Chapter 21 - THE SECOND CHAIR
Merrick outgrew the blue wheelchair at eight.
Children do that.
The new chair was graphite gray.
He hated it.
“Boring.”
“You picked it.”
“I was seven.”
Apparently seven-year-old Merrick had poor aesthetic judgment.
We changed the spoke guards to bright green.
Problem solved.
His rehabilitation changed too.
He gained more trunk control.
Could stand using braces and a walker for short therapy distances.
At ten, he could take several supported steps.
The first time, everyone cried.
Then he sat back in his wheelchair and raced down the hallway.
No one called one mobility method victory and the other defeat.
That was the rule now.
Walking was a skill.
The chair was a skill.
Transfer boards.
Crutches later.
Adaptive sports.
All tools.
At eleven, he joined a junior wheelchair basketball team.
Emmett attended every game he could.
He sat apart from me initially.
Then eventually beside me.
Co-parenting became boring.
Schedules.
Homework.
Orthotics appointments.
Parent-teacher conferences.
Boring was beautiful.
After one game Merrick asked:
“Why did Grandma hate my chair?”
I answered carefully.
“She believed walking was the only kind of independence that counted.”
“Was she dumb?”
“She was wrong.”
“Daddy too?”
“He believed her longer than he should have.”
Merrick looked toward Emmett.
“He doesn’t now.”
“No.”
That mattered.
Emmett had stopped talking about progress as walking.
He learned.
May you like
Late.
Still learned.
