Is There a Doctor in the House?

Wheelchair life is one big video game

Written in the thick of the pandemic, and dedicated to Judy Heumann, who fought to make grocery stores and everything else accessible.

When I write, I'm trying to open minds by sharing my experiences. And now, my friends, I'm going to do just that for you. I want you to see things through my eyes -- but I'll need your help. If you'll look behind my ear, there's a little latch. I'm quadriplegic and can't reach it myself. So, if could you get that for me? Thanks! It pops right up and the whole top flips off… Like so! Now you can climb right into the captain's chair you see there behind my eyes. Go on, get yourself a seat. Get comfortable. There. Flip it back closed, and all right! You'll find emergency exits to your left and to the right. Now, strap yourself in: It's gonna be a bumpy ride. 

We've been keeping Covid-cautious, but today's a special mission because we're out of staples here at the house. But even more importantly, my wife is out of Dr. Pepper, and caregivers and lovers cannot exist by bread alone. So it's Diet DP STAT! I mean, you haven't seen my wife without Diet DP. Yike! We'd better hurry. Let's go!

We push through the front door and already she has the wheelchair lift lowered. We'll back onto the wheelchair lift. Then up we go into the van, and into the back of the van, making sure there's room on all four sides for the tiedowns. Then, kick on the jams and we're on our way. 

Now, rules of the road. These country roads are bumpy, so you have to hold on tight. So I want all of you to do an exercise with me right now. I want you to tighten your stomach muscles. Go on. Pull in your belly button to your spine, and push your elbows into the armrests. Can you feel how tight your belly is right now? Good, because brace yourself! here come the railroad tracks! Arrgh! It's rough riding with me, but hang in there, 'cause we're just getting started. I promise I'll try to warn you of potholes, all right? 

We turn out onto the state highway. We pass the rusted woodmill. The homesteads with shaggy trees. There's a few ranches and an old family cemetery we go by. Seven miles into town, New Albany, Texas, population 2041. There's not lot of money for roads and everyone drives big trucks. So, watch out, POTHOLE! Whew! I told you it would be a rough ride, right? And don't relax, because pulling into the Dollar Store is an even bigger one -- BRACE YOURSELF! I warned ya. But tell you what: Hang in there, and I'll pick up a treat for youinside. The fun part is still to come. Now let's park this beast, mask up, and get this done. 

OK, it's time to play a game. Remember Pac-Man, the classic arcade game? You know the one. Well, this will be like Pac-Man, but it's in 3D. You and I are going to navigate the maze of aisles, looking for our treasures -- which today are going to be Noodles, Fruit, and Protein Bars. All the while, we'll have to dodge the obstacles we find, and especially avoid the "Blue Goblins," the folks not wearing masks, which these days, is pretty much everyone. The clock will be ticking, so we gotta be quick. Take too long, and you could catch Covid: Game over. Meanwhile, Mab will be working on a list of her own, and afterward we'll meet up and get the heck out of there. So get ready. Player One, begin! 

We go down the first aisle. Waka waka waka waka waka. That's the noise I make behind my mask. It's from the old Pac-Man game, remember that? You should see the stares I get when people see me go by: "What the?" Waka waka waka waka waka waka! But we can't have too good of a time: If I don't keep my eyes on the road, I tend to crash into stuff and then it's, "Clean up on Aisle 1!" But already we've found our first item, and that is Pad Thai Noodles. Of course I can't reach them, and I can't write it down, so I memorize P for Pad Thai Noodles, and then it's off to the next aisle. Waka waka waka waka waka.

Aisle 2, there's a pallet in the middle of the aisle. Skip! Go to the next section. All right, now we're in produce. Hmm, the apricots look good. OK, A is for apricots. So we already have P, and now we have A. But we also have, like, a family reunion happening here on the left. and on the right, incoming! A goblin! Back up out of there. Beep-beep-beep-beep. Waka waka waka waka waka waka!

Next aisle. We get three-quarters of the way down and there's a shopping cart that I can't quite squeeze past. (Game show loser sound.) Turn around, go all the way back to the beginning of the aisle.

Next aisle, coast is clear! Let's go, go, zigzagging through the next couple aisles, looking ... and there! It's our final treasure. The protein bars. Actually they're called Lara Bars. L is for Lara. So we've got P, we've got A, and now there's an L. P-A-L, that spells "pal." Let's find Mab and we'll track down pal. Come on! Waka waka waka waka waka. And of course, she's secured the prime directive, which is a grocery cart full of Diet DP, liquid gold, Texas tea. Mission accomplished! Let's pay up and blow this popsicle stand. Waka waka waka waka waka waka.

All right, here we are, safely back in the van. And since you were such a good sport, I got you that treat I promised. It's a Twix bar. And I hope you like to share, because remember ... I know where the potholes are!

Sitting Up for What You Believe in — a Self-Advocacy Win

  Ask and ye shall receive, especially if you ask again and again, or maybe not. Sometimes you have to keep on asking.

This might be a little long but it's a big win and maybe somebody else is challenged or frustrated getting medical professionals to hear them too. I am getting a new wheelchair. After five years you are eligible for one under Medicare. Nancy, my chair, is 5 years old and I'm generally happy with her. I named her for the clinic office manager who fought so hard to push the procurement process through the bureaucratic whirlpool that it was stuck in: I was literally calling the equipment provider, who told me, "You've got to call your insurance company," and then the insurance company would tell me, "You've got to call your provider," and back and forth and on and on. Until Nancy, sweet but dogged, stepped in and started knocking heads together. Actually I never knew exactly what she did, but a few weeks later I had a sparkly new wheelchair, with blue highlights almost the color of the eyes of, you guessed it, Nancy. I wonder how Nancy's doing.

I got the idea of an upgrade from Dr. K when I asked about improving my posture. I don't sit up as straight as I'd like, but it's workable and after a few years I am comfortable in it. But still, posture is a big deal when you're sitting as much as I do. She gave me the once over, and stopped at my chair. She looked like she ate some bad seafood. "How old is that chair?" she said, but her voice said, "You dragged that skanky-ass thing in my clinic?"

I said it's only 4 years old. Don't mess with my Nancy, right?

"You bring this up with me again next year. You need a new chair." And sure enough, at my next appointment she urged me to get a new chair, that new refinements are built into the new chairs all the time. Besides I needed better posture, and the experts at TIRR Memorial Hermann would set me up/sit me up in the best way possible -- and there, I knew she was right. "If you're eligible," she said, talking about insurance, "then you should get it."

When I got home I straight-away made an appointment at the ceiling clinic so we could order my chair. Alas, poor Nancy, you're going out to pasture.

The seating clinic at TIRR Kirby Glen in Houston is top-notch, in my book. Last year, they literally changed my life. I drive my chair with a head array, with drive sensors in the pads of the headrest. I press my head to the right and I go right. I press my head to the left and I go left. It took time to get used to, but it's a setup that keeps me going. Problem was, everything was setup for me and my condition four years ago, which apparently is not the same as me and my condition now. As I would tire throughout the day I began leaning to my left side, so that I could not reach the right side of the headrest as easily. Imagine paddling a kayak with one oar shorter than the other. You might just go around and around in a circle. On a weekend night, I would really be in my glory: After an evening of drinkies – it can get cold as the campfire logs burn down -- you might see me at 2 AM, circling around and around down the road, loping my way gradually home. My buddy patiently walked beside me, probably getting dizzy watching me. Great guy that he is, he would escort me all the way home before I ran into a ditch. There are stories round these parts. … 

Head array: Each button and pad controls something different.

So last year my seating tech at Kirby Glen and my private DME provider who often works with him gave me a new seatback that wrapped around my sides for more support. The result was that I sat up much straighter and more securely. Sitting straighter meant I had better access to my drive controls, i.e., the pads of my headrest, so that I could drive better and more safely. I could go more than 20 feet at a time without having to reposition myself or take a breather. I could go over a bump and not have to stop for 10 seconds to get myself together again. Instead of moving forward in Spirograph loops, I was going wherever the heck I wanted to, even older bumpy hiking trails in state and national parks. In fact, I've grown so used to trails on our camping trips that when I get home I have to keep going out for 2-3 miles every day or I get all stir crazy. That's a gigantic difference! In short, life is so much better now and it's because of two guys. So yeah, I was happy I was going to see them at Kirby Glen again to get fitted for a new chair.

Before the appointment I printed out a list of my questions and issues for everyone in the room, because that's what I do. It's completely anal, but I learned to do it because I always forget to bring things up in the office. We get more done this way. My tech snatched up his copy and said, "We like lists." On it I included features I wanted included on my new chair -- like the things that suck the worst about my current chair (sorry, Nancy) and what I want different in the new one. We took my measurements and I chose which options I wanted, kind of like when you're buying a new car, which is fun. There are a lot of colors available now too. I was admiring the red with metallic gold highlights I'd chosen, kind of Iron Man-y. "This is pretty wild," I said.

The tech laughed. "Not really."

"Old-guy wild, OK? I'm an old guy now."

He laughed. But here's why he is very cool: As I'm telling them the things about Nancy that I want different on my new chair, they started fixing up Nancy too -- something I really was not expecting. "What else you want?" they said. I told them again how they literally changed my life, but mentioned that my posture was bad.

"How so?" was their response, which was weird because whenever I catch myself in the mirror, I cringe. Shoulders hunched, arms lying like dead fish in my lap, and my head and neck craned forward. These guys can't see anything wrong here? And they are seating experts? The same ones who helped me so much last year? At that point I was remembering that I brought up the same issue with them the year before. Hmm.

Slumping 24/7.

They watched me take a spin around the small office area, and I'm paraphrasing from here on, but they said, "It looks like you are set."

"I don't want to be set," I said. "I want it changed."

"But it could mess with your driving, and you're driving well. Are you comfortable?"

"I am comfortable, but I could be better. I want to be better. I want to sit up, I want to breathe more deeply. I want better digestion."

"Are you sure?" they said. "A lot of people don't do well with change."

"I've got no problem with change. I want to sit better."

"But everyone has their own way of doing things. It may not be physically perfect-looking, but it's what works for them. Are you the type of people who can deal with change?"

"Yes," my wife and I both chimed in. "I want to sit better. Can we adjust the headrest a little and see how I do with it right here?"

Finally they got up and reached for the tools. They started on my headrest.

It was that kind of back and forth and back and forth until they really heard what we wanted AND my wife and I both (it was definitely a team effort) convinced them that we were for real. Obviously they'd been burned when making adjustments to people's very personalized setups. Experiences like that would tend to make a seating tech gunshy, right? But finally they took up their tools and made adjustments. Now the headrest is further back and in a more natural position, and after a few hours of getting used to it, I'm driving fine. On my next visit we'll move it back still further. Very happy.

Me jumping for joy: a seat elevator to reach the peanut butter.

Same thing with my armrests and my hands always being in my lap. For one thing it was terrible posture and was contributing to my poor digestion and poor breathing, which you can hear in the lack of power in my voice. Another concern I had was the cell phone mount that would go on my new chair and threatened to make the profile of my chair even higher and unable to fit underneath our furniture and countertops. Already Nancy was just able to scrape under our dining table. Any taller and I would lose more access in my home. So, the seating techs heard this and got to work trying out a couple of ideas. The phone mount would go on my armrest and unfortunately we could not lower the armrests at all, but what the techs did was to angle the front of the armrests down slightly. This accomplished a lot of things. The slightly lowered position allowed my arms to stay up on the armrests better, and suddenly my permanently shrugging shoulders now looked squared-away again -- I forgot what that looked like, but man it felt great. My posture is so much better. Plus, when we arrived home we found out that I could easily get underneath my table and desk now. Before, I had to have things perfectly positioned in order to just barely squeak in. Win-win.

Wow, were we happy that day. It was like getting parts of the house back again. And we didn't even have to call some expensive remodeling contractor. The crazy part was that I had asked for these things for a couple years at least, and from a couple of different DME outfits, including these guys. But here in one 90-minute session they fixed all of it. Why now? One, I guess we were being persistent. Two, was bringing my wife along so I had backup and another voice and set of ears. Three, was overcoming the techs' misgivings about messing with a setup that was adequate but not perfect. They explained that it was because of their experiences from working with a lot of people with a lot of different setups. To break through their protective shell, we had to keep requesting and reassuring them that change was what we truly wanted. By doing so, we scored a jackpot.

In a few weeks Nancy will be grazing in a meadow as my backup chair. And now I'm also more confident that my next chair will be even better. Straight up.

Kicking around main street in Paw Paw, Michigan

Last week we camped out with a good friend in Lawton, in southwestern Michigan, between South Haven and Kalamazoo. Melville's 7 Lakes Campground is wooded and has lakes, and the woman in the office is helpful. But on the other hand, the campground's dirt-gravel roads and hilly terrain aren't especially wheelchair-friendly to check out those lakes, and the sites are a little too close for privacy, particularly at campfire time. Also, it is down the road from the Welch's plant where my grandmother worked for 20 years. This is fruit country, and it is where my dad and grandpa once bought a couple of acres of land and to start a blueberry field, long ago sold. We put a lot of work in and had a lot of family around here, and the campground was a good home base for us to look around the area and visit with our memories.

Melville's 7 Lakes Campground 269-312-0262, 14701 96th Van Buren St., Lawton MI.

Site 49. ADA, level pull-through gravel site, water, elect., no sewer, near bathhouse. $35 per night, cash/check only. Https://www.facebook.com/Melvilles-7-Lakes-Family-Campground-LLC-216925315021918/

We spent an afternoon with my uncle and aunt, whom we hadn't seen since before the pandemic. When you haven't seen one in a long time, you don't know what you're going to find. But they both looked great and jolly. It was a warm reunion with a lot of laughs. Days like this have turned out to be one of our favorite things about traveling the way we do. Intimate, unhurried visits, in spaces where we feel comfortable since we still are Covid-wary. But they are visits that actually get made and we really see people we want, instead of vague 'let's do that sometime' and glad-talk. And if plans fall through, no big deal, we're out camping.

In nearby Bangor, we visited the small cemetery where my grandparents are buried. By the eeriest coincidence, Mab's grandparents are buried there as well. Yet neither of us are from that area and we met far from here! Spooky strange. We were there in 1995 for the burial of my aunt, and Mab felt a weird jolt of déjà vu. She thought she remembered the burial of her grandfather there, when she was not even five years old. Indeed, her uncle (now deceased) confirmed that her grandparents were buried at that very cemetery, but we never knew exactly where. The city hall, where we could have looked it up, closed five minutes before we arrived. Anyway, skipping ahead, after much wandering and doubt, and in and out of the car and in and out and in and out of the car again, channeling instincts or spirits or whatever you want to call them, she found their graves! You should have seen how her face and body lit up at that instant. Unforgettable.

Down the road, Paw Paw is the county seat of Van Buren County. Lawrence and South Haven both tried to lure away the honor by building county courthouses, but Paw Paw built one itself in 1845. Now that building is the Paw Paw City Hall, because Paw Paw built a more impressive one in 1903 that is on the National Register of Historic Places. 

Kicking around main street, we peered through the glass into the Strand Theater and a sweet lady surprised us with a mini tour of the old movie place. It was converted from the stable of the volunteer fire department. The wood floors were original, the seats were not. A couple of the bulky old projectors were stored at the back of the balcony, which don't show up in the picture. Now it's only open for special events, but the popcorn machine works great and she made us a large bucket.

There was a lot more family overlay here that I can't get into, which along with the company made the trip quite special. A modest getaway, and probably not much to read or write about, but it was a family pilgrimage with some of the sacred in it for me and the kind of great moments we go out for. Getting out there generates its own rewards.

Fall: fun or not?

How do you feel when fall comes around? How does the MS react in you?

Fall used to be my jam! The dread summer heat and humidity had gone, and the air felt crisp, light and refreshing. With every breath I was breathing in energy. I would sit straighter. I would go places and get things done. I had awoken from a long drowsiness and was out in the mix again, before the winter came.

Fast forward a few years, and the same invigorating coolness in the air now feels like chill. It triggers my muscle tone, and leads to aches and fatigue. Now the sunshine is swapped out for dreary gray skies and wetness. Such is life: MS changes and so do we.

I still savor autumn, it's colors, it's smells, but I do so under another layer or two of clothing – and would someone shut that damn window please?

Your place of power: How online MS support groups can enrich your life

        Support groups are powerful places. They can be safe harbors, where we find friends, shoulders to lean on, or someone who will actually listen. How rare is that when we need those things the most?

        I’m no expert, but after 30 years with MS, I’ve seen my share of support groups. As many as I’ve seen, I still wish I’d joined even more and met even more people who shared my situation – because a good support group is such a lifeline. It’s a fire in the hearth on the longest night of the year, and in good times, is a wind in your sail because you know that somewhere is a group of people who know you’re not lazy, not “crazy,” and are fully deserving of dignity and respect.

        One of the most insidious enemies for me and others with MS is isolation. While we’re battling the five-alarm fires of MS (you know what they are) with everything we’ve got, isolation is doing its quiet work in the background, building up brick by brick. When mobility impairments, fatigue, depression and a host of other symptoms arise, so do barriers and isolation from the rest of the world. The terrible irony is that right when we need support the most, the barriers creating isolation in the first place are also turning the effort of going to group meetings into more a stressor than a safe harbor. That’s where online support groups become such a blessing.

        Continue at the "Momentum Magazine" blog: https://momentummagazineonline.com/blog/find-your-place-of-power-how-online-ms-support-groups-can-enrich-your-life/

Somebody Make These: Portable Access Blocks

We’re walking past a new development going up next to our neighborhood. Exciting, right? With brand new sidewalks ringing the site. Sweet curb cutouts, with the gripper things on them. Newborn concrete with the crisp, clean edges: I almost start baby-talking to it. “You’re such a cute cutout. You’re going to be so accessible. Yes, you are. Yes, you are.”

What stopped me, literally, was that those adorable curb-cuts on either side of the development’s entrance do not match up with the level of the road. They’re not even close. It's not a bump. It’s a shelf, it's a ledge. It's a No Way, Jose.

I've got to think that when the construction is done and the last big machine has rumbled away, that they’re going to repave the development and make things flush. My town is good about building in new accessibility and retrofitting what’s old. But here I sit. As Nina Simone would say, I want access now.

Enter the Mab, resourceful wife extraordinaire. We spied some sandbags lying around, there to weigh down a couple of iron separators to keep traffic out, after-hours. Because she works out, Mab was able to carry over a pair of bags that looked to be a size and shape we might work with. And work they did — and there they still sit, their radioactive yellow skins visible all the way down the block. Voile, accessibility. I’d show you right here but I still suck about pictures.

Ferne Clyffe State Park

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OK, This story has a happy ending but it illustrates that even with “accessibility” present, there are usually many micro-obstacles and problems to be got around. In recent hikes at beautiful Ferne Clyffe State Park in downstate Goreville, Illinois, featuring the primordial limestone formations of that spirit-filled Shawnee Natl. Forest region, we ran into several of these junior obstacles that were enough to foil me on consecutive days. Loose rocks in the path, and concrete slabs and culverts that over the years have become displaced and inaccessible: things that are easily remedied with the smallest budgetary outlay – a few bags of concrete and to clear away obstacles once a month – and someone who gave a shit. I made a couple of attempts at Rocky Hollow Trail, but despite the help of strangers, and our getting further on each try, I was stopped right before the waterfall because of a smallish ledge to gain the final bridge. #$%^&*, as they say. Or how about paying a frigging camp host on site to make sure the campers aren't hijacking ALL the public water spigots? You’ve already commissioned the infrastructure spending, which is the hard part. Now let's give a crap and do better, Illinois DNR. (And an accessible trail at Starved Rock too, damn it.)

The best part of travel: These rockin' folks ;) cleared away a pile of stones.

Also the best part of travel: scenery (Ferne Clyffe SP).

One more: the Ship (Ferne Clyffe SP).

So, here is my big idea, hatched during this otherwise magical but waterfall-less hike:

A Portable Bag of Access Blocks, in a bag hooked to the back of my chair, featuring  

Blocks of durable lightweight plastic that might snap together, or have rough edges to minimize sliding.

Snapable flat pieces, like the skinny pieces in Legos.

Like so: RV leveling blocks.

Wedges in a couple of different angles and sizes. Must be able to use to get over entryway stoops.

A lightweight foldable ramp?

Larger rectangle risers, like the rectangle Lego blocks? How much room do I have in me bag anyway? Maybe the risers should be collapsible.

We need these! What are your ideas, reader?

So you wanna see the waterfall, huh?

Where's muh access blocks?

The Parking Placard (Black n') Blues

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the ADA, Which Just Turned 32

It’s an epiphany when you realize for the first time that the white stick-figure on the blue parking sign is you. That's you. Now you can park in that fat sirloin of a spot. Now you are “the disabled.”

For me, this leap to disabilityhood was as every bit as much a mental process as a physical one. And I fought the knowledge, down the line, tooth and nail. I always did, with every new adaptation or assistive device, fight, fight, fight. To some that sounds courageous, but really it’s ridiculous. But I was young, I was always healthy, and I was a guy. I didn't need no parking placard: that's for other people. I didn't need nothing. 

I had a thick head. 

Something new, something blue.

So what changed my mind? I can’t remember the moment I decided to pick up a disability parking application. It must have been some watershed event, perhaps my 1,000th fall, the one that rattles your very teeth. Falling itself was no big deal, and I might do it a half dozen times in a day. After a while, my body looked like Keith Richards’ after a bender, but cry-cry, I dusted myself off and got back in the game – because you've got to, nobody's going to pay your way. But maybe that 1,000th time was the one to slosh my brain in its comfy bath of cerebrospinal fluid: Wake up, you green-gray piece of fat!

I used a walker then. An aluminum walker, to go along with my biker jacket. I would drag the thing to the grocery store for a few items, forgetting half of them by the time I reached the aisles. No browsing, no price-shopping, I just toppled things into the basket, teetering in the checkout while I fished for money, and dragging my Frankenstein feet out to the parking lot again, cars politely navigating around me - although the occasional Einstein would honk, not that I could turn around to see him, not that I could reach around to flick him off.

Muh sexy ride.

As my legs exhausted themselves, each step became smaller, smaller, until my energy was drained and my limbs locked like jointless boards due to muscle tone. In the middle of the parking lot, I stood stock still, like performance art, like the Tin Woodsman in the days before Dorothy Gale. 

To make things a little easier, the walker had wheels on the front legs so I could shove it along instead of lifting and planting it on every step. But once fatigued, I lost the power to hold the walker in place, and the wheels assumed a more insidious role, creeping forward slowly. As they gained momentum, I thought, No, no, this can't be happening. Unable to lift my feet, my upright posture deteriorated into a wider and wider triangle as the walker rolled further away. As my angle increased, I could hear Carly Simon singing “Anticipation.” I couldn’t let go to break my fall - my hands were locked - so I'd take a deep breath and bail, turning my face as best I could, because I don’t need to be any uglier.

On the way down, I’d think: Don't land on the Chef Boyardee!

This happened once on a frigid winter night, after my friend and I had attended a wake and on the way home, stopped for a nightcap. The parking lot was a thin, solid sheet of ice. I straggled back to my car, up a slight incline of drainage built into the black asphalt. Along the way I had to stop and rest, talking to my patiently shivering friend while we waited for my chilly legs to unlock.

I detected motion. Yep, I was sliding backward over the ice, in the direction of the drain. I was unable to move or resist; like a Gemini astronaut, I was only along for the ride. At the time I had no idea where I was going: I wasn't even facing the direction I was headed.

My buddy circled nervously around me. “Hey, Fred Astaire, what do I do?”

I was picking up speed. So I had to be honest with the guy. “I got nothing."

Jim dug in behind me to brace me, but honestly, in our leather-soled dress shoes, we might as well have been in ice skates. At this point I think he was pushing back simply to save his own hide. But there was nothing he could do; there was nothing anyone could do. We were a runaway train, and I was taking him down with me.

I sometimes imagine what it was like for someone in the warm comfort of their car to watch us gliiiide across that parking lot. Floating, gracefully rotating in space. Maybe the Blue Danube Waltz was playing on their radio, <CUED UP FOR YOUR LISTENING PLEASURE> 

while we skated from one side of their windshield, all the way across to the other side of the windshield. … Faster and faster… Have you watched curling in the winter Olympics?… 

On and on and on… Circling the drain...

What would become of our intrepid boys?

That’s when I started laughing. In uncontrollable circumstances, laughing is often the best thing to do. In Chicago when freezing your body parts off we often laugh it off with our friends. Because it's better to freeze body parts off together and be laughing, then it is to freeze body parts off and not be laughing. And that's the science behind that.

But also, convulsive laughter is useful in defeating spasticity. In an instant, we were a giggling heap of metal and man sprawled on the dark ice. In our slick shoes, we'd be stranded on that parking lot for some time. For the life of me, I can't figure out how we ever got up again.

Lucky were the times when there was a friend around and frictionless ice to fall on. More often, it was a sidewalk or bathroom or busy street crosswalk, hopefully with one or more gallant onlookers there to drag me out of danger and stuff me in my car. After I’d rebuff their offers for medical help, I would fall asleep on the front seat, sometimes for over an hour, sometimes with the engine running.

Somewhere in there happened magic No. 1000, the one to knock some sense in my noggin, the one to make my broken capillaries cry out, “Get the blue placard, already!”

Before then, I clung to a strange, outmoded idea of what independence is. But once I crossed that thin blue sign, what I found was a fuller independence of accessible jobs, housing, education and protected rights, accessible medicine and tech and yes, even decent curb cutouts and parking spaces - a whole societal push to involve everyone, to bring everybody to the decision-making table, even hardheaded fools who happened to fall upon the right decision one day, after he fell absolutely every other place first.

Viva the ADA.