We are sad to hear that Paul Alexander, known as “the man in the iron lung” or “Polio Paul”, has passed away 💔 Paul was left paralysed after getting polio in 1952 when he was just 6. He could only move his head, neck and mouth and almost died before doctors put him in an iron lung. It was this machine that kept him alive for 70 years… Check comments for his unique story:👇

Paul Alexander: The Man in the Iron Lung Who Refused to Surrender Paul Alexander lived a life that defied every expectation. For over 70 years, he depended

on an iron lung—a vintage breathing machine from 1928—to survive. Yet, despite spending most of his life inside a metal canister, Paul chose to live boldly and without apology.

He became a lawyer, an author, and an enduring symbol of resilience. “I am not going to accept from anybody their limitations on my life. Not gonna do it.

My life is incredible.”
Life Inside the Iron Lung “Is this what death is? Is this a coffin?” Paul recalled asking himself as he adjusted to his new reality.

His only means of survival was the iron lung, which created negative pressure to pull air into his lungs. Paul spent the next 18 months in that machine, recovering as best he could in a world that offered

few answers and even less compassion. 1952 was the deadliest year for polio in the U.S.—nearly 60,000 cases were reported, with thousands of children dying.

Paul wasn’t just lucky to survive; he was determined to thrive.

He remembered overhearing nurses say, “He’s going to die today.” Each time, it only fueled his will to live.

Learning to Breathe Again After his release, Paul began working with a therapist named Mrs. Sullivan. She challenged him to learn “frog breathing”—a

technique to temporarily breathe without the iron lung—by promising him a puppy if he could manage three minutes on his own. Within a year, he did it. Eventually, he could spend hours outside the machine.

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Nobody expected fifty bikers at my son\’s funeral. Least of all the four teenagers who put him there. I\’m not a crier. Twenty-six years as a high school janitor taught me to keep my emotions locked down tight. But when that first Harley rumbled into the cemetery parking lot, followed by another, then another, until the whole place vibrated with thunder—that\’s when I finally broke. My fourteen-year-old boy, Mikey, had hanged himself in our garage. The note he left mentioned four classmates by name. \”I can\’t take it anymore, Dad,\” he\’d written. \”They won\’t stop. Every day they say I should kill myself. Now they\’ll be happy.\” The police called it \”unfortunate but not criminal.\” The school principal offered \”thoughts and prayers\” then suggested we have the funeral during school hours to \”avoid potential incidents.\” I\’d never felt so powerless. Couldn\’t protect my boy while he was alive. Couldn\’t get justice after he was gone. Then Sam showed up at our door. Six-foot-three, leather vest, gray beard down to his chest. I recognized him—he pumped gas at the station where Mikey and I would stop for slushies after his therapy appointments. \”Heard about your boy,\” he said, standing awkward on our porch. \”My nephew did the same thing three years back. Different school, same reason.\” I didn\’t know what to say, so I just nodded. \”Thing is,\” Sam continued, looking past me like the words hurt to say, \”nobody stood up for my nephew. Not at the end, not after. Nobody made those kids face what they did.\” He handed me a folded paper with a phone number. \”You call if you want us there. No trouble, just… presence.\” I didn\’t call. Not at first. But the night before the funeral, I found Mikey\’s journal. Pages of torment. Screenshots of text messages telling my gentle, struggling son to \”do everyone a favor and end it.\” My hands shook as I dialed the number. \”How many people you expecting at this funeral?\” Sam asked after I explained. \”Maybe thirty. Family, some teachers. None of his classmates.\” \”The ones who bullied him—they coming?\” \”Principal said they\’re planning to, with their parents. To \’show support.\’\” The words tasted like acid. Sam was quiet for a moment. \”We\’ll be there at nine. You won\’t have to worry about a thing.\” I didn\’t understand what he meant until I saw them the next morning—a sea of leather vests, weathered faces, and solemn eyes. The Hell\’s Angels patches visible as they formed two lines leading to the small chapel, creating a corridor of protection. The funeral director approached me, panic in his eyes. \”Sir, there are… numerous motorcycle enthusiasts arriving. Should I call the police?\” \”They\’re invited guests,\” I said. When the four boys arrived with their parents, confused expressions turned to fear as they saw the bikers. Sam stepped forward and…. Check out the first comment to read the full story

Nobody expected fifty bikers at my son’s funeral. Least of all the four teenagers who put him there. I’m not a crier. Twenty-six years as a high…