The Birth of Super Crip Read Free

tears.
Her own tears were suddenly rushing to the surface. “There is still
plenty of time,” she said.
     
    “Is it so terrible to hope for a miracle?” Red asked,
smacking the ball with his hand. Struggling to say the words
through the emotion, he heard his own speech the way he knew others
did. The only time he heard his speech as anything but clear was
when he was having more trouble speaking than usual, though he knew
his disability made his speech difficult for others to understand.
But he could tell his mom understood him. Besides Scott, she
understood his speech better than anyone.
     
    It had been her fear since the moment her husband
told her that he had heard from a customer about a specialist in
York who was performing experimental treatments on people with
disabilities. Red would start looking for a miraculous cure. The
same miracle she’d warned him against hoping for a thousand times
since that day. The same miracle she and his father hadn’t stopped
praying for since that day.
     
    She shook her head. “It’s never wrong to hope for a
miracle,” she said, a tear rolling down her cheek. “But you cannot
make it everything. It might not happen and you are loved just the
way you are by everyone in this family.”
     
    “I know, Mom,” he said, looking away because seeing
his mom’s tear made him have to fight off his own. “I really do.
And I never really thought about finding a cure or anything. But
now, going for these
    treatments . . .”
     
    “I understand,” Mary said.
     
    “It would be so nice to be able to just run around
without worrying about falling,” Red said. “Not have to use the
power wheelchair in school or going out wherever. Not have to
borrow notes in school because I can’t write fast enough, or not
have to worry about teachers understanding my speech, or whatever.”
He didn’t dare add anything about how nice it would be not having
to worry about getting picked on in school. He never said much
about that to his parents because he was afraid they’d want to call
the school and ‘do something’ about it. He hated it but all the
kids in the mainstream program dealt with being picked on by a few
able-bodied kids in school. It just seemed easier to keep quiet
about it, at least to Red. “Sometimes, it would just be nice to not
be the disabled kid at a game, or on the playground, or just
walking around . . . wherever.”
     
    “I really do understand,” his mom said, her words
barely audible as her tears took over. Red didn’t dare try to
speak. Seeing his mom cry, he needed all of his strength not to do
the same. He merely moved to the edge of the bed, let the ball slip
from his hand, and put his arms around her neck.
     
    Mary buried her head in his shoulder for a brief
second, knowing hugs from her teenage boys were becoming less and
less frequent. She kissed him on the cheek. “Come help me set the
table for dinner,” she said.
     
    He nodded, and said, “Okay.” His mom went ahead of
him, knowing he would have an easier time getting down the stairs
sliding one step at a time on his rear end rather than having her
try to help him walk down. Standing to follow her, he noticed the
little football on the floor. He bent down, gently holding on to
the bed, to pick it up.
     
    Taking a couple steps toward the bedroom door, he
reached up to put the ball back in its position on the shelf over
his desk. He tried to place it so that the logo for the Eagles
would be perfectly centered. Getting it just the way he wanted
after several attempts, he carefully took his hand off the ball.
Just as he started to look away, he saw the ball roll forward.
Frustrated, he glared at the ball and began to reach for it again.
Instead, he put his hand on the desk, feeling a wave of
light-headedness. Resting against the desk, he blinked his eyes,
letting the spots that flashed in front of him clear. Finally, he
went to fix the ball, but before he could reach up to adjust it,
Red noticed