A WheelchairJunkie.com Production

By Mark E. Smith

I’ve been around so many with disabilities, and heard so many stories about how disability unexpectedly enters people’s lives – from a birth accident to a never-before-seen disease – that I’m rarely surprised by what I hear. After all, I understand that any of our lives can change in an instant.

Still, when such a life change occur to someone who I personally know, it always thought provoking.

My acquaintance, Lou, is the type of person who a wife never wants her husband to hangout with. Lou’s the frat boy who never grew up, who if you meet up with him at a bar after work, it’s going to be a long night of carousing. To make matters worse, Lou’s part-time job has been as a one-man act, singing and playing guitar at bars a few nights per week. All of this adds up to the fact that if you are around Lou, booze and chicks aren’t far – which explains why he’s the type that our wives warn us of!

But, even my wife and sister love Lou. We’d go see him playing on a Wednesday night, and he’d give into my wife’s request, and play a Bon Jovi tune, her favorite, sounding every bit like Jon Bon Jovi, even though he hated every minute of it. And, Lou’s notorious for getting my brother-in-law in ridiculous amounts of trouble, bar hoping late into the night, but my sister could never stay mad at Lou due to his jovial, kid-like zest.

In my own hanging out with Lou, I learned that he was big into mountain bike racing, so through my roles in the wheelchair industry, I know wheel manufacturers in the bike industry, too, and I was able to hook him up with a wheel sponsor, for which he was appreciative. And, I’ve even taken my daughter to see Lou play his music, where he joked around with her like a big clown with a guitar.

So, eight weeks ago, we were all shocked when we got the news: Lou was in the hospital – at a trauma center out of town, no less.

From my career, I know that one only goes to an out-of-town trauma center when something is really wrong. But, what could have possibly happened to Lou that was so serious that he was rushed to a trauma center?

Was Lou an idiot, and got in a drunk-driving accident? After all, Lou’s been known to drink more than a bit when a good time is to be had.

Or, did Lou go over the handlebars of his mountain bike, maybe resulting in a head or spinal cord injury?

These were my first two thoughts; however, neither was the case.

Lou was simply at home one evening, watching his two small children alone, when he collapsed to the floor. At 33 years old, the eternal frat boy, Lou, had a major stroke, effecting both sides of his brain – his entire life screeching to a halt in an instant.

Fortunately, swift medical care saved Lou’s life. Yet, as you can imagine, the effects of his stroke are profound, affecting the right side of his body and his speech, requiring that he uses a wheelchair. Still, Lou’s cognitive skills thankfully remain, where he wishes to return to 90% capacity, namely because he states that he was only 80% before. That’s Lou!

My sister and brother-in-law went to visit Lou in rehab several weeks ago. My sister, of course, has grown up around me and others with disabilities, and has been fighting cancer, herself, during the past year, so she certainly went to visit Lou with greater empathy than others might posses, understanding how life changes in an instant.

Interestingly, my sister shared with me that Lou asked how I was. I couldn’t help but wonder if, now in his own wheelchair, Lou thought about me and my disability in a different light? I mean, was he asking about me as just another friend, or was there some understanding that, as the only guy in a wheelchair who he knew, I might somehow understand what he was going through?

On the other hand, what was I to say to Lou? I knew realities that others around him might not, that the obvious symptoms from the stroke were just a small piece of the puzzle, that he likely has a long road ahead of him, probably filled with frustrations, financial hardships, and stress that he’s never known. Yet, with perseverance and strength – that is, an understanding that life doesn’t knock us down without presenting us the opportunity to rise even higher than before – he could also not only get through these toughest of times, but even find a clarity within his life that would inspire him toward new directions of growth, empowering him to greater roles of success as a father, husband, friend, and colleague. Was this the talk to have, sharing with Lou that the fundamental key to succeeding in his situation – in any of our situations – is not to dwell on what we’ve lost, but to value where we are and focus on where we’re going?

Yet, I also understood that Lou was still Lou, and who was I to presume that he needed anything from me other than what had always been our relationship – that is, as just another guy hanging out, regardless of disability?

I opted to play it by ear, and had the privilege of attending a benefit for Lou this past week. Of course, Lou is Lou, so while there was a refreshing number of others with disabilities in attendance from his rehab center, it was an overall crazy rock-n-roll bash at a nightclub, with a bunch of bands, and more hot babes and booze than I’ve seen in quite awhile – all raising funds for Lou and his children.

And, when I ran into Lou in the lobby, I couldn’t help but be myself, treating him as the guy I know, pulling my wheelchair beside his, placing my hand on his shoulder, and razzing him a bit, stating, “Welcome to the gang, brother – may you not be a life-long member.”

Even he had to laugh at my warped – but well-intended – sentiments. Indeed, sometimes the best words of support and encouragement come in the form of the sickest of humor.

By Mark E. Smith

Dear Larry,

I’m writing to let you know that you’ve ushered in a new day in America – at least for me.

It is true that I long lost sleep over you. I confess that you made me question my ideology that no one has a right to judge another’s choice of mobility. I mean, I truly don’t care what type of wheelchairs others use – if it works for them, great. Yet, you, in your lithium-induced haze, were the exception. Truly, I wished myself to sleep at night hoping that I could somehow bring your decadent, swinging soul into the twenty-first century with a modern wheelchair. I mean, really, Larry, why did you insist on using hospital-type wheelchairs for decades when mobility technology has come so far? You’ve made hundreds of millions of dollars exploiting others, so why not put some of that scantily-clad cash toward a good cause like a high-tech wheelchair for yourself?

Yes, I understand that your mind is often occupied with prescription medication, barely-coherent voices ranting about freedom of speech, and ambitions to further your pornographic empire. However, behind your glazed eyes, there must have been some room for consideration of improved mobility for yourself, right? After all, you demonstrated some sort of reasoning in gold plating your 40-year-old hospital-type wheelchair, so you clearly considered your mobility on some level.

But, alas, Larry, you have been redeemed, seen out-and-about in your new wheelchair, a gold-plated ultralight. No, I don’t know how one gold plates an aluminum wheelchair, but damn it looks good with your white, patent leather loafers.

Oh, Larry, aren’t you glad that you finally made the switch to a modern wheelchair, where your bodyguards have an easier time stowing it in your limousine, and where your adult film star dates have an easier time pushing you down the red carpet?

Surely you must. And, Larry, your new ultralight manual wheelchair must be easier for you to propel, too, right? In fact, I can imagine that you have much more energy now throughout the day, no longer struggling to move around the gaudy, red and gold decor that you call an office, with much more energy to do the activities that you most enjoy – like smoking fine cigars while pontificating about pornography.

Enjoy your new wheelchair, Larry – you wild and crazy guy!

-Mark

By Mark E. Smith

I’m always surprised when I meet someone with a disability who comes across as seemingly brash, egotistical, and insensitive toward others. It simply contradicts what I know as disability experience, and I can’t fathom how anyone with disability assumes any sort of attitude of arrogance when disability is so intrinsically humbling?

I mean, sure, I recognize that disability doesn’t preclude any human condition, that one with a disability can prove just as inherently dysfunctional as another. However, again, how does one not become humbled by disability, at least on some level? That is, how does one live with disability and not realize how grounded all of us truly our in our lives?

Disability experience has taught me that as successful as any of us become, we are still intrinsically human, with real struggles and challenges, no matter who we are. Every morning, when I go through my routine to get up and out the door for work, it’s an uphill battle due to cerebral palsy, where some mornings, I feel like the process of getting myself from my bed to the shower to the breakfast table is a try-till-you-die, 5 am morning drill for the Marines.

However, there’s an affirmation to it all. I am reminded every morning that, as a man, I have limitations, that perfection and idealism will never be in my grasp – and, it’s alright. I am reminded how extremely fortunate I am to have physical abilities to at least some extent, and what a remarkable gift it is to have people in my life like my wife to turn to when I need assistance with even the simplest task like buttoning my shirt. And, I’m reminded that, as human beings, none of us are perfect, that we all face challenges, that we all need assistance at times, and that there’s tremendous value in recognizing the commonality among us.

In this way, disability gives us the gift of being humble, of appreciating the limitations that we all have, of valuing the challenges that we each face, and of how we should embrace the graciousness of others who care. Indeed, it’s tough to be arrogant when life with disability proves so wonderfully humbling.

By Mark E. Smith

Have you ever wondered how NASCAR drivers maneuver their cars with such precision at such death-defying speeds, slipping between each other, inches apart, at 190 MPH?

It turns out that in their professional training as drivers, NASCAR racers are taught a vital psychological skill: When driving a race car, only focus on where you want to go, blocking out everything else from your mind.

Now, if you realize how you, yourself, think when you’re driving a car, you likely take the opposite approach, telling yourself, “Watch out for that pothole,” or “Don’t sideswipe that guardrail!”

Put simply, professional race car drivers focus on the positives in front of them, while everyday drivers typically focus on the negatives.

Of course, we don’t need to be race car drivers or psychologists to realize that what we focus on plays a major role in our success in any situation. If we focus on the positives, the successes that we seek are more likely to occur, and, conversely, if we focus on the negatives, we diminish our odds of success. In other words, if we focus on the smooth road ahead, that’s where we will go, and if we see nothing but potholes, surely we destine ourselves to a bumpy ride.

I’m amazed by those with disabilities who take a bleak outlook toward their mobility products, only seeing the negatives, where they’ll tell you that since the day that the began using wheelchairs, their lives have been nothing but potholes. “Every provider is a jerk, wheelchairs stink, and it’s all part of a system out to get me,” we hear people say.

Along these lines, I ran across someone recently who remained upset about an experience that he had five years ago, where he explained to me that his provider had done him wrong. No, I wasn’t involved in the situation, and I have no way of knowing the whole story, but clearly the man was upset, even after all of these years.

As one who always looks in a positive, forward direction, I asked the man if he had a sound wheelchair now, and if he had a good provider? “Yes I do,” he told me. “But, that doesn’t matter. At any moment this chair’s going to break, and my provider is going to stick it to me.”

On the road of life, the gentleman was doing nothing but looking for those darn potholes. He was so bitter about what had once happened, that he simply refused to trust a provider or wheelchair ever again, unable to appreciate the mobility and support that he now has.

Sure, you might be thinking to yourself, “See, Mark, poor provider experiences ruin our lives.”

Yet, I ask you, does a bad provider experience or an unreliable wheelchair truly have the ability to ruin our lives, to make us forever bitter, to despise every moment that we spend in a wheelchair?

Only if we let it.

I didn’t choose my disability – or the fact that I have to use a wheelchair – but I sure as heck can choose the attitude that I use toward dealing with it. And, I can tell you that bitterness and disdain never got me anywhere, not in life, nor with mobility. Heck, if I were to follow the lead of some with chips on their shoulders about wheelchairs, I wouldn’t be where I am today. I mean, I was a kid stuck in bed, who couldn’t go outside, who missed school because my wheelchairs were so poorly made and the industry was so unregulated when I was growing up.

But, I never got discouraged, I never wrote off the world and focused only on the potholes in my path. Rather, I realized that there were still great people who were a help, not a hindrance – as with those who ultimately repaired my wheelchairs. I realized that wheelchairs were a liberator, not a restriction – as they allowed me to pursue my passions in life. And, most importantly, I realized that when I simply focused on the positives of my mobility, my life became better than I ever dreamed.

Surely, disability experience proves a difficult emotional struggle for many, and issues with our wheelchairs and providers can prove painfully distressing at times. But, holding onto that distress does nothing but hold us back. At some point, we have to stop viewing our wheelchair issues as lifelong afflictions, and regard them as what they are, temporary situations. We mustn’t ask ourselves, ”When will my wheelchair break again?” or think, “I need a new wheelchair – here I go again dealing with nightmare providers.” Instead, must wake up everyday looking forward to where our wheelchairs will take us, how they will allow each and every one of us to fulfill our purposes in life.

No, I can’t guarantee you that your wheelchair will never break down – they’re physical products, and issues occur. Similarly, I can’t guarantee you that you’ll never have problems with your provider – they’re real people, where some have real problems.

However, what I can guarantee you is that your perspective ultimately rules every aspect of your life, including your mobility. While we all face the ebbs and flows of life, with low points occurring – as with issues with our wheelchairs or providers – we must remind ourselves of the old adage that these times, too, shall pass, and refuse to allow temporary situations to become permanent afflictions.

Be confident in the smooth road ahead for you by banning bitterness, trusting in the goodness of people, and believing in the awesome power of mobility to foster your life on a superhighway of success.

By Mark E. Smith 

What if I told you that even the most liberating wheelchairs have virtually nothing to do with technology? You might very well think that I’d lost my mind, namely since with all of the aerospace materials and advanced electronics used today, surely wheelchairs are technology-based.

However, I ask you to hold off judging my sanity for one moment, and consider one all-important question: If the most liberating wheelchairs have little to do with technology, what do they have to do with? 

In a word, people. It’s interesting how as users, providers, and manufacturers, we can get so wrapped up in the fundamentals of wheelchair technology that, at times, some forget that wheelchairs are less about technology, and more about people and the lives that they lead. I mean, surely we have to look at wheelchairs as high-tech solutions that empower our lives.However, in the purest form, a wheelchair isn’t about its technology; rather, it’s about the person who uses it. After all, you can have the most advanced wheelchair in the world, but if it doesn’t fit your lifestyle, it’s a moot point.

I recently had the pleasure of meeting with a family who was in the process of selecting a new power wheelchair for their daughter. As it turned out, the daughter was exactly my own daughter’s age, ten. While their daughter had spina bifida, she of course had everything in common with my own daughter – Webkinz collecting, adoring Hannah Montana, obsessing over Lip Smackers fruity lip balm, and all of the other subjects that ten-year-old girls are into these days.

Now, while it would have been easy to jump right in and speak with the family about typical power wheelchair specs – seating, speed, the differences between models, and such – we spoke very little of it to begin with. What we did discuss was how the daughter liked to play tetherball during gym at school, how she participates in a Girl Scouts troop, and how she spends a lot of time at her grandparents’ home. Surely, these topics may seem a bit off from the conversation of selecting a new power wheelchair; however, they were as important to the selection process as any other technical specifications – and, arguably, more so.

The fact is, the most important role of the young lady’s new wheelchair would be to allow her to live to her fullest, to be as independent and active as possible in every aspect of life sought. In this way, selecting a new wheelchair wasn’t about selecting a device; rather, it was about serving her needs – that is, playing tetherball, volunteering in her community with her Girl Scouts troop, or bopping out at the Hanna Montana concert. Put simply, a new power wheelchair had to be about her needs, wishes, and wants, not merely four wheels and a seat or the latest-greatest technology.

I heard from the family last week, and they expressed how much the young lady is now enjoying her new power wheelchair. The power elevating seat allows her to be at the height of the other kids when playing tetherball; the large batteries allow her to go from school to her Girl Scouts meeting without worrying about range; and, the ultra-compact power base allows her to maneuver all but effortlessly in her grandparents’ small home. As it turned out, a wheelchair was successfully chosen that allows her to be her in every sense.

Of course, wheelchairs have everything to do with technology, where advancements have dramatically improved our mobility. However, above all else, wheelchairs have to do with people, where selection and use is about one’s individual lifestyle, not sterile technology.

No matter if you’re a wheelchair user, provider, or manufacturer, it’s vital to remind yourself from time to time of the foremost rule toward mobility products: People first, then wheelchairs. 

By Mark E. Smith

Maybe I’m naive or eternally optimistic, but I truly root for whack-job celebs, where I want to see them turn their lives around, where they would prove the world wrong. After all, as one with a disability, some people project traits on me that aren’t accurate, so I fathom that the same could be said about celebrities. Sure, I see Britney Spears wigging out each night on the cable news networks; however, part of me wants to believe that she’s just misunderstood rather than a drug-addicted, bipolar, child-neglecting, egomaniacal, nut-job who only wants to get her groove on with losers. I mean, we all have bad days, right?

And, so this brings me to another kookoo celeb who I root for: Mariah Carey. Now, my take on Mariah Carey is that she’s so beautiful and vocally talented that I desperately want to know that she’s not the crazy cliché that the media portrays. Every time I see her on television, I get up close to the screen, hoping to hear some kind of proof that her IQ is a higher number than her dress size. Please, Mariah, utter the words I want to hear – quote Nietzsche or explain macro economics – prove to me that there’s not just a loose marble rattling in that overly-hair-sprayed head of yours. 

But, alas, Mariah shattered my hopes again this past week, noting that she wants Stephen Hawking’s augmentive communication device so that she doesn’t have to speak or write: “Before a big show I have to do ‘vocal rest’ where I’m not allowed to speak for two days. It’s so boring having to write notes to everyone! I need Stephen Hawking’s voice machine for when I’m on vocal rest,” explained Mariah.

As if her statement isn’t silly enough, there are reports that she went on to say that using Hawking’s communicator would make her sound smarter, too.  

Apparently Mariah is completely clueless to the whole disability thing, not understanding that Dr. Hawking doesn’t use a communicator because he’s a hip, Hollywood cat, but because he needs to as a result of ALS. Well, I guess someone should bring her up to speed on this, and it might as well be me: 

My Dearest Mariah, 

I am writing to you on the subject of Dr. Hawking’s augmentive communication device – or, “text messenger thingy,” as you might call it. I would convey this correspondence in the form of a coloring book for your best understanding, but my drawing skills are on par with your acting skills – that is, very poor. Therefore, please excuse any polysyllabic words in this letter that may confuse you. 

Firstly, I shall point out that Dr. Hawking has a condition called amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), which affects his speech, and requires him to use his augmentive communication device to communicate with others. And, no, he doesn’t use it just because he doesn’t want to write, just like guys don’t date you for your worldliness. In fact, Dr. Hawking’s communicator is truly a tool of liberation, allowing him to live a highly-successful life, including dictating books that you wouldn’t understand and teaching college courses to which you can’t enroll (see, outside of Hollywood, the rest of the world has something called “standards”). 

Secondly, please understand that Dr. Hawking’s communicator doesn’t make him smart. I know that you look into a mirror for hours like a parakeet, thinking that there’s someone talking back at you, but I hope that you can recognize that Dr. Hawking’s communicator merely speaks the words that he inputs into the device, a process called text-to-speech. Put simply, the reason why Dr. Hawking sounds smart is because he is, just like the reason why you sound like an overmedicated airhead is because… well… you know. 

Lastly, while you may not fully understand why it’s in entirely in poor taste for you to make light of Dr. Hawking’s communicator, I have one final reason why you should think twice before wanting a communicator of your own: You have to know how to spell to use it. I thank you for your time, and I look forward to seeing you on the next season of the show “Celebrity Rehab.” 

Hugs & Kisses,

-Mark

By Mark E. Smith 

Here’s a riddle: What’s the difference between you and me when our wheelchairs breakdown?

The answer is, when your wheelchair breaks down, it’s obviously a very serious issue. However, when my wheelchair breaks down, it’s a Stephen King movie in the making.

Now, I know that some assume that my own wheelchair never has issues. After all, I’m the WheelchairJunkie, himself, and my company makes my own wheelchair – not only am I supposed to have top-of-the-line equipment, but I’m also supposed to know exactly how to use and maintain my wheelchair at the level of a mobility professional. However, there’s one problem with that thought – my wheelchair doesn’t have a clue who I am!

Truly, if my wheelchair could talk, it would say, “Dude, all I know is that you’re a guy with cerebral palsy relying on me 18 hours per day, and when I’m ready to take a break, I don’t care who you are or what you’re doing – it’s lights out for me, brother!”

And, so my wheelchair does periodically have issues, just like I’m sure that Bill Gates finds himself pressing CTRL+ALT+DELETE to unfreeze his darn computer. Machines are machines and, unfortunately, they don’t care who we are. Of course, hopefully Bill Gates and I learn from any issues, and use the experience to help our engineering teams make better products, but we’re real people, using our own products, and surely issues occur from time to time.

Despite my machine – or powerchair, as it is – having little reverence for a mobility man of my seated stature, it at least had a keen sense of where to stop in this situation: On the sidewalk the other morning, about two blocks from my house, on my way to work, in relatively good winter weather – there are certainly worse places to breakdown.

Now, probably a lot like your instinct if your chair has ever stopped in its tracks, I immediately tried to turn it back on, hoping that maybe I just accidentally hit the power button. But, of course, life is never, ever so kind.

Nope! Sure, my chair came back on – flashing error codes, that is. I know that I sound like a rolling encyclopedia when I answer your questions and quickly note what error codes point to what condition. However, that’s when I’m calm and cool in my office – not stranded on a sidewalk, wondering how to get myself out of such a predicament? Therefore, not only didn’t I have a clue as to what the error codes on my joystick conveyed, but even if I did, I couldn’t do anything about it myself, unable to reach beyond my seat. Of course, I caught myself glancing back toward my house like a sailor adrift at sea, wondering if he can swim back to shore, to which the voice in my head reminded me, “Give it up, buddy, you’re stuck!” I hate my inner voice, namely because he’s always right.

I pulled out my cell phone, and called one of my co-workers for help – a true luxury that, unfortunately, most wheelchair users don’t have. However, while I waited for him to arrive, a woman came out of her house, noting that I was obviously stuck, smiling and glad to see me. She mentioned that she knew who I was, acknowledging that she knew where I worked, and called me by name; but, I had no clue who she was, other than a woman seemingly delighted to see me stuck in front of her house at 7:30 in the morning.

“Do you think that you can fix it?” she asked, smiling.

“No, I have someone on the way,” I said.

“Well, if you can’t fix it, I guess everyone’s in trouble then,” she replied, laughing. “It looks like Mr. Wheelchair is stuck.”

“Oh, I can fix it, just not here,” I said, clarifying the situation.

“Do you know what’s wrong with it?” she asked, looking at one side of my chair, then the other, as if she might see something wrong.

“No,” I simply said, looking up the street, hoping I’d see my co-worker coming my way.

“If you don’t know what’s wrong with it, how are you going to fix it?” she asked, still smiling, clearly enjoying this Q-and-A of the WheelchairJunkie stuck on the sidewalk.

So, it’s just my luck that I not only had my powerchair stop dead on my way to work, but in front of Annie Wilkes’ house, the Kathy Bates character from the movie, Misery, who holds her favorite writer hostage out of obsessive adoration.

Then, I swear, the woman popped the exact question reminiscent of Misery that I didn’t want to hear, “Why don’t you come inside the house and get warm.”

Firstly, again, I’ve seen the movie, and I wasn’t about to fall for that trick! Secondly, I was strapped into a 300 lb. powerchair that was dead in its tracks, and there were four steps into her house – she couldn’t get me in her house if she wanted to. Lucky for me.

“My co-worker will be here any moment,” I said, hoping I was right.

“Well, I just think this whole situation is hysterical!” she said, raising her voice like she’d won something.

Fortunately, my co-worker showed up with my accessible van that he’d picked up from my house, whisking me off to work and repair.

It turned out that earlier that morning, while I waited with my daughter at the school bus stop, my daughter was horsing around, and caught a cable on the back of my powerchair, sending my powerchair into an error code, which promptly went away. At the time, I reckoned that she’d simply jostled a connection; however, as I later learned, she’d pulled the cable to a point where the connector barely had contact, and it waited patiently to lose entire contact two blocks later, leaving me stranded. As I’ve explained to my daughter, accidents happen and once we found the issue at my office, a new cable allowed me to quickly get rolling again.

All of this reminds me of two important lessons: Firstly, my powerchair and daughter are just as quick to wreak havoc on my mobility as the next guy’s, as they don’t give a hoot who I am. And, secondly, from now on, I should avoid the sidewalk in front of that lady’s house – I may not get away from her next time!

By Mark E. Smith

What ever happened to the Internet as the great equalizer, where our disabilities weren’t supposed to matter? How is it now that seemingly everywhere I surf on the web, so-called disability-related banner ads are plastered on my screen, illustrating that someone somewhere has me clearly tagged as a web surfer who has a disability?

My brother-in-law is a computer geek by profession, so he clears my cookies and caches, and all of the other cyber stuff floating around in my machine that can splatter my Dell’s DNA on the Internet. Still, when I log on to sites like Google or MySpace, disability ads blaze across my screen (how is it that the MySpace staff can’t tell a 41-year-old perverted predator from a 14-year-old Hannah Montana fan, but they know instantly that I have a disability the minute that I log on?).

One theory for my getting pegged as a wheelchair user online is that because I visit my own site, WheelchairJunkie.com, that other sites that I visit simply see ”wheelchair” as a popular term in my browser, and cater ads to me accordingly.

Nevertheless, what amuses me is that the so-called disability ads steered toward me as a demographic are always totally wrong. I often get an ad pushed at me for an adjustable bed, with a 70-year-old lady propped up with a fried chicken TV dinner on her lap. Show me a 25-year-old blond, in a bikini, on a water bed decked in silk sheets, and then I might click – but, show me 70-year-olds eating fried chicken in bed, and I’m clicking the other direction in a hurry.

My favorite disability-related ad is one I call “Gangster Guy,” which pops up every time I visit Fox News (which I guess I deserve for visiting Fox News!). I’m so distracted by Gangster Guy’s ridiculous nature that I don’t even know what he’s advertising, but if you’ve seen him, you know who I’m referring to: He’s a thugged-out gangster-looking dude in a wheelchair, complete with baggy Sean John jeans and a Gucci hat swiveled to the side like he just rolled out of an inner-city rehab, gunshot wound and all. Yet, in all seriousness, what disturbs me about the ad is that I’ve been to the country’s inner-city rehab hospitals, where the vast majority of in-patients are gunshot victims who look just like the dude in the ad, many shot as a result of gang affiliations, where they’re not allowed to be discharged in red or blue wheelchairs out of fear that such gang colors will simply get them shot again. So, as charming as a hip-hop disability-related ad may seem, clearly the advertiser has never been to an inner-city rehab to fully understand the demographic portrayed by Gangster Guy.

The fact is, I’m a 36-year-old dad, working a white-collar job by day and pontificating as a writer by night. I don’t have anything in common with old ladies eating fried chicken in adjustable beds or gangsters wearing unlaced Adidas – and I certainly don’t click on such ads.

Nevertheless, there’s still hope for me as a revenue-generating ad clicker online. If the advertisers stop stereotyping me as a surfer with a disability, and slip content on my screen that might tie into my true demographic – men’s business attire, parenting, reading, minivans, bikini models on water beds – then they might sucker me in after all.

By Mark E. Smith

They say that there’s always two sides to every story, but aren’t the facts still the facts? This is one of those cases – surrounding a parent with a disability, no less.

“A disabled mother fights again for right to raise her child,” is the headline of a circulating news story this week, And, if you’re a parent with a disability like I am, that headline is sure to capture your attention, conjuring natural thoughts of, “You mean someone, presumably a court, isn’t allowing a mother to raise her child because the mother has a disability?”

Then, the opening of the article confirms such a thought:

The first time Sabreena Westphal went to court to try to keep her children, she became a celebrity. Suffering from cerebral palsy and unable to walk or fully use her arms, she was still determined to care for her two young sons. Disabled parents and advocates rallied behind the young woman with the pixie haircut and impish smile who, at the time nearly 20 years ago, went by the name Tiffany Callo. She was the subject of a book, “A Mother’s Touch: The Tiffany Callo Story.” She rode in a limousine to an appearance on “Donahue.”

But the book didn’t come with a happy ending. Her little boys were adopted and taken far from her San Jose home.

Five years ago, she became pregnant again. And now she’s back in court.This time, Westphal, 40, is trying to prevent her 5-year-old daughter from being adopted by a couple in San Joaquin County. This time, she has the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990 on her side and a political landscape that has changed substantially for disabled Americans.

As if those details aren’t alarming enough, it turns out the Westphal and the father of the 5-year-old have had an additional streak of bad luck, with Westphal having been hit by a car in her power wheelchair, and her child’s father being hospitalized for lupus.Surely, Westphal sounds like a mother with the world against her.

However, as one learns more of the story, another side comes out, one generated more by facts from social workers, courts, and family members than by a heavily-spun disability rights story: Westphal’s disability clearly isn’t the reason why her kids have been taken away. In fact, as reported, Westphal has a 20-year history dating back to drug use, relationship volatilities, a lack of developing a healthy support system, accusations of child abuse, passing her children off to neighbors and family members, and habitually failing to comply with the standards that social workers put in place to care for her children.

Line up Westphal, the disability-rights activists, and the media spinning the story, and it becomes obvious that they’re all overlooking the most important part of the issue: The 5-year-old child’s welfare.In fact, this story isn’t about disability or the ADA at all; rather, this is a story about a child whose needs were reportedly neglected by her parents, including a mother who failed to provide adequate support for all three of her children at different times.

I appreciate that Westphal wants her child back, using disability rights as a soapbox; however, is that really what’s best for the child?

Based on what I’ve read, of course not. The 5-year-old needs a stable, safe, functional, caring home, and, disability or not, Westphal has reportedly failed to meet those obligations, arguably through making poor decisions over and over again.

Beyond my own fatherhood, I’ve known many couples with disabilities raising children, where social workers have never entered the picture. And, there’s no secret to the success of these parents – they simply provide stable, safe, nurturing, responsible homes, where the child’s needs come before their own. These are principals that all appropriate parents follow, regardless of disability.

There’s no doubt that the Westphal story is ultimately sad all the way around, where everyone in the story seems on the razor’s edge of life. However, the real tragedy is the experience of the child. Westphal, by all accounts, has been given chance after chance to turn her life around, and has failed to do so. Yet, the child never had a chance, born into a reported unfit home, shuffled to neighbors and family, neglected by her parents, never to know the parental bonding, trust, and stability that every child requires.

And, that’s where I, as a parent, believe that this case comes into a clear, concise perspective: It’s not about disability rights in the least. Instead, it’s a case exclusively about responsible parties – family, social workers, and the courts – determining what’s best for a child.

By Mark E. Smith 

“Special-Needs Dog Finds Happy Home with Special-Needs Family” – that could be the sappy, sentimental headline to this story. Or, maybe not. 

Indeed, we’ve been raising a new addition in our family, 16-week-old Lola, a French Bulldog that we’ve had since she was 8-weeks old. We’ve been huge English Bulldog fans since getting our archetype of a Bully, Rosie, several years ago, as it’s tough not to love such original characters – licking, lumbering, drooling souls, who just want to hang out with you. So, with Rosie trained and settling in to adulthood – basically sleeping, with intermittent excitement over my coming home from work or dropped food from the table – we thought it was time to get her a playmate, or lounge mate, as the case may be.

However, rather than get another English Bulldog, my wife and I thought that we’d take inspiration from Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, seeking to create a kaleidoscope of ethnicities among our Bullies, opting for a French Bulldog. By breed, English Bulldogs are extremely lovable and loyal, but admittedly lazy. In comparison, French Bulldogs are just as lovable and loyal, but more active and comical, with ridiculous Mighty Mouse ears that standup.

After quite a search, we found Lola, who’s everything a French Bulldog should be: Lovable, loyal, and comical as heck, complete with ridiculous Mighty Mouse ears. What’s more, Lola is snow white, with a black ring around her left eye, looking every bit the part of a petite, French version of Petey from the Little Rascals. Oh, and did I mention that Lola is completely deaf?

Lola has congenital deafness that’s genetically linked to her pigmentation – white dogs of her breed are prone to deafness. However, what’s especially interesting to me is that Lola has no clue that she’s deaf.

Now, you’re likely saying, “Mark, she’s a freakin’ dog – of course she doesn’t know that she’s deaf!”

Fair enough, but she’s 100% adept, where deafness doesn’t seem to have any impact on her. In fact, she comes running when we set her bowl down even when she’s not looking – I suppose feeling the floor vibration. The only notable difference between Lola and a dog with hearing is that she doesn’t react to startle noises. A banging hammer next door or a compacting garbage truck gets most dogs riled up. But, not Lola – she remains completely calm, oblivious to such noises, happily playing, sleeping, and hanging out. Surely, in the wild, hearing is a vital sense, a protection mechanism; however, in a suburban home, where she lives a lush life, Lola doesn’t seem the least bit at any disadvantage over other dogs, acting and responding typically, right down to potty training and learning the type of gesture commands that are used for obedience with many dogs.

Of course, the big Bully, Rosie, is oblivious to Lola’s deafness, too – though, sometimes looking puzzled as to why the pup doesn’t awake when she barks at her, wanting to play? Nevertheless, Rosie has caught on to getting Lola’s attention with another sense: A whack with a paw!

Certainly, some people have general hang-ups toward disability, including when it comes to dogs, as I’ve learned. Both English and French Bulldogs of registered blood lines are very expensive, and hard to come by. But, whenever a pup has a disability, as with Lola’s deafness, price and demand drop. Due to her deafness, Lola was about one-third the price of her siblings, and some of our friends even questioned why one would pay for – or want - a deaf dog?

I’ve observed that people’s reactions to dogs with disabilities says a lot about how we view disability in our culture as a whole. The fact is, if I didn’t tell someone that Lola was deaf upon meeting her, one wouldn’t know – Lola’s just an adorable, loving, smart, attentive pup of pedigree. Yet, the minute that we, as humans, label her as disabled, her literal value becomes less. The dog’s own adeptness at living without hearing is proof to me that disability is more abstract and subjective as a label than many of us realize. While disability is very clear-cut in some cases, as with my cerebral palsy, it’s more a projected label on others who are far less physically impacted, and it’s startling to realize how quick we are as a society to devalue even a pet strictly based on the label of disabled.

I absolutely agree that I have a disability, that I’m disabled by virtually any definition, and I have no concern with anyone labeling me as such. But, I can’t say the same about my silly little dog, Lola, whose adeptness and complete unawareness of our labeling her as somehow less capable truly transcends what we call disability. And, there’s tremendous inspiration to watching her live so unabashedly as her entire self – a dog being a dog, hearing or not – unconcerned and unaffected by the social baggage that we humans label as disabled.

In actuality, then, I have to change the headline to a more realistic, less projected tag: “Dog Finds Home with Family.” Sure, there’s no sap in that headline, but at least it’s accurate.