Communication Not Lacking in This Relationship - disabled person: personal account of a realationship - Brief Article

Accent on Living, Summer, 2001

How was your conference on augmentative and alternative communication?" Mom asked me when I returned from the 1988 conference

"Great! I found someone special there," I said. "Not again," Mom said wearily. "Are you sure that your heart can stand being broken again?" I considered reminding my mom that life is a series of risks. Still, Mom's concern was justified. I was born with cerebral palsy and cannot talk, walk, or use my hands. I communicate with an electronic communication device (Touch Talker by the Prentke-Romich Company) that is mounted inside my lap tray.

I use a motorized wheelchair, which I control with pressure from the back of my head and with buttons mounted on my tray. For 22 years I talked by pointing to a letter board on my lap tray with a stylus attached to my head by a band. Then, at age 32, I got my Touch Talker.

I wanted to answer her that it was so lonely I had to see where this relationship would lead. But I knew when to keep quiet.

I didn't share any more details. I didn't tell her that the conference included a dance so the participants could get to know each other. I had to chuckle as I remembered that the dance floor was inaccessible. I remembered that I had to ask my assistant to get my manual wheelchair. In the confusion, I forgot to take my Touch Talker onto the dance floor. A Canadian speech pathologist, who had been at a workshop I led in Toronto in 1987, saw me.

She introduced me to her colleague, Chris, an occupational therapist, and asked me if I wanted to dance with them in a group dance. However, a few minutes later the speech pathologist discretely disappeared, leaving Chris and me alone.

On the dance floor I had been stripped of all my wonderful assistive technology -- my definition of "roughing it." I couldn't even say, "Me Tarzan."

The weird and wonderful thing about it was Chris and I communicated without talking.

I didn't think it would happen, but it seemed Chris really wanted to spend time with me and dance with me.

My assistant, Don, came over to us and asked, "Do you want to dance the last dance with her on your feet? You can bear your weight, so she only has to help you balance." I looked at Chris, and she said, "I guess that would be all right."

By the time we got me out of the wheelchair the last dance had almost ended. Don shouted, "One more please," to the disc jockey. The DJ accommodated us. When the dance had ended. Don helped me back into my manual wheelchair. Then, he pulled me up the steps to my power wheelchair, strapped me into it and put my lap tray on the wheelchair. Then Don said good night and went to our room.

I liked Chris. She was incredibly honest. She had dirty blonde short hair and the brownest eyes that hid behind gold-rimmed glasses. We talked for 30 minutes. Then Chris said, "I need to get to bed. I gave a presentation early this morning. Do you need help getting back to your room?"

I shook my head and said, "I can make it back by myself. Thank you anyway. See you around."

"I wish the kids who I work with were as independent as you are," she said.

I watched her leave. Independence was highly over-rated. I hated it. I had prayed to God on several occasions to take my desire to have a wife away from me or to fulfill it. He had done neither.

At the conference Chris and I struck up a fast friendship. When the conference was over, we exchanged addresses and said we would keep in touch.

In December, Chris made the first of many treks from her home in Dundas, Ontario, Canada to Nebraska for a visit. We went to visit my parents. My parents welcomed her.

Before Chris came into my life, I settled for anyone who showed a little interest in me. I didn't care whether those women were good for me.

After two years of having a long distance relationship, Chris and I got tired of supporting our telephone companies, United Airlines and two postal systems. In 1990 Chris decided to move to Nebraska. She had to choose between living in her own country and being with me. She chose me.

Most women wouldn't cross the street for me. I didn't know why Chris was choosing me over her homeland.

"Chris needs somebody to love her and give her space. You can do that better than anyone. Chris knows this," Mom said.

Chris and I were married on October 10, 1999.

Our wedding recessional was the theme from "Mission: Impossible." We had to get an exception to the application of the state of Nebraska regulations for adults with disabilities to get married and have support and resources, get Chris' green card, buy a van with a wheelchair lift and build a wheelchair accessible house.

Sometimes it seemed as if we were doing the impossible. Of course, with God, perseverance and hard teamwork, nothing is impossible. Of course, with God, perseverance and hard teamwork, nothing is impossible.

When I was younger and naive, I sadly concluded that only two roads were available for people with severe disabilities in dealing with their feelings of love -- the road of fantasizing or the road of expecting and accepting only platonic love. Through Chris' steadfast, giving love, God has shown me that I was wrong.