Today is the day. Soon we will drive from our home in Ney to Fort Wayne to attend a 1980s-focused concert at the Clyde Theater. I am in a lot of pain, so much so that if we had not already bought tickets, we would have stayed home. . .
After eating dinner at our favorite Chinese restaurant, we made our way over to the Clyde, arriving shortly before the gate opened. By this time, my body was screaming in pain, despite having already taken narcotic medications. “Such is life,” I told myself, knowing that pain is the high price I pay for admission.
The Clyde staffer who handles handicapped (ADA) seating already had three seats reserved for us at the front of the right loge section (our regular seats). By concert time, the venue was filled, ready for a wonderful night of ’80s rock and roll.
The show was everything we expected, and more. Two and half hours long, the concert took a toll on me physically. I can only imagine what the people sitting in back of us who watched me move back and front and side to side in my wheelchair trying to get comfortable must have thought. Throughout the night, I felt my partner’s hand on my leg, trying to comfort me in the midst of my suffering. A small gesture, but I appreciated it.
After the concert ended, we waited to leave the venue so we could avoid people cutting in front of me or banging into my wheelchair. Eventually, we made it to the lobby, only to find it crowded with people wanting to take a photo with the band.
My partner and our adult daughter with Down syndrome headed for the bathroom, as I sat there out of the way watching people, minding my own business. The girls returned from the bathroom. Finally . . . we are headed home. Soon I will feel the blessed heat of heated car seats on my body.
You, of course, knew none of these things. How could you? You and I don’t know each other. Outside of our common appreciation of ’80s rock music, we were total strangers. As we were walking away from the crowd, our daughter asked if she could have her picture taken with the band. I hesitated, wanting to get to the car as soon as possible . . . you know, the whole pain thing, right?
You heard my daughter’s request. Instead of letting me handle the matter, you quickly inserted yourself into our discussion.
“Come on, Dad. Let her get her picture taken.”
“Uh, no, we really need to go.”
“It will just take a minute.”
By now, dozens of people were staring at me, listening to this woman’s increasingly loud voice.
Thoroughly embarrassed, I finally acquiesced, and Bethany quickly joined the band for a picture.
But, you couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?
“Come on Mom and Dad, you get in the picture too.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“Come on, you will be glad you did.”
“no, I . . .”
But you were insistent, and not wanting to be embarrassed any further, I said, “Fine.”
My partner started pushing my wheelchair towards the picture set, only to have me tersely say, “PLEASE STOP.” It took several pleas for the motion forward to stop. The venue was loud with conversation, so my partner could not hear me initially.
“I will use my cane instead.”
And with that, I tried to get out of my wheelchair, falling partially forward. Eventually, I made it to the front, and joined the picture. You were so happy that I played your game. Innocent or not, you showed no regard for me as a person. You decided you knew what was best for me; that I would regret not having this picture taken. What I regret is not putting you in your place. I regret not schooling you on personal space and bodily autonomy. I know you meant well, but you hurt me anyway. All I wanted to do was exit the venue, get in the car, and turn on the heated seats. Put yourself in my shoes. Is that too much to ask?
Please do better.
Bruce Gerencser, 69, lives in rural Northwest Ohio with his wife of 48 years. He and his wife have six grown children and thirteen grandchildren. Bruce pastored Evangelical churches for twenty-five years in Ohio, Texas, and Michigan. Bruce left the ministry in 2005, and in 2008 he left Christianity. Bruce is now a humanist and an atheist.
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