Chapter 6 - Why Bram uses a wheelchair Bram was born with spina bifida.
I learned the words during pregnancy.
Then learned fifty more words I did not want.
Myelomeningocele.
Hydrocephalus monitoring.
Orthotics.
Neurogenic bladder.
Physical therapy.
Skin checks.
Mobility planning.
We had prepared for catastrophe because that is what terrified expectant parents do when specialists begin drawing diagrams.
Then Bram arrived.
And the medical terminology had to compete with the fact that he hated bananas.
Loved trucks.
Slept better with one hand outside the blanket.
Called elevators “room cars” until age three.
His legs had significant weakness.
He could stand briefly with support and transfer with assistance, but a wheelchair gave him independent mobility.
At six, he could move himself faster than most adults walked.
He opened doors.
Navigated school.
Raced children down accessible ramps despite repeated warnings from me.
The wheelchair was not a tragic prison.
The inaccessible environment was usually the problem.
People sometimes were too.
Cordelia had always claimed she understood that.
She bought him an expensive adaptive bicycle when he turned five.
Donated to a spina bifida fundraiser.
Told friends:
“Our Bram never lets anything stop him.”
I had once found that sentence sweet.
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After the wedding, I heard what sat underneath it.
She admired him most when his disability became invisible through effort.
