Little Wriggle

An Old Christmas Story

“What do you want for Christmas, Ms. Wrigglesworth?” This is a very popular question with third graders.  It’s a good question, one that has an infinite amount of answers. A lot of people have asked me it before: my students, my mom, even Santa himself as I sat upon his lap every year at the mall. I can remember being in elementary school and was faced with the task of writing a letter to Santa that had the chance of being published in my hometown’s paper. 

“Dear Santa,” the letter began, “Please bring me a cure for my disease so that I don’t have to be in a wheelchair anymore.  Love, Angela. P.S. If you could also bring a pair of Guess jeans, that would be great.” Being specific apparently gets your Santa letter top billing in a newspaper. I was certain that even the Houston Chronicle would be delivered to the North Pole, and Santa would surely grant the first request he read. However, there was no cure and no Guess jeans were under our tree that year.  Santa, being the smart man that he is, must’ve known that those name brand jeans are just too hard to pull up when you have to get dressed sitting in a wheelchair. And as for the cure, well, maybe he’s still working on that one. Regardless, for the rest of my Santa letter writing letter days, I stuck with requests that were a little more reasonable. 

So now instead of carefully wrapped packages from the big guy, I get countless gifts from the little boys and girls that inhabit my third grade classroom each year. Perfumes, figurines, dollar store treasures…you name it, I’ve gotten it. When the question of “What do you want for Christmas, Ms. Wrigglesworth?” thoughtfully rolls off the tongue of one of my students, I appreciatively smile and respond, “Just a Christmas hug from you!” Despite my simple request of quality versus quantity, I am still overly blessed with a stockpile of gifts on that last day before Christmas break; however there is always the one student that follows my directions exactly. A few years back in my career, that student’s name was Tommy, or at least that’s what I’m going to call him for the purposes of telling my story. 

Tommy was the child that you heard about every year in the teachers’ lounge before he made it to your grade level. Almost in the same way you can see a storm brewing in the distance, the teachers on my team knew that eventually Tommy would blow through third grade with the same frenzied behavior he had in his previous elementary school years. Tommy, in my opinion, is the reason why educators should never listen to the things they hear in the teachers’ lounge because his vivacious conduct was a far cry from the terror rumors that preceded his arrival in my classroom that year. I absolutely adored that kid, and on that last day before Christmas break, I understood how much I meant to him. 

Tommy was always the last child out my door before boarding the bus at the end of the day, and true to form, the two week vacation ahead of him made no difference on his hesitancy to leave. He teasingly stuck his foot out of the classroom and grinned back at me with the words, “Don’t worry, Ms. Wrigglesworth, I didn’t forget your Christmas hug!”  “Oh good,” I said back to him. Tommy ran over, wrapped his arms around me, and squeezed tight. And had he been like most egocentric eight year olds he would’ve turned back around and ran out the door without a second thought. But Tommy paused mid-hug realizing that something was not quite right. He wasn’t being hugged back. So, knowing that my muscles weren’t strong enough to return the kind gesture, Tommy reached out, grabbed my arms, and wrapped them around him for me. He wanted his teacher to be able to give him a hug, and it didn’t matter if he had to help me do it. Had I been able to freeze this precious moment in time, I would’ve, but Christmas was coming, and Tommy put my arms carefully back down in their place. He smiled, unaware of the grace he had just shown me, and excitedly said, “I’ll see you next year!”  I was left in my classroom, tears streaming down my face rejoicing in the beauty of the human spirit which that day I discovered, can be found in each of us no matter how old or young or abled or disabled we are. 

Had I chose to write Santa a letter that year, it would’ve sounded like this. 

“Dear Santa, It seems you’ve been working on that cure for quite a while now. I hope you’re still making some progress. Until that time when I don’t have to use this wheelchair anymore, I’ve got another big request, probably equally as difficult, but important nonetheless. If you’ve checked your good boys and girls list out recently, you’ll probably find the name of one of my students, Tommy. He has a sense of compassion and sensitivity that I would like you to give to the rest of the world this Christmas. You don’t have to wrap it up fancy or anything, just sneak it under their trees or put it in their stockings, so come Christmas morning, this world will be a much better place. A place where people with disabilities can know that their needs will be met, their independence will be achieved, and their arms will be lifted for frequent hugs by the kind people that surround them. Love, Angela. P.S. I’ve learned my lesson with the jeans, but if you could throw in a pair of black leather boots, that would be great!”

Noises in the Night

Camp for All is a barrier free camping facility for people with disabilities and chronic illnesses. I had the privilege to be a part of their program staff for three and a half years and since then, I've been a part-time volunteer on weekends during the fall and spring. On Mother's Day weekend of 2006, the user group was adults with MS and I had been joyfully working at the fishing dock all day. We finished the evening at the ever popular dance, and soon afterwards my friend and I decided to head back to Houston in order to spend the next day with our Moms. So at eleven o'clock at night, we hopped in my van, Snowball, and drove home.

The hour and a half drive, which included a stop at the Brenham Starbucks and a gasoline fill-up in Hockley, got me back to my apartment just past twelve-thirty. My friend Bianca was staying the night with me and as she was helping me change into my pajamas, we both heard a very strange noise. It was similar to that of a cicada bug that harmonizes in the trees during the summer- kind of a competitive ticking noise showing off who can be the loudest in the early afternoon sun.

"Did you hear that?" I asked her and she said that she had. She wondered if my chair was making an odd noise and I told her no. I suggested that it must have been a bug right outside my window as my wheelchair was parked right beside it. I went to bed not thinking about the noise again, but in the middle of the night, I awoke to a loud crash on my desk. My eyes popped open in a startled fear, but without my contacts I might as well be staring into a black hole. I could however tell that there was no one in my room and I assumed that something had fallen due to gravity's curse.

The next morning I sat at my desk putting on my makeup in preparation for the Mother's day celebration that I would spend at my parents, when I noticed that my favorite picture frame was lying face down. Surely, I thought, this must've been what had fallen in the middle of the night. My house keeper had dusted not three days prior and I assumed that she had stood the picture in an unbalanced position and it had finally given up on its efforts to stay upright. I finished getting ready without noticing that the curtains in my bedroom window were undone- it would not be until twelve hours later that the real reasons for the many oddities would come to fruition.

On that Sunday night, I had a brand new caregiver working for me. She arrived close to eleven and helped me get into bed. Everything seemed to be going well for her first night on the job. She handed me my cell phone and said to call her if I needed anything in the middle of the night. The room that she was to sleep in was on the other side of the apartment and she worried she would not hear me yell for her if I needed help. Thank goodness for her preparedness because at one-thirty in the morning I woke up to the sound of rustling in the mini-blinds- like someone was trying to break into my apartment. In my panicked state I dialed her number and whispered into the phone when she answered, "I know you think I'm crazy, but I need you to come in here right now!"

She was in my room in a flash flipping on the light and asking what was wrong. I told her that there was a noise coming from my window. She rounded the corner and stood a good three feet from my window when she let out a scream that I've only ever heard from a paid, professional actress in a horror film. The breath entered and exited her lungs so quickly that she was barely able to convey the message to me that there was something big and black in my window and she did not know what it was.

"Should I call my dad?" I shrieked. Her head bobbed up and down, "Call your dad! Call your dad!"

My dad, after hearing my frantic pleas, was on his way while I, in the meantime, lay helpless in my bed praying that the big, black thing would not join me under the covers. My caregiver paced the living room waiting for our heroes' arrival, most certainly not willing to enter my room again. Finally my dad came through the door after what seemed like the longest fifteen minutes of my life. He walked into my room and I asked him what he thought it was.

"I already know what it is. I can see it from the outside of your apartment. It's a snake."

I am quite sure that everyone within a three mile radius heard me scream the name of God and then beg to be put into my wheelchair. I also know that the tire marks remain on the carpet from where I tore out of the room like my hair was on fire. Lastly, I am fully aware that my father is the bravest man I will ever know because the story ends with him removing a three foot long water moccasin from my bedroom window.

How, you ask, did a venomous snake sneak into my apartment? Well, that's the best part of the story. It did not have to sneak in at all. In fact, that snake could not have felt more welcomed in my home because it was me that carried him inside. I brought him home with me on my wheelchair.

When I was leaving Camp for All two nights before, we had to walk down a very dark path to get back to my van. I felt myself roll over what I thought was a water hose, but when I turned around, there was no hose to be found. I knew I had rolled over a snake, but I thought it had slithered off into the grass. Instead it got caught on a two inch bolt that sticks out from the bottom of my wheelchair and wound its way up onto the battery box that sits in between my wheels where it had a comfy, warm ride home. Then my friend crawled off of my wheelchair, up and over my desk, and settled into my window for a temporary stay at Little Wriggle's Bed and Breakfast. Luckily, wheelchair girls were not on the menu.   

That snake, in its valiant efforts to travel to the big city, had weaved its way around not just the layers of my wheelchair and mini-blinds, but also the layers of my sanity. For days, anything that touched me challenged the strength of my seat belt because I would jump a mile high. Knowing that I was within inches of a creature that could have severely injured me, or the people who thankfully provide my care, still to this day gives me chills. But it is that same realization that also reminds me of the many blessings I experienced at that particular time, and on a daily basis. And that gives me chills, too.

A Hero Story For My New Tech Friends

A few months back, I told this story at a NetSquared meeting. As promised, I'll retell it here...

It was 5 o'clock on a weekday afternoon. I was sitting on the corner of Montrose and Sul Ross, a little cross street in between West Alabama and Richmond. My class at St. Thomas had ended for the day, and I was waiting for my ever-faithfully late METRO bus. As with most commuter cities, Houston's rush hour embodies the absolute ugliness of the world, and true to form, this day was no exception. A man's car had broken down on the opposite side of the street from where I was sitting, and cars were making every attempt to get around while simultaneously letting him know exactly how they felt about his awful timing. Motorist after motorist swerved into the middle lane, gestured obscenely at the man, and cursed at him from out of their windows.

As a woman who has used a wheelchair for practically my entire life, I rarely encounter an opportunity to help someone physically. I can't babysit my friends' newborns because I'm unable to pick them up. In my twenties I was never called upon to help out the many apartment dwellers that I knew move from place to place. And I've certainly never dropped off a loved one at the airport. So as I sat there staring at the man's misfortune, I decided to take advantage of the rare opportunity to use the strengths I had.

"Hey," I called out to him, "do you need some help?" He looked at me as though stating the obvious was the worst possible insult and said back with an annoyed smirk, "Yeah."

"Well, would you like me to help you?" I offered and immediately felt his up and down gaze. Not the good kind, like I was being eyed with an interest from across a room, but the kind that probably incorporated the phrase, "Mmhmm...yeah right...the chick in the chair is going to help me," Instead he managed to simply yell, "No." Despite this look of disdain and refusal, I did not give up my heroic pursuit.

"Are you sure? Because my chair is freakishly strong, and I think I could push you!"

Have you ever seen someone agree to something just so they can prove that it can't be done? I'm quite certain that when the man agreed to my help, it was merely for that purpose. Regardless, I now had to safely get myself over to his side of Montrose and there was no light or crosswalk where I was standing. Luckily, a gentleman in a truck saw my need and stopped both lanes of traffic on our side of the street. He must have proudly thought that he had accomplished his good deed for the day helping the little wheelchair girl cross the road. But instead of crossing the entire distance, I stopped halfway and positioned myself right behind the broken down vehicle. I placed my feet on the back of his bumper and shouted at him.

"Okay, put it in neutral!"

With the strength of ox, or more accurately, with the strength of a $20,000 motorized wheelchair, I pushed the man and his car to the corner gas station. We even made it up the steep incline that connected the store to the street. The car came to a stop and he got out. There are no words to describe his face other than to say he will probably be incapable of recreating the emotions he expressed to me that day with his dropped mouth and raised eyebrows, but regardless of his feelings, he shook my hand and said, "Thank you so much..."

Surely Superman himself would have been proud of what I had done, so with his same swiftness and charisma I smiled at the man and leapt back to my spot on the other side of Montrose in a single bound- my red cape blowing in the wind.

As the story is retold by friends and family, the vehicle goes from a Sedan to a Hummer, and I pushed him not to the corner, but to a repair shop ten miles down the freeway. And that's fine with me. Because if people want to believe that I can do anything, I can.