroom cried, including McGirt's mother. After the sentencing, she walked up to the Norris family and hugged them. Through tears, she apologized for her son. "I did not raise him that way."

McGirt was sent to Lieber prison in Ridgeville. He'll be eligible for parole in 2025, the year he turns 41.

Norris, now 67, says he forgives McGirt and even talks of meeting him someday.

But for now, Norris focuses on the simple things, such as eating. His injury forced his wife to puree his food because he can't chew or swallow anything thicker than grits. Sometimes the food got stuck on the way down and he panicked because it reminded him of the day he almost drowned in his own blood.

Norris was hopeful he could eat normally again; maybe, someday, eat a steak. But last week his recovery took a turn: He was losing too much weight, and doctors ordered him back on a feeding tube.

Beth Norris sees the cancer devouring her dad's strength and wonders if he'll get that steak. She prays he has enough time.

Contact Ron Menchaca at 937-5724 or rmenchaca@postandcourier.com