I dropped E. at her composition lesson on 23rd St. and then went for a walk towards 5th Ave. New York City, 5th Ave., land of shopping...pretty much Hell for someone like me who avoids shopping whenever possible. I sat down in Madison Square Park instead, on a tiny piece of dry bench amid enthusiastic lawn sprinklers.
Several baby strollers later, a man rolled by in a wheelchair. He stopped directly across from me and we looked at each other for a bit as people passed between us. He was lurching with his left hand and I guessed that he had CP and was trying to pull out a communication board, so I got up and went over to look at it. We talked for a while. It was slow going since his board just had the alphabet on it. I could understand a little when he spoke, but it was such an effort for him that I was glad he went back to using the board.
I slept pretty well this week, but not that night. Since the moment I shook his hand and left to go meet E. for dinner, I have been seeing those spelled words: "I have feelings." "I can think." "I am sad." Does he talk to people much? "No." I told him why I know a little bit of what it's like to feel trapped in your own body, and how hard it is sometimes to get people to understand that your mind works even if your body doesn't. We watched the park for a while.
I have his name and address (on his board...as I spelled it into my cell phone, I felt our roles reverse for an instant). He doesn't have e-mail, so I am sending him a letter. Now I am mentally thanking my 4th grade teacher for bringing in her friend with CP every week to help us with our assignments. Because of that, I knew what the board on his lap was for, from across the way. And I'm mentally thanking him for rolling by, and for stopping, because it reminds me that 20 minutes can be very full of life.