The Right Choice for Capt. Scott Miller : This 34-year-old Granada Hills family man, this grown-up boy-next-door . . . seems to understand what is expected of him. It has become a matter of duty.

One doctor was an optimist. The other was a pessimist.

Not that both weren’t excellent physicians. The medical care, Scott Miller says, was “outstanding.” But they had different bedside manners.

Miller heard the stories from his wife, Kathi.

“He may be paralyzed the rest of his life,” the pessimist would tell her.

The optimist would say: “I don’t know.”

“He may never swallow again. He may never talk again,” the pessimist would say.

The optimist would say: “I don’t know.”

Capt. Scott Miller of the Los Angeles Fire Department tells this story as he sits in his 10th-floor cubicle inside City Hall East. Not only does he walk, talk and swallow, but these days he is fit enough to supervise a team of high-rise fire safety inspectors.

Miller’s left arm hangs limply. It was paralyzed a year ago tonight as Los Angeles erupted in rage and flames. Most of us were watching TV when the news bulletin hit: A firefighter has been shot in the face.

The other day, Capt. Miller shrugged and offered an embarrassed grin when asked how it feels to be a symbol for Los Angeles. This 34-year-old Granada Hills family man, this grown-up boy-next-door with an unassuming manner and a bullet lodged in his neck, seems to understand what is expected of him. It has become a matter of duty.

Scott Miller-as-metaphor. The temptation is irresistible. An L.A. native. Graduates from Van Nuys High School, class of ’76. Matriculates at Pierce, Valley and Cal State L.A. Joins the city Fire Department. And then. . . .

The bullet slammed into his right cheek as he piloted a hook-and-ladder through the madness of Western Avenue. He slumped over the steering wheel as Capt. Francis Howard, sitting beside him, guided the rig to a stop. The crew rushed him to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center.

He never lost consciousness. En route to the hospital, Miller thought about Kathi, their 6-year-old boy, Ryan, and 4-year-old girl, Julianne. He thought about a brother, a utility worker, who had been killed in an accident on the job. He thought about how hard it had been for his family.

The bullet had severed a carotid artery; the loss of blood caused a paralyzing stroke. A few weeks after the shooting, Miller’s spirits sank so low he asked Kathi to make sure their affairs were in order. He worried he would die.

A short time later, the patient realized he had to make a decision about his own doctors and the effect they were having on his family.

“I was in the hospital for five weeks before realizing I had to tell them who was in charge.”

He chose the optimist.

Well-wishers have sent Scott Miller “literally thousands” of cards, letters and donations--money that Miller turned over to a fund for firefighters’ widows and orphans. Not long ago, he received a different sort of letter, written by the mother of the man arrested for allegedly firing the crippling shot. She wanted Miller to know why she believes her boy is innocent.

Miller spoke of how hard it must be for her. And he spoke of his own children, struggling to understand why someone could be so mean as to hurt their father.

Didn’t he ever feel bitterness? “Why? What purpose does it serve? What good is it going to do?”

Miller grinned and warned that he was going to get philosophical. It is his deeply held conviction, he said, that people too often “need to blame somebody” for their troubles. Instead of assigning blame, he suggested, people would be better off trying to solve problems. What were the riots but an exercise in blame and vengeance? All that tragedy, including his own shooting, Miller said, was a misguided attempt at “vigilante justice.”

His voice thickened with emotion. “Things happen. . . . You have to accept some of the things that happen to you. I can’t change what happened to me. It happened.”

Acceptance is one thing, resignation quite another. That’s why Miller is still in therapy, hoping to regain the use of his left arm and hand.

“You aren’t done recovering,” the metaphor said, “until you quit trying.”

Miller returned to South L.A. in January to be honored by the First African Methodist Episcopal for setting an example of tolerance.

“His courage was not demolished,” the Rev. J.L. Armstrong declared. “Instead, you sensed and felt his aura of tolerance. . . . Capt. Miller, First A.M.E. Church is proud to know you.”

The other day, Scott Miller shrugged about that too.

All in the line of duty.

Scott Harris’ column appears Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday. Readers can write to Harris at The Times Valley Edition, 20000 Prairie St., Chatsworth 91311.