Christy's Story

Three Wheel Bike

“Mom, what’s wrong with me?” I asked on the way to Easter Seals. We were going there for physical and occupational therapy, my therapy.

“Sit back, Christy I can’t see… What do you mean? Nothing’s wrong with you.”

“No, I mean why do I walk this way? Why do I have to go to therapy anyway?” I asked in a half whine.

“You have a mild case of Cerebral Palsy,” Mom said as if she was telling me the color of my hair.

“Cere…,” I tried to say it but I couldn't get it out right.

“You’re handicapped. Well, half-handicapped.”

“Half-handicapped?” I repeated.

“Yes,” Mom said.

I was glad to have a name for it anyway. I knew I had a funny way of walking that caused me to trip over those raised places in the sidewalk. My feet turned in, one more than the other, but I was still able to get around. My speech was difficult to understand and I felt embarrassed when people would sometimes mouth the words I was saying so they could understand me. I also would find saliva sliding out on my mouth on occasion and not realize it until I felt the warm drool on my chin. I would try to quickly suck the spit back up or wipe it off on the back of my hand. Then I would look around hoping no one had noticed. The one problem that was the least obvious to everyone else but the most irritating to me was the way my hand shook, like tiny earthquakes under my skin.

I had to ask Mom exactly what was wrong with me. She had probably tried to explain it before but I hadn’t paid much attention or forgotten. It didn’t matter much before, but in first grade the teasing and name calling had gotten worse. My first memory of it was in preschool. I remember this toy train engine which was followed by wood crate cars that snaked around the recess yard. There I sat. Tears dripping on skinned knees as I watched the paint wear off the caboose. Even then I wondered if it was right that I had been punished, sitting there for all of recess.

You see, all the four-year olds were standing in line to go outside. The boys were on one side of the hall and the girls on the other. A boy looked over at me and yelled “Cripple!” The word shocked me like to cold of a June morning swim. The boy hurled the word at me for seemingly no particular reason. Even at four, I knew it was the intention of the boy to hurt me. This left me justified in pinching the boy’s pliable skin, as hard as I could. The blood soon became evidence that I was in the wrong and not the boy.  I accepted the consequence of sitting in the milk crate caboose. It was not a severe punishment but it was the first of many things that did not seem right to me.

Now in first grade it seemed like I should be riding a bike like everyone else. My sister, Mary, was a year older and she’d been riding a bike for awhile. I must have been six when I told Mom and Dad I wanted a bike to ride like Mary’s.

“It may be a little hard for you, why don’t you learn on Mary’s bike first,” Mom said.

“I can do it…it won’t be hard.” What was she talking about? After all, the other kids my age were riding around the neighborhood. Dad was soon holding the bicycle seat and running along behind me. I heard Mary calling me with a warning not to scratch her bike. I tried pedaling and Dad let go. Soon I felt the sting of the sidewalk on my legs and grass in my nose.

“Christy if you feel like you’re falling to the right, lean to the left,” Mom suggested. No sooner I’d be leaning to the left and I would be falling to the left.

“Try again, you’re tough,” Dad said. So I tried again and was once again kissing the pavement.

“Why can’t I do it? Why can’t I keep my balance?” I asked through frustrated tears.

“Well, it has something to do with your handicap…you know how you fall sometimes when you’re walking or running?” Mom would try to explain. All I knew was that I wouldn’t be riding a bike like everyone else. 

Sometimes Connie and her mother would come in their new car to pick me up for Sierra Club. Connie was a few years older than me and couldn’t walk without a walker. I didn’t know what her disability was, but I suppose the causes of things didn’t matter much to me. Her car was nice even though I didn’t like green; I guessed it was a nice green. The seats were soft and the music came to the back of our ears. Connie was nice to me. (I always remember the few kids that were.) She knew the words to the songs on the radio. I wondered why all the songs were about love, boy/girl grownup love.

Sierra Club was one of the few, regular times I was around other kids with disabilities. My parents told me later that they sent me there so I could experience what it was like to be good at something (or better than) my peers. Being mainstreamed in school, I was usually bringing up the rear in any activity that required motor skills. They felt this club would give me an emotional boost. I don’t think I compared myself much to the other kids, but I liked the things they did there. The people who worked at the club were kind and helped me swim.  Someone taught me how to play “Mary had a Little Lamb” on the piano, and there were group activities where everyone was included.  But my favorite thing to do was to ride the club’s three wheel bikes. The bikes were kind of an oversized tricycle on which I didn’t have any trouble keeping my balance. As soon as I would get a turn on one of those bikes, I rode around and around on the large circle of cement. The air moving across my face felt like a freedom I had never experienced, and I was never concerned about falling down. I rarely wanted to do anything else but ride. The morning at the club would pass quickly and soon it would be time to go home.

One day I was surprised to see Mom and Dad come early and take pictures of the bikes.  ”Why are you taking pictures Mom?” I asked feeling the red rise to my cheeks. Embarrassment came easily to me. I didn’t want to be different. I wanted to blend in even at Sierra Club.

“Well, Dad is going to build you a bike like this,” Mom explained.

I should have been elated. I would finally have a bike of my own to ride. On a bike I could keep up with my sister and her friends. I could ride around the block instead of the cement circle, but I only felt apprehension. Being on a three-wheel bike would ruin my plan to fit in, to be normal, like everyone else. Would everyone stare? Would everyone laugh and ask me why I was riding a tricycle? I couldn’t tell my parents any of this. I don’t think first graders have names for their feelings or ways to explain them. They only feel them. Besides, I couldn’t disappoint them by saying, “No thanks, I don’t think I need a bike like this at home.” I also knew there was a part of me, the braver part, who wanted that bike.

The time passed and Dad spent cool California evenings in the garage with his friend Howard Adams. Howard towered over everyone and his hair had left him long before. He had a face that let few people in, but he always shared his smile with me. Earlier that spring, Howard and Dad were sitting at the large spool table in the backyard. They were tinkering with something from a car engine. Grease covered their hands like black gloves. Dad told me to go around to the garage to get the wagon. I rarely went to the garage around the back. Scraps of plywood made a path to the door and one edge caught my foot. I came down and my head hit the electric meter. Falling wasn’t unusual for me and soon I was crying out to Dad. I didn’t realize how much blood was covering my face until my sister came running up to me shrieking, “Look at all that blood!” This made me cry harder and Dad snapped to Mary to go to her room. I remember feeling a little satisfied that Mary got in trouble as Dad and Howard escorted me to the kitchen.

Dad said if Mom was home she would take me straight to hospital for stitches. I’d been to the hospital before and had already seen too many doctors. “I don’t want to go the hospital!” I wailed. Then Dad said I could let Howard and him patch me up while he stood with a cloth on my head, sopping up the escaped blood. I quickly agreed knowing Dad could take better care of me than any hospital. Soon the two men were calling themselves “Dr. Dunphy and Dr. Adams”, shaving the hair around my cut. They cleaned the wound and I knew they were finished when I felt the butterfly bandages pulling the skin together at the top of my head.

Now Howard was helping Dad again, bringing in parts of old bicycles from bicycle graveyards. Mom said it was possible to buy a three-wheel bike, but we couldn’t afford it. When I peeked in the garage, I only saw sparks flying from welding and heard Dad saying to get back because it was dangerous. One night, before bed, Mom told me my bike would be ready the next day.  That night when I lie in my bed thinking about the bike, the goblins outside my window didn’t bother me at all. Instead I was thinking about the bigger boys who threw rocks at me and called me “Retard”. And I was remembering what a chicken I was when kids who were younger than me blocked the sidewalk when I walked home from kindergarten last year. How would I be able to face everyone in the neighborhood when I rode this bike down the street? What would my parents say if I refused to ride the bike Dad worked so hard on? Why did I have to be half-handicapped anyway?

I must have finally slept because I saw the sunlight as Mary came in, jumping up and down, “Come see your bike! Come see your bike! It’s in the driveway!” I couldn’t help but feel excited as I hurried to put my clothes on. I was already glad that Mary seemed to approve of the bike. When I got outside, I saw it sitting there. It was a little smaller than the ones at the Sierra Club. It also looked newer with its fresh paint and pink and white tassels hanging from the handlebars. There was a side view mirror, like on a car. Dad said I could use it to look behind me. The handles had black grips that felt soft in my hands. There was a little pink basket attached in front and a big basket in the back that Dad acquired from a laundromat. I soon found out that at least two kids could sit in the basket while someone was pedaling. Even our big dog, Superdog, enjoyed a ride in the back. Instead of my bike being ridiculed, it soon became very popular for its unique ability to transport dogs and children. Even though kids still made fun of me, they never did when I was on my bike.

I found out later that Dad had mixed leftover paint together in order to paint my bike. It ended up being a light shade of green….but I guess it was a nice green.