Lindsey walks with a cane these days to help stabilize her thirty-three-year-old body. When she’s anxious, her tremors intensify, slowing her pace.
“I’m afraid of gettin’ hit by a car,” Lindsey says whenever she has to cross a city street. “It’s my biggest fear.”
Most people in our small Willamette Valley community recognize our special daughter. They are patient. Some even extend the hand of kindness.
Last year, John and I idled behind a Ford pickup truck at a 4-way stop in downtown Silverton. Generally traffic moves quickly. Stop. Look. Go.
But on this sunny spring afternoon, traffic stood still at the intersection of Main and First Streets. No vehicles moved in any direction. And from our vantage point, the only things John and I could see were the white bumper, the canopy, and the red tailgate of the F O R D pickup sitting in front of us.
Seconds passed. Vehicles idled. Then beyond the front of the truck, a flutter of activity; Lindsey stepped into our sightline. First I saw her pink Hello Kitty backpack. The kitty decal peered in our direction as my daughter’s khaki-covered legs, took one slow but purposeful shaky step at a time. As she attempted to cross Main Street, Lindsey’s hand gripped the cane’s handle so tight, her knuckles turned white. My girl could have crawled through the crosswalk faster than she was walking. Before John or I could open our car door and run to help, the man in the Ford jumped out of his cab, sprinted toward Lindsey, placed a hand on her elbow and guided her through the rest of the crosswalk, leaving her safely on the curb. Lindsey nodded. I watched my daughter’s mouth form the words, “Thank you.” The young man waved, then dashed back to his truck, jumped in, and drove off.
And just like that, a huge lump of gratitude stuck in my throat.
Another day. Another city. Lindsey and I drove to Lancaster Mall in Salem to do some shopping. I parked in the closest available space to Macy’s. When Lindsey stepped out of our sedan, she steadied herself with her cane. No cars were in sight so she started the trek across the two small parking lot-sized lanes of traffic between our parking spot and the Macy’s entrance. I walked beside her, maintaining her turtle’s pace, blocking potential traffic so my daughter could cross without worry. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a vehicle approach, slow, then abruptly stop. I watched Lindsey, paying no attention to the driver–until we were halfway through the lane and I was ready to turn and wave thank you to the motorist for waiting.
A wrinkled face with a gray crew-cut sat behind the wheel of a blue minivan, gesturing wildly in our direction. A woman with matching wrinkles sat on the passenger side; she diverted her her eyes from mine. I turned to look at Lindsey. My girl was trembling, struggling to lift the cane while stabilizing her body. She struggled to coordinate her steps as she slowly lifted one foot at a time before putting it in front of the other. The driver’s eyes narrowed. He rubbed his rough, wrinkled face, skimmed his hand across his prickly hair. The woman lowered her head. The man motioned for us to hurry up, to get out of his way.
Although I could clearly see he was agitated, at first his anger didn’t register. Why would he act this way? Can’t he see my daughter has a disability? Doesn’t he understand that she isn’t moving this slow on purpose? But his hands and mouth moved like an angry crossing guard–mouthing something in regards to: what the f*** is taking her so long?
I clenched my fists, fighting the temptation to run over to his window and slam my hand through the driver’s side glass. I wanted to yell obscenities. But with all the recent violence in our country, I worried how he might respond. Someone like him–someone with such a short fuse–what if he had a weapon? I stopped in mid-step and stood in the middle of the traffic lane like a statue. My arms intertwined into a tight knot, blocking him, waiting for Lindsey to finish crossing the street. I glared. I untwisted my arms and gave him a hand gesture of my own. No, I didn’t flip him off. But I wanted to. I shrugged my shoulders, flopped my arms out as if asking a question: What the hell is wrong with you? Why would a struggling young woman with a cane irritate you to the point of acting so obnoxious?
Lindsey and Nick tell me about these encounters but I’d never witnessed one myself.
After Lindsey safely crossed, I stomped the remaining distance as if my feet were made of lead. Purposely slow. Before I reached the sidewalk, the man gunned the gas and whizzed past, pulling into a disabled parking space nearby. I held the Macy’s door open for my daughter and she lumbered in. She never noticed this man’s reaction and I didn’t bring it to her attention.
A different kind of lump stuck in my throat that day. Anger. And although this happened a couple months ago, I can’t forget this man’s response to my girl. I can’t figure out how to educate people and change the outcome of this latest experience to something closer to the first scenario.
What types of positive or negative encounters have you experienced? How did you handle them?
And I want to know–what would you do if this happened to you/your child?
My first book will be coming out September 26, 2017. If you are interested in learning more about Loving Lindsey: Raising a Daughter with Special Needs, please click here.
