Lê Minh Đức

From a grandfather’s embrace to Lionhearted steps forward

Even before I came into the world, an ultrasound revealed that my body might not have the strength to endure life. My parents were asked to sign a waiver, accepting full responsibility should I not survive.

My father fell silent. My mother clutched her belly and wept. But there was one person, only one, who refused to accept such a verdict. My grandfather. He would later become the steadfast legs that carried me through twelve years of schooling. In those lean post-subsidy years, he gave up his job, devoting all his time and energy to caring for me, so that my parents could return to their work. From that moment, my journey to push past limits began.

With brittle bone disease, half of my childhood was spent within the four walls of a hospital. Cold operating rooms, burning calcium infusions, stiff hospital beds, white bandages wrapped around my body, and the steady hum of medical machines all became imprinted in my young memory.

I broke bones so often that the crackling sound of X-ray films sliding out of the machine became familiar. Each time I fractured a femur, I was cast in plaster from hip to toe, trapped in stillness, unable to turn or sit up. Days blurred into weeks as I lay frozen, staring at a white ceiling, listening to the ticking of the clock, feeling every muscle grow numb.

That was the raw truth, a truth my grandfather quietly embraced without a word of complaint. Together we became familiar faces to every doctor, nurse, and orderly in the Orthopedic Department on the twelfth floor of the National Children’s Hospital. Each time we were admitted, he would still joke: “Hello, everyone, my grandson and I are back again!”

When I first entered school age, the simple joy of childhood quickly blended with constant worries. My whole family felt as if we were sitting on fire: Would I be able to fit in? Would I be able to make friends? And if I did, would I be safe? Small questions, yet they cut deep.

Still, I was a child, and a playful one, just like any other. During my twelve years of school, I broke bones thirty times. Thirty times lying motionless in a hospital bed. Thirty times listening to lessons and taking notes from a wheelchair. Thirty times enduring calcium infusions and plaster casts that stretched from my legs to my waist. And thirty times when family dinners were left unfinished.

Those were the years when my grandfather worried for me in the operating room while weaving bamboo mats to earn money, and building with his own hands a special wheelchair just for me. It could tilt sideways so I could listen to lessons more easily and still take notes. That chair was not just a wheelchair. It was a work of love. I remember the shiny black welds along the steel frame, each one carefully forged with his patience and devotion.

On days when my legs were not broken, he pedaled me to school on an old bicycle. On days when I was wrapped in plaster, he pushed me steadily in the wheelchair. In the rain, an old raincoat covered us both. In the sun, a cloth wrapped around his head shielded us from the heat.

His strong hands pushed the wheels over potholes and up slopes. His silhouette, tireless beside the wheelchair, carved a lesson deep into my mind: “As long as you still have the chance to study and to live, never let it go to waste.”

Through five years of primary school and four years of middle school, I never once had to worry about calling home for help. He was always there, waiting by the guard’s post, prepared for whatever could happen.

I still remember the day I was chosen to compete in a district-level exam. The venue was a school I had never seen before. No one on the organizing committee seemed to imagine there could be a contestant in a wheelchair. And as fate would have it, the exam room was on the third floor.

Standing at the staircase, my heart pounded. I thought I would have to give up. But my grandfather would not allow that. He decided to do something that still feels extraordinary to me. He carried both me and the heavy wheelchair, with my legs stiff in plaster, all the way up to the third floor.

At first, he asked two security guards for help. He took the hardest spot, standing in front with his back to me, bearing most of the weight on his shoulders, drenched in sweat. The other two held the sides to keep the chair steady.

We had only climbed two steps when something unexpected happened. More people rushed in to help: both students and their parents. The weight that seemed to rest on the back of one old man was suddenly shared by many.

Tears welled in my eyes, but I told myself to finish the exam. I only won third prize. But for me, it was a victory. It was not just proof of my own effort, but a tribute to my grandfather’s love and sacrifice, and to the hands of strangers who stepped forward at just the right time.

40 times of breaking bones. Fifteen surgeries. Countless nights writhing in pain so deep it reached the marrow. In those moments, I felt like I would collapse completely.

Yet instead of accepting a life bound to a wheelchair, a fierce desire rose within me: to walk on my own two feet, even if only for a few steps. I would not let myself give in. Knowledge was the only road that could carry me beyond the limits of this fragile body. But if I wanted to truly “run” alongside my friends, I knew I had to stand on my own legs.

The journey began with daily physical therapy. Each tiny movement that seemed so simple to others became a mountain to climb for me. My bones were fragile, my muscles almost powerless. Many times the pain twisted through my body, sweat soaked my back, and all I could feel was helplessness.

But the image of my family and the dream of walking on my own fueled me with strength. Alongside that came a strict weight-loss regimen. Every kilogram lost meant less burden on my fragile frame. As my body grew lighter, I challenged myself with customized gym exercises designed to build core strength and activate the supporting muscle groups.

Then one day, the moment I had longed for finally arrived. I was able to leave behind the familiar wheelchair and move on to crutches. It was an overwhelming milestone, a turning point in my life.

From two crutches, down to one, and now I can walk with relative independence, no longer bound to a wheelchair or reliant on anyone else. This independence is not only physical, it is a liberation of the spirit.

The dream of studying abroad had been with me since childhood, but illness and family finances were walls too high to climb. If not for the cost of medicine and surgeries, I might have studied overseas three or four years ago. So “studying abroad at home” became the most realistic choice, and it allowed me to stay close to my family, the ones who had always been my strongest foundation.

In my final year of high school, like many of my peers, I wrestled with questions about the future. I considered each school, each program, always asking myself: “Which place will be the springboard that launches me into the world?”

That was when BUV came into my life like destiny. I was fortunate to become the Champion of the Founder’s Scholarship in 2024. Yet more moving than the award itself was the joy that lit up the faces of my family, my parents, and my grandfather, the people who had sacrificed their youth to care for me, who placed unwavering faith in me when others believed I would never make it this far.

On the day I received my BUV scholarship, I worried about whether I could fit in, having grown up in such a different environment. But BUV gave me the answer I needed, and it was the opposite of fear.

I felt the warmth of friendship from my peers, the dedication in every lecture from my teachers, and the kind smiles of the janitors and security guards. Extracurricular activities and community projects helped me grow in extraordinary ways, not only in academics but also in life skills and the ability to connect with others. From a boy once afraid to speak with foreigners because of grammar and pronunciation, I have become confident enough to hold conversations and make friends with people from Russia, Ukraine, and beyond.

This journey is not defined by a scholarship alone. It is living proof of the power of family love, of tireless perseverance, and of a burning determination - not only in study, but in overcoming every obstacle on my own. No prophecy, no limitation can stop the steps of a heart that loves deeply and never gives up.