ACTS OF KINDNESS MATTER, NO MATTER HOW SMALL.

When I feed my cats each day, I urge them to be kind to each other. To take care of each other. Mommy the Siamese and her daughter, the Tortie, seem to understand. They eat with delicate politesse from the same bowl. They crouch on opposite sides as they dine, resembling an adorable, fuzzy yin/yang symbol. Like the forces represented by the symbol, they truly are interconnected and interdependent. Despite the occasional brief skirmish, they are best friends.

 

We need friends because life can be hard, indeed. Just when you think you’re getting ahead of the game, along comes the family squabble, the leaking roof, or the aching back.

 

And life is full of cruel ironies. Take Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, for instance. What could be more natural than, after you’ve gone through an horrific, painful experience, to do virtually anything to prevent that misery from happening to you again? Yet sometimes that natural urge to protect yourself morphs into something monstrous, and becomes as damaging as the initial trauma.

 

It’s a ridiculous understatement to say that the world can be a harsh place. And each day, we’re bombarded by images on our TVs, computers and smart phones of barbarity and callousness. Of sheer willful stupidity and disregard for the wellbeing of others.

 

Which is why it is so very important for each of us to show gentleness in our little corners of the world. Like the older gentleman in the photo, for example. His dog is getting on in years and struggles with the pain of arthritis and failing eyesight. But he loves her dearly. Wants her to feel the sunshine and breezes, to sniff the myriad scents her canine snoot can pick up. So each day, he gently picks her up, puts her in a wheelchair and takes her for a ride down the street.

 

It’s not a huge gesture. It won’t redress any major wrongs or improve the lives of thousands. Yet it is undeniably an act of kindness. It alleviates a bit of suffering and brings a bit of joy to two living creatures whose lives are interconnected and interdependent.

 

Acts of kindness matter, no matter how small.

RIGHTS GIVEN SHOULD NEVER BE TAKEN AS A GIVEN.

Rights given should never be taken as a given.

 

Just because the law protects us doesn’t mean those protections will always be respected. Not even by allegedly respectable entities such as school districts.

 

Take Anthony Merchante, for example. Anthony is a cute little 7-year old boy. He has more challenges to deal with, though, then the average 7 year old. He has cerebral palsy, spastic paralysis and a seizure disorder. He cannot speak, and he uses a wheelchair for mobility.

 

Because Anthony is a person with a disability, he has rights under the Americans with Disabilities Act. One of those rights is the use of a service dog. And it just so happens that a bright, dedicated, professionally trained dog came into his life. The Staffordshire terrier, named Stevie, alerts caregivers when Anthony needs help.

 

Stevie knows when Anthony needs help stabilizing his head to keep his airway open. The dog steps onto Anthony’s wheelchair and lays across his lap. The dog alerts humans by stepping on a mat with a sensor should Anthony have a medical emergency, such as a seizure. Stevie’s vest carries medical supplies and emergency instructions for Anthony’s human caregivers.

 

Not only is Stevie an essential part of Anthony’s daily care, but he’s a gentleman, too. He stays at Anthony’s side, is never disruptive, doesn’t beg for food or bother anyone.

 

Nevertheless, Broward County, FL school administrators decided, for whatever reason, they did not like Stevie. Didn’t want him in Anthony’s school, even though the dog has never misbehaved.

 

Anthony’s mother tried for two years to convince the school district that Stevie is an essential part of Anthony’s life. She tried to make them see that, without the service dog, her son could not get the education he is entitled to.

 

The school district put up roadblocks. Administrators insisted that Stevie receive vaccinations not required of other dogs. They required Anthony’s mom to purchase expensive liability insurance and insisted she pay a handler to accompany the dog during the school day. The district even contended that Anthony didn’t need Stevie. That school staff could do all the things Stevie does.  

 

So Anthony’s mom took the school district to court. In fact, a friend and colleague of mine – Matthew Dietz, represented her and her son. Dietz told the court that the district’s burdensome requirements amounted to “an impossible barrier,” and violated the ADA.

 

Ultimately, the judge agreed, ruling that is was reasonable for Stevie to accompany Anthony during the school day, “in the same way a school would assist a non-disabled child to use the restroom, or assist a diabetic child with her insulin pump, or assist a physically disabled child employ her motorized wheelchair.”

 

The school district can no longer separate Anthony from his service dog, and cannot impose the insurance and handler requirements on him.

Now a seven-year old boy – like the other seven year olds -- can focus on math and spelling and social studies. He doesn’t have to worry that the service dog who enables him to do these things will be taken away. That the rights he is guaranteed under federal civil rights law will be violated by a school district that refuses to acknowledge these rights.

 

It’s been a quarter century since the passage of the ADA. But we must never let our guard down.

 

Like the way Stevie watches over his friend, Anthony.

DEAR SAINT VALENTINE: Less Katherine Heigl, more Jacuzzi time, please

Dear Saint Valentine:

 

I hope this letter finds you well. I understand you were martyred in the second century A.D., though. So, depending on whose version of the afterlife is accurate, you might be doing really well. Or not.

 

Anyway, I’m writing to you to ask for a little good mojo. Not for me, really. But for all of my brothers and sisters in mobility-impairment cripdom. You know, us folks down here who limp, use canes and walkers or who like me, roll from point A to point B. Disabled people who struggle to get around and so are very obviously disabled.

 

I need your help in particular because, well, this whole mating game thing can be kinda tricky. First impressions are big. If you throw in a funny walk or a pair of crutches or – heaven forbid -- a wheelchair, many folks won’t see you as top shelf dating material.

 

It doesn’t help that a lot of non-crips – who are otherwise nice, bright people – buy into millennia-old stereotypes. Maybe you know the one that says we’re drooling, sex-starved perverts. Nobody dates us, because we’re crips, duh! So without a romantic outlet, we become like overly-wound watch springs ready to snap any second. And who wants to date someone who can’t wait for sex until after dinner at Red Lobster and a predictable rom-com starring Kate Hudson or Katherine Heigl?

 

Other non-crips will take issue with me. They’ll say “No, not me! I know crips aren’t sex-starved pervs.” Of course not. Instead, they’re certain that, when it comes to carnal pleasures, crips are utterly uninterested. We’re angelic inspirations in a semi-arrested state of development. We sit round weaving potholders, resigned to our chaste, asexual existences. And who wants to date someone unwilling to put down a potholder and jump buck-naked into the Jacuzzi?

 

Please don’t disregard my concerns simply because I’ve been off the dating market for more than a quarter century. Yes, it’s true that when I got married, Milli Vanilli had yet to be discredited. But I can remember back to my early college days before I met my husband. I lived in the only girls’ dorm on campus that was accessible to female wheelers.

 

Boys would sometimes start randomly dialing dorm phone numbers, hoping to get an anonymous attractive girl to talk to them. If they found out you lived on first floor Prentice, though, they hung up with lightning speed, since it was widely known across campus as the location of the female gimp ghetto.

 

No “let’s meet for beers” or “how about we go to the midnight screening of Eraserhead?” No siree.

 

So, St. Val, can you find it in your heart to throw a little love toward crips who may be struggling to find Mr. or Mrs. Right?

 

It’d be most appreciated.  

MY CONSTANT COMPANION, or the Creep in My Basement who is Partial to Op-Art Posters, Chevy Chase Movies & Beef-a-Roni

I have a constant companion who never leaves. Even when I’m otherwise alone -- in the shower or tucked away in bed -- my companion is hanging around.

 

We don’t speak. Don’t need to. We intuitively know everything about each other. Know where to find the dark corners of the mind and the cut-to-the-quick places that never heal.

 

We have a long history, my companion and I. It was the summer of 1973, when Nixon was still in the White House and Paul Lynde was the center of Hollywood Squares. It was also when juvenile rheumatoid arthritis claimed me and its signature feature – debilitating joint pain -- showed up at my front door. I thought it was merely a slovenly, uninvited house guest, a ne’er-do-well that would pack up in a few days, maybe a few weeks, then depart. Instead, it moved in and never left.

 

Over the years, I – along with a cadre of medical professionals – have tried to evict it. Tried to send the pain packing by strong-arming it with a pharmaceutical goon squad. At times, we pushed it toward the doorway where my loathsome companion was barely clinging to the jamb by its dirty fingernails. But when I turned ‘round, it was reclining comfortably in a Naugahyde La-Z-Boy in the den, plowing through a 12-pack of Schlitz, belching loudly and tossing the cans on the floor.

 

My companion used to wander the house howling at the top of its lungs. Used to bind me like concertina wire in a cruel embrace. Each day was dreadful but the unpredictable flares were far worse. When my companion tore up the furniture and ripped open walls on intense benders -- I remained motionless. To even sit upright would push me to the edge of a blackout. I remember untold hours spent attempting mental distractions. Counting the bumps on the ceiling. Spotting all the places the wallpaper pattern repeated itself.

 

By junior high, my body grew increasingly unpredictable. As my strength dwindled, my companion’s blossomed. On good days, the microscopic drug goons patrolled my insides with brass knuckles and lead pipes, looking for my companion. But his outbursts could only be quelled a bit, from roaring jumbo jet to battering jack hammer. A knee might flare and make walking even a few steps a nightmare. A joint in my finger or the bones in my hand would partially dislocate and I would have to jam them back into place. My jaw would hurt so bad I could barely chew.

Because the pills I took were about as effective as swallowing M&Ms, my arthritis remained unchecked. My companion moved from the guest room to a basement efficiency apartment. It put up black light Op-art posters and beaded curtains. Ate Slim Jims and Beef-a-roni out of the can. Watched Chevy Chase movies on Betamax while lying on a Murphy bed, clearly in it for the long haul.

Years passed and my bones disintegrated. Joint fusions and replacements -- brutal human carpentry –were my only option for anything resembling a life.

I eventually worked out an arrangement with my companion. It could have a 99-year lease on the basement, but the stairs in between were our DMZ. It could make a tolerable racket, provided I couldn’t hear anything over the soothing sounds of my mental white noise machine.

My companion is still alive and kicking. But most days, I can tune it out. I’ve compartmentalized my home, my heart and my mind. We live our separate – yet very interconnected – lives.

Last Christmas, my companion demanded Netflix download service, a pair of Nike Zoom LeBron Soldiers and a craft beer brewing kit. My reply?

“Stick it where the sun don’t shine.”