During my months with Richard, one realization I’d been forced to accept, practically at gunpoint, was the stark contrast between insecurities and inhibitions. Richard had plenty of insecurities about his slurred speech, the respect of his peers, his value to the community, his effectiveness as a father, and on and on. He was a big ball of self-doubt.
But he had zero inhibitions.
Zilch.
It didn’t matter where we were or what was happening around us, Richard never hesitated to make himself right at home. He did things I wouldn’t have tried if I’d been all by myself. But to Richard, he was by himself. He didn’t seem to notice, or certainly mind, if he was in the middle of a crowded room. He did what he had to do to get comfortable, probably because he was in pain most of the time. Either his back ached, his bottom was peppered with saddle sores from sitting in his wheelchair all day, his migraines tag-teamed him, or his ankles and feet were swollen from tendinitis. He didn’t have time to worry about what others thought. When it came to his health, spectators were at the back of a very long line.
This truth was pounded home to me the first time we visited the Food Stamps Office in Fort Worth. There had been a mix-up with Richard’s renewal form, and though he’d long since turned in his change of address before moving to Wheaton Street, the only thing he received in the mail from the F.S.O. was a voter registration card. His food stamps had now been cut off, so we went down to Ground Zero to battle it out.
Disneyland it was not. Or even Newfoundland. Or Cleveland.
When we walked in, I wasn’t sure what the legal room capacity was, but I hoped nobody started any fires. Three lines stretched from the door to the available windows currently open to customers (two were closed). There were also seven rows of folks sitting and waiting, presumably to be called back for a face-to-face with someone possessing the requisite clout to untangle their thickets of red tape. People were packed in that room like knickknacks in a junk drawer. Many I dared examine close enough were sweating, as the air conditioner was either broken or a cost-cutting casualty. Nobody looked happy to be there. I knew I wasn’t. Little kids darted around; the angry, loud women behind the windows kept hollering “Next” or various numbers like we were waiting for pastrami in a deli; at least three men milling about looked and smelled drunk; two young women with sleeve tattoos were arguing in the back corner about hair extensions (as best I could tell); several babies cried continuously until I was ready to nurse them; the tall, lanky man ahead of us in line clutched his pack of cigarettes like they were his heart pills in case he collapsed; and a middle-aged man and woman were curled up on their chairs snoring loudly. It was a circus. One older man in the first row finally snapped and yelled, “I’m ’bout sick and tired of sittin’ up in here! Somebody better call my number right now!!” I started nodding in case he glanced my way looking for solidarity. I had his back.
We waited in line a good forty minutes just to get a number. Then the real waiting began, but unfortunately, there hadn’t been an empty seat since the lights first flicked on that morning. I found a pole to lean against, as Richard parked beside me. I took turns fanning us both with our number. I scanned behind me to see if there were any potential pickpocket threats, and when I looked back at Richard, he was gone. How could he move anywhere in that crawl space? How could I lose him here? I stood on my tiptoes searching the far wall for him but couldn’t find him. I started weaving my way through the lines, quietly calling his name like he’d wandered off during story time in the library, until I came upon him. He was hard to miss.
There, in front of Fort Worth’s finest, with every disgruntled face and bleary eye on him, Richard reclined his chair until he was lying horizontally like it was time for bed. And go to sleep was precisely what he did. He closed his eyes, and within a matter of ninety seconds, started snoring louder than the middle-aged couple balled up on their chairs. The deafening noise, curious crowd of onlookers, uncertainty of his eligibility for food stamps, heat—nothing fazed Richard. He was tired and his body needed rest, so it was naptime. I couldn’t move him out of the way because he was fully reclined and I would’ve had to straighten him first. Besides, he didn’t seem bothered at all by his location.
He slept for an hour and a half until I woke him because our number had finally been shrieked. I was in awe of his sleeping prowess. How did he do it? What was his secret? He’d slept in the middle of a roadside carnival. People had actually bumped him as they trudged by. I’d stood guard the best I could, yet short of draping my body across his, it was impossible to shield him from all contact since he was napping on a subway platform during rush hour.
As a stocky woman with arm-wrestler forearms held the door open for us to go kneel before the food stamp king’s throne, I envied Richard’s lack of inhibitions. It must’ve been a liberating way to go through life. Ironically, he probably experienced more freedom on a daily basis in his wheelchair than I did stumbling around paranoid about what others thought. In fact, it didn’t seem like too many of the raucous throng we were leaving worried a whole lot about their fellow man’s opinion. They simply did what they wanted without wasting a second on appearances. If somebody had an issue, take a number. They were busy being themselves. Richard was like that. He felt more comfortable in his own skin than I, and as we made our way down the hall to our meeting, I realized that out of the entire cast of kooky characters we’d just met, I was the weird one in the room.
R
For Thanksgiving, Richard decided turkey and stuffing weren’t enough. It was time to take his relationship with Della to the next level. The great face-to-face meeting had arrived.
I felt even more nervous than Richard. What if Della didn’t like him in person? It had taken me some time to come around to his subtle charms. Richard himself liked to joke that he was “an acquired taste.” What if she took one look at him and bailed? His self-esteem already dragged behind him. If she broke it off, he might not mend. There were many gloomy days in Funk Town ahead of us if this turned sour.
I counseled caution to buy us time. “What would it hurt to get to know her a little more?” I tossed out innocently, pleading inside. “Lay a strong foundation. And remember, absence makes the heart grow fonder.” I was hurling every cliché I knew.
“Not the brown,” Richard merely answered, as I deliberately packed the wrong dress pants in his suitcase. “The blue. You color blind?” he teased.
Yes, if that was what it took.
“Is she excited or nervous?” I asked, curious if he knew for certain. They’d spoken on the phone last night and finalized their plans. She was having Thanksgiving dinner with her family and he was invited to come. Now, it wasn’t entirely clear who had done the inviting. He said he told Della he would come, yet I didn’t know if that was in response to her request or if he’d invited himself. I had my suspicions. It was hard to know for sure because Richard had a way of imposing his will without insisting. His persistence, determination, and excitement left little room for alternative plans. There was one way to proceed and it was the route he happened to favor and everybody was glad to be on board helping out.
I supposed, in the end, our own preferences felt fairly trivial compared to Richard’s needs and the chance to serve him in some small way. However noble our intentions, though, there was usually a small dash of selfishness mixed in, as there was no denying it made us all feel better to help him.
I really didn’t feel like pressing the issue of whether he was about to descend on Della and her family before she was ready to see him. He didn’t need to hear negativity right now. He was under enough pressure, and it was a moot point anyway. His tickets were bought, his bags almost packed, and he and Michael and Troy were flying to Manchester, Tennessee, tomorrow evening. All we could do now was hope for the best with infinite optimism.
That was when he told me. It literally felt like the wind got knocked out of me.
He was
n’t just going to Manchester to see Della, eat a bunch of food, spill lots of gravy on his bib, and take a nap in the middle of everyone. He had other intentions. Major ones. My only response was, “Say that again.”
He smiled and razzed, “Now you’re blind and deaf?”
Again, if that was what it took.
He repeated once more for the blind, deaf, and dumbfounded in the room, “I’m gonna propose to Della.”
“Marriage?”
“What else?”
I could think of a few suggestions. Horseshoes? A double feature? Was it too late to take him out for ice cream and forget this online dating business? I wasn’t sure how this would go over, but I had to say it: “Richard, you haven’t even met her in person. Don’t you think you’re rushing things a bit?”
He laughed like I was doing a stand-up routine. He said, “When you know, you know.”
I wanted to point out several historical examples of leaders who’d been absolutely certain they were doing the right thing and weren’t even close. Hitler came to mind. Yet rather than detour into World War II, I kept the focus on the crisis at hand. “Just remember one thing,” I emphasized. “You and Della have both been married before. She might not be as anxious to dive into another marriage as you. You should take it slow. Don’t risk scaring her off.”
Unfortunately, Richard knew only one speed—GO—and he was in gear. I wasn’t even sure he heard me. It reminded me of my older brother, David, who had struggled with drugs when he was a teenager. It took him almost ten years to get clean, but when he finally went off to college in his mid-twenties, he did his four-year degree in three years. When I asked why, he said he had lots of time to make up. It seemed Richard wanted to win back lost time, too, as fast as possible. He wanted to prove everyone wrong and grab the dream before it slithered away. His future was now, and I couldn’t blame him. I just didn’t want to see his spirit crushed.
The next day was phase one of Richard’s Master Plan. He and Troy and I headed to the nearby mall to secure an engagement ring. Of course, Richard cut a deal with the manager of the jewelry store for a price reduction on his chosen ring. He was a master salesman and could smile his way into a discount with anyone. When it was time to pay, Richard had Troy clutch his wallet in his mouth and drop it on the counter, and then as we exited the store, Troy carried the bag with his teeth. I was a little nervous Troy might get excited and chomp down on the contents, yet Richard wasn’t concerned.
We spent the day taking care of last-minute preparations for his trip, as well as doing a little schoolwork. He was slogging his way through Spiritual Formation and Discipleship Ministries, his two classes during the current eight-week session. Every eight weeks we did two more, though Richard had wisely started with just one class to get used to the coursework. I was looking forward to the Christmas break when the school train finally pulled into the station for a rest. We’d survived two more classes and were now pushing through our fourth and fifth since I began. The pressure was far greater than I’d anticipated. I wanted Richard to learn as much as possible and improve his study techniques and writing abilities, yet we also had to finish by the deadlines. Weeks rolled by as we crept through textbooks listening to Computer Lady torture us, and when we looked up, a week remained in the session before all assignments had to be submitted. The last few days of each class were a mad dash to the finish line, with many late nights and nerve-wracking exams. Richard passed every course, though, and the dream of earning a master’s degree was still alive.
I couldn’t afford to fly with Richard to Tennessee, but at least he had Michael and Troy. Plus, Bryan was battling through his first semester back at seminary, so I wanted to make sure he didn’t short-circuit under pressure. I seemed to be his security blanket, which made me feel valuable but also torn because I knew Richard could’ve used my help, too. I was extremely concerned Richard’s Master Plan wouldn’t turn out quite the way he envisioned. Plots were rarely executed without hiccups. I actually told him that right before I left and his evening attendant arrived to prepare him for a good night’s rest for his early-morning flight. I said, “Just remember, you may not land on the runway, but a field will do nicely.” He looked up at me, horrified, and I realized what I’d said. “Not your flight—I don’t mean your flight. Figuratively speaking. Your plan. I mean your plan might not work out perfectly, but it’ll still be fine. Just stay open-minded. Okay?”
He smiled and laughed like everything was a done deal. “Happy Thanksgiving,” was all he said as I pulled out my keys to leave. I hope it is, I thought. I hope it is.
Chapter Six
A Second Chance for Three
The best-laid plans…
Richard’s morning attendant had an unexpected emergency and couldn’t come, so a nearby volunteer was pressed into service to bathe and dress him for his trip. I lived too far away to make it in time, and I didn’t know his morning routine anyway. For some odd reason, the volunteer thought Steve Urkel’s look would win over Della, so when Richard got off the plane to meet her, his dress shirt was tucked deeply into his pants, while his trousers were hiked up near his armpits. All he was missing was the huge glasses.
As if that wasn’t enough of a fashion statement, Richard dyed the gray in his hair brown. He desperately wanted to impress Della.
I later asked why he’d dyed his hair, and he simply answered, “Why not? Makes me feel good.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
Then he confessed, in an admirable show of honesty, “I wanted to look younger.”
Didn’t we all.
Della wasn’t sure what to make of him. He was stuffed in an airport wheelchair, his dyed hair poking out of what was left of his shirt—it looked like his pants were the tide rising up drowning everything. His head was barely above water. Della thought he resembled an elf. She was noticeably quiet after they hugged, prompting Richard to ask if she was okay.
“Yes,” she said a bit hesitantly as they, Michael, and Troy poked along to baggage claim to collect Richard’s wheelchair. Finally, she asked, “Do you always dress like this?”
Richard explained about the volunteer who had helped him get ready. He threw in a smile to help his cause.
Della knew he sensed her awkwardness, so she said, “Don’t worry. Just keep talking—your voice is my familiar friend.” It was true. For months, they’d only spoken on the phone and exchanged emails. They’d seen photos of each other online, yet it was his voice, slurred speech and all, she knew best. She’d fallen for his sense of humor, kindness, and compassion, not to mention his perseverance, so connecting all of those staggering traits with his mangled, elfish body took a minute. But she was in good hands. Richard would gladly talk her ear off if that was what it took to win her over.
At first, Michael was shy around Della, and when they got to her house and met her three daughters and son, he didn’t say much. Eventually, though, he peeked out of his shell. Before long, they couldn’t shut him up. Like father, like son. Everyone was impressed with how bright and helpful he was.
While Michael was adjusting to his new scenery, Troy was more than willing to pick up the socializing slack. He wanted to lick every leg, hand, and arm like they were coated in peanut butter, and to show the crowd all the neat tricks in his repertoire. However, for every lick, Richard yelled “Aaah!” which sounded a lot like the interview with the reporter. I was glad I missed a repeat performance. Troy was simply excited to meet new people and needed to be reminded he was on duty. This wasn’t a vacation—he had a job to do.
After lunch, they all drove to the Gaylord Opryland Hotel in Nashville about an hour away to do a little sightseeing. While strolling around, the excitement, anxiousness, intensity, and lack of sleep of the day, on top of a full tummy, hit Richard like a haymaker and he was out cold. All engines immediately shut down. He fell asleep in the hotel’s botanical gardens, while the rest of their
group milled about waiting for him to wake up.
When he finally came to, they ventured over to Opry Mills mall, where Richard accidentally peed on the floor by a kiosk. It wasn’t his fault; Michael had emptied his urine bag but forgotten to seal the bottom after strapping the pouch back on his ankle. The next time Richard relieved himself, urine ran straight down his leg onto the floor. Employees of the mall blamed the accident on Troy, who wasn’t offended in the slightest by the unjust accusation. Instead, he tried to lick their hands as they pointed at him.
Richard, Michael, and Troy stayed at a hotel in Manchester, but unfortunately, Richard’s lack of an attendant made it extremely difficult on Della. Michael could do only so much, and besides, it wasn’t right to ask a ten-year-old to bathe his dad or help him use the bathroom. Since none of Richard’s attendants could make the trip, Della drew the short straw. She and her son, Daniel, had to give Richard a bath and put him to bed each night. However, it wasn’t until later that Richard finally got a portable lift, so Della and her son and a few gracious volunteers had to hoist Richard all by themselves. One night, Richard ended up on the floor during transition but was unharmed. Another day, Richard got his chair stuck on the ramp of the van he’d rented for the visit, and they had to ask strangers to rescue him.
None of this fazed Richard because emergencies were a regular part of his life. This was normal. It would’ve been unusual if nothing had gone wrong. But Della wasn’t used to this. She’d been looking forward to spending Thanksgiving with her new boyfriend, not bathing him. It was a lot for her to handle. I felt incredibly guilty that I couldn’t be there to help, and I was more worried than ever about Richard’s proposal. It definitely didn’t seem like the right weekend to pop the question.
Life at 8 mph Page 5
