My Mother on a Bike

My mother is disabled. She has been paralyzed since she was 42 when her light-blue VW bus was struck by another vehicle while stopped at an intersection. Her body flew through the front windshield, and she was declared dead at the scene. She wasn’t. She had seven children all under 14 and we needed her. I was three.

I don’t remember much from that time, just a string of well-meaning neighbors and relatives and a lot of frozen lasagna. I do remember visiting her in the hospital on her birthday later that summer. My father had to sneak me in because no children were allowed in the ICU, and I hid under his trench coat so that no one would see me. When I saw her, she was immobilized in a hospital bed and was dressed from head to toe in pale green hospital apparel. She looked shockingly weak. I remember her smiling at me. I was afraid that she would never come home.

After months of hospitalization and rehabilitation, she did come home. The accident caused her to permanently lose the use of her right arm, left leg, diaphragm and neck mobility. Breathing was difficult, and she often became out of breath just from trying to read out loud to me. She couldn’t walk. She couldn’t cough. She couldn’t write. She couldn’t kneel. She couldn’t carry things. She couldn’t do many of the many activities that had comprised her life. And she had seven children, did I mention that?

Against all odds, as time passed, she started walking. I am not sure how it was possible, but my understanding is that she retrained different muscles in her body to compensate for those that could no longer work. At first, the walks were short, but they got progressively longer until eventually, she could poke along for several blocks. She learned to write left-handed. She learned to knit with one hand and has created countless beautiful pieces. She relearned to drive with a special knob on the steering wheel. She relearned to swim by holding on to little floaties. She is a fantastic cook and learned to utilize all manner of cool, one-handed contraptions to help her navigate her way in the kitchen. She seemed to refuse to give anything up. But all this was lost on me because I couldn’t remember her any different.

By the time I was six, I had become well-versed in pushing her wheelchair, and I would torment her by pushing her over grates that opened to the subway far below and laugh and laugh as she would shriek in fear. Sounds mean, right? But, to me, there was nothing wrong with her. I was just teasing, and she seemed to be playing along. Her disability was as normal as any mother’s slightly annoying, but endearing habit. As I got older I would push that wheelchair down bumpy, forested paths up and over all manner of tree roots and gravel. She would groan good naturedly and hold on tight with her good hand. She has been launched from that thing several times and is always trying to find a wheelchair more suitable for all-terrain travel. Just last year I pushed her through a jungle in Mexico so that we could see Mayan ruins. It can’t be comfortable, all that jostling and jarring, but she always wants to go.

I cut her no slack. She cuts herself no slack. Today she is 87.

I only have one memory of my mother before her accident. I am sitting on a metal folding seat, attached to the back of my mother’s black, clunky Schwinn. The seat is covered with a blue-plaid vinyl. It has little metal armrests and a small backrest. Not at all safe by today’s standards. My legs dangle freely below. I kick them forward and back. My mother’s legs are pedaling up and down, and her butt is in my face. It swishes a little, side to side. I don’t mind. Her efforts are creating a nice breeze, and the landscape whizzes by. Green grass, suburban lawns, huge maple trees. She is talking and laughing with my father who is on a matching bike.

I know there must be some connection between my mother’s internal drive and my quest to remain physical and engaged with life. She could have given up so many times, but she didn’t. She still doesn’t. She is hauling herself up to an island in Maine from Philadelphia for a visit again this summer. The trip involves a lot of logistics and not everything is handicapped-accessible in the little cottages she rents. Her mobility is decreasing and little tasks are getting more difficult, but she’ll be damned if she is going to stay home and sit around. She doesn’t want to miss out!

My determination pales in comparison.

21 thoughts on “My Mother on a Bike”

  5. You capture so much of who Nancy…your mother and my beloved friend is…in your words. One thing you didn’t mention is that in all the long years of living with her compromised body, I’ve not heard one word of complaint or self-pity. She is remarkable and I love and admire her in equal measure.

  7. What a beautiful tribute to your beautiful mother. Her accident happened the summer Uncle Spencer and I were married. I hadn’t yet met your parents or any of you kids. Your father called and said to me this is your brother-in-law Norman. I need to speak to Spencer. I knew it was serious. He called while your mom was in surgery. We were all in shock. I was soon to learn that Spencer’s little sister, Nancy, and her whole family are amazing. Our family has always regreted that we don’t live closer. May God continue to bless all of the “Day Clan”.
    Aunt Norma

  9. I remember when Aunt Nancy suffered that terrible accident. I didn’t know, until now, just what happened and how badly she was hurt. She’s one tough egg and you’ve clearly gotten her strength, grit and grace.

  10. Your writing is really wonderful. I’ve lived every entry. Please give yourself way more credit. Given the various challenges in your life, I’d say your determination is as strong as your mom’s, it’s just been challenged in different ways.

    1. That’s “loved” not “lived” although as it is written is interesting too.

  13. This one brought tears to my eyes. Now I know where you get it. Happy Birthday, Leah’s mom!!!

  17. What an inspiration. I wouldn’t compare yourself, though, you have challenges of your own!

  18. Diane Cunha told me of your xc bike trip and how to “follow” your blog. I am loving it! I do not know you but yet I feel like I am getting to!!! The post about your Mom warmed and encouraged my heart. Life is a mystery and trading expectations for a simple sense of expectancy is key. God bless you all! I am praying Oakley will never be the same.

  19. Thank you and good to read Leah, thanks for saying this as – I appreciate the direct relation to your experience. Good to have it right up front – especially for your mom as – she is who she is, she sees herself as herself, not our defined view as limited self.
    My dad was in a wheel chair after he fell off a roof – he landed on a brick terrace on Christmas eve. He was my dad, he was 67, and he had projects to complete – no need to change, it was a problem to solve – we still did what we did. I was 18 and I too, pushed him along in his wheelchair as his voice jarred/vibrated in concert to the bumps, I brought him (not “pushed” him – as he was game, although muttering) to odd, not labeled as safe places/ situations – He was himself; the skier, the sailor, the dancer, the engineer; a sporty risk taker, he was my father who was happy to be in a precarious situation, not afraid, and upon falling out of his wheelchair, rolling (all in horror to the bystanders) smiling with a twinkle as he looked at me – offering ideas on how we could modify the chair, rig a line, modify the tires, as I hauled him back in the chair. He progressed to walking ten feet with a cane and most freeing – a speedy electric cart after two experimental surgeries (sure let’s try anything Doc he said, I have already danced and hopped to the dock, lived life). He died at 91 of old age, clear of thought and not of a disability, all while thinking about the next project until his last weeks. He was lucky, he was aware of what he did have.

    So glad you and and Oakley will take a shot, take a run at an experience, as this is what it is about. no need to fuss about what we are dealt.

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