|
|
 A
link to
navigation |
|
ImaginationBy Amy Halloran I’m sad when I think of my father’s stroke and how it affected his body. And if I’m not near him, feeling the comfort of our togetherness, my sadness grows. Once, my dad had a great physicality. He was a bike rider, golfer, loved to tell jokes with his body, face and voice. Now, I feel sorry for him and the loss of movement he’s had for eighteen months. He was such a goofball that when he did have the stroke, my mother thought he collapsed to the ground for comic effect. He still loves to tell jokes, using his upper body in the effort. His face opens wide with amusement, pulling anyone near him into his love for the story he’s telling, his love for life. But now his humor is subdued, the mood is more serious post-stroke. Like anyone who’s been forced to accept new limits from his body, my father tends to get downcast. This makes my family and I try to find new ways for him to be inside himself, and outside in the world. It’s a great challenge to think beyond the basic parameters of accessibility - to go beyond the necessities of ramps and grab bars, and think about ways to fit the wheelchair, literally and metaphorically, into everyday life. When my father was first at home we overcame the initial hurdles of learning where he needed our help and what offers were pushy and out-of-place. Now, the question is how do we get around the idea of “Dad’s in a wheelchair” and get back to the fact that Dad is our dad. We seek ways to remind ourselves, and him, that he is still the same man, even if the spirit we recall leaping about our lives is a little buried in his body. My father has difficulty adjusting to the realities of life in a wheelchair; I think he probably still identifies much more with a bicycle than with his current wheeled vehicle. This is to be expected, considering he rode a bike for 66 years. He doesn’t yet have an easy relationship with his disability, so we work hard to get him to places that resemble the natural. We’ve built environments he’d enjoy, like the library, movies, having lunch out, and taking walks on the bike trail. Last summer we went to the beach that had the wonderful balloon wheeled chairs, and this winter to the Christmas tree farm. This last trip exemplifies an idea I’m trying to adopt as a philosophy. I want to help my father think of himself as able-bodied again, and the trip to the tree farm really worked. On a warmish day in December, my dad rode in a hay wagon up a hill he used to climb. At the top of the hill, which overlooks a glorious view of other hills, trees and farmland, the tree farmer pushed my father’s wheelchair over the frozen lumpy ground between the rows of trees. When my dad found the tree he wanted, he expected someone else to cut it down. “I can’t get in there,” he said. My husband cut a few limbs out of the way and wheeled my dad to the trunk. My father, formerly right-handed, used his left hand to cut down his Christmas tree. The trip was my husband, Jack’s idea. He has the gift of imagining that all things are possible in the world and is responsible for pushing my father beyond his idea of what he can do. Jack’s made dad see himself in a new light. This attitude of believing life is an open book is ideal, but it can also be frustrating when trying to settle on a restaurant for dinner. Imagination, it seems, is the key. My three-year-old son lives in many stories, imagining he’s a fireman and a farmer. Everyday he asks the people that we meet whether they can help us on one of two missions: getting farm animals to our urban yard or helping us save the lost reindeer. I am willing to embrace my son’s fantasies, just as my father once embraced mine; which I’m told resembled my son’s. This is what parents do for children. We see our kids becoming astronauts and climbing mountains – whatever they ask us to envision. Working with my parent parallels my parenthood. I am asking my father to believe in fantasies again: that he can be fully himself inside his physical limitations. And sometimes, he plays my game. This is what we need to do for people who’ve suffered a grave physical change. We need to imagine them being ballerinas of the mind or dancing in wheelchairs on the stage . . . seeing beyond reality. Granted, when you’ve walked most of your life, it is tough to reconfigure your idea of yourself as wheeled instead of ambulatory. I can understand my father’s trials and adjustments. The activities we invent help to connect his old self-image with the new one, getting my father back in the world; a place I think he feels he doesn’t belong if he hasn’t brought himself there on his own. And the wild wheelchair adventures bring our family together, adding new memories to our emotional bank accounts. Most importantly they tell everyone, especially my dad, he’s the man he was. They get the spirit that told a joke using all parts of his body to surface again, resuscitating my father’s impish appreciation of life. Our ideas . . . his ideas . . . of what it means to be him are changed. He might not be dropping by to say hello on his way home from golfing, but he will be calling me on the phone, coming with me to the movies, or even, if we find the right tricycle to buy for him, riding with me on the bike trail again. **************** Amy Halloran, is a writer who lives in upstate New York with her husband and two sons. |
 |
|
|
ABOUT US: Contact InformationEditorial TeamTermsContributorsSubmissions ADERTISING: Opportunities Classified Informercial' Underwriters ARCHIVES: Archived Issues Cover Stories Features MARKET PLACEAdvertisers Products ServicesSubscriptions MISCELANEOUS: More NewsLinks'FeedbackPolls SEARCH: Web site Internet',Donate |
Copyright © 2007 by ILCHV |
