Dove in the Rock

My dad just returned from a whirlwind trip to Italy with his two sisters, and is now leaving for a week at the coast with all his siblings and their families. Now that he is on disability leave, he is taking the advice of those further progressed in their disease to “do those things you’ve always wanted to do, while you can still do them.” (Read: while you can still walk.) But even this first trip to Italy was punctuated with sharp reminders that his physical abilities are inexorably slipping away. He had to purchase a travel wheelchair to take over transportation when his legs gave out every day around noon. He says people stare at him while he’s in it.

He hates that chair.

Dad has always been muscled. I remember as a kid, my friends at sleepovers would gape at my dad in a tank top and exclaim behind their hands over how “buff” he was. Their dads must have all had pot-bellies like most dads, but of course I assumed all dads looked like mine. I didn’t even know what “buff” meant. His body has always been very important to him, and he loves to run and weight train. Now, even at 58, he still looks better than many (most?) 30-year-olds I know. In spite of the receded hairline and salt-with-very-little-pepper hair, he still has large, well-defined muscles and looks like he could jog up four flights of stairs without getting out of breath.

So I can understand why folks might stare at my dad in a wheelchair. A very able-looking man being pushed over Italian cobblestones by a tiny little slip of a woman is incongruous. Imagine Arnold being pushed by Mother Theresa and dial it back a notch (but only one notch). It doesn’t compute. It makes you take a second look and think, “Wow, what’s his problem? He doesn’t look feeble.” But those huge muscles are merely a shadow, souvenirs of my dad’s former physical prowess. They cannot endure the strain of a full day’s tour. Lately they can barely endure the strain of a quick trip to the grocery store. Their appearance is deceiving.

So give him the benefit of the doubt. I know I’ve judged the capable-looking people climbing out of their handicapped-stickered cars at the store, thinking they were abusing the privilege. Surely you couldn’t be disabled enough to need that sticker, why don’t you leave the parking spot for the grannies who do? But until the disease wastes my dad’s muscles enough for his appearance to match his abilities, I will be the one pushing the chair, pleading with my eyes as you gawk at us, “Please don’t stare. It’s not his fault. He’s dying, and he hates it. Please just give him a break.”

Posted on July 13th, 2007 by Dove
Filed under: ALS, Learning