Quadriplegia

Quadriplegia. "Quad" meaning "four" and "plegia" from the word meaning "to strike." Dad was struck in a head-on collision and, in an instant, life changed.

But oh how he was determined, determined to continue to live. To live. To live.

Dad was 62 when he had that wreck.  He spent sixish months in the hospital. He came back home when he was 63.

Mom had worked for Encyclopeida Britannica for decades; one of their top salespersons. An executive with Britannica called her and told her that if my brother would fly to Chicago, Britannica would sell us a van for $1.

We took them up on the offer. My brother flew up, paid the $1, papers were signed, and he drove the van back to North Carolina.

The big cargo van was never plush, sort of make shift. But it served well those thirteen years. It contained a driver seat, but not for Dad. He never did promote to chauffeur. The front passenger seat was removed so that Dad could steer his electric wheelchair into where the passenger seat previously had been. Part of the wheelchair arm would then hook into a latch that anchored the chair, and thus Dad, into place. There was only one other seat - a bucket seat put toward the back of the van; it wasn't too comfortable but served the purpose. Mom found a local handyman to put a power lift in the van so Dad could be lifted in and out.

One of Dad's favorite songs was the old hymn, "Love Lifted Me."

Even though Dad never drove the van he did get what Mom called a surrey. It was open-aired and gas-powered. I have no idea where Mom or Dad found that vehicle. I'd never seen one before, nor since.

The surrey had four wheels with a small flatbed on the frame. The flatbed served as a platform that Dad could drive his wheelchair onto via a ramp that came down on the back of the flat bed. Blue steel rails went around the two sides and back of the surrey. Motorcyle handle bars controlled the cart. On the rear a tall flexible thin pole rose about eight feet into the air. On the end of the pole an orange triangular flag would warn folks that something was approaching or ahead on the road.

After Dad drove aboard, we would lock the wheels of his wheelchair. We would put a helmet on his head and some fingerless velcro gloves on his hands. Dad then placed his hands on the handle bars, like when one rides a motorcycle. Since he couldn't bend his fingers, we would secure his fingers and hands with the velcro gloves around the handle bar grips.

Though Dad couldn't grip, he was able to move his wrists. With his right wrist and hand he controlled the stop and go of the surrey.  Wrist down, and the surrey would move forward. Wrist up and the surry would stop. I don't recall what he did to cause it to back up.

The surrey didn't go very fast; I think it was slower than his wheelchair. Yet he looked liked a race-surrey driver aboard that cart.

The farthest Dad ever drove the surrey was around 30 miles, from Hickory to Lenoir. He took Old Highway 321A, the two-lane folks used to drive before the four-lane was built. Mom followed him in the van just in case Dad ran into complications. She was a nervous wreck; Dad was thrilled. He drove to Green Mountain, the camp ground where Mom and Dad had a trailer in place.

They bought that trailer and had it equipped so Dad could sleep there and Mom could care for him. There had to be room in the trailer for Dad to maneuver his wheelchair. Like the van, it wasn't plush but met the need. The bed had enough room under it so that the bottom of Dad's lift could go under the bed. Mom would get confused and call the lift a "tilt."

The lift was a piece of equipment we used to get Dad in and out of bed, and other places. He would sit patiently in the swing like structure on wheels as we got him into position before lowering him into place. He was always thankful for the help.

The song he used to sing in the mornings at home as our wake up call? "Love Lifted Me." He'd typically have breakfast in bed. Then Mom, or whoever was on morning shift, would put the "tilt" (the lift) to work. During the day, Dad would have to be laid down a couple times and then gotten back up to help prevent pressure sores.

Though most of the time Dad simply drove his wheelchair around Hickory, he also drove the surrey at times.

Two different times when he was driving his wheelchair, without the surrey, he fell into creeks. Someone helped pull him out. I think they called the fire department; Dad and his wheelchair were heavy. Yet he never let his wheelchair mishaps slow him down.

He'd drive his wheelchair to the library or to downtown Hickory to shop. On the back of his wheelchair was a large bag attached as a carry-all. That's where he carried his wallet. When he needed to pay for items or retrieve his library card, he'd ask with a smile to someone in line or to the clerk, "Could you help me out with my wallet?" The volunteer would pull Dad's wallet out of the carry-all and hand it to Dad. Then using his chin and the back of his hands and his chest, Dad would open it up. Sometimes he would use a lame thumb as a tool to scoot a bill out of the wallet. Other times he'd use the heels of both his hands, wallet secured between them, and stretch his arms forward so that the clerk could get the money or library card from his wallet. Someone would then put the items or books in Dad's carry-all.

Dad was never robbed in thirteen years. He knew the risks, yet his freedom was worth much more than his wallet.

I can still hear him sing in his deep voice, "Love lifted me. Love lifted me. .... When nothing else could help, .... Love .... Lifted .... Me....."

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