pedestals and wheelchairs

This post contains profanity, repeatedly. I debated removing or editing it, but decided it was crucial in it's original form to the story and the spirit of the story.




"Dennis," I say, "hand me your card so we can pay."

He reaches into the fanny pack under his wheelchair to get out his debit card. He shakes and it takes a minute. By the time he has gotten his card on the bar, I have gotten my card out to pay for Karl and I's drinks. One of the other couples with us is waiting to pay and the woman of the other couple has gone with my husband to claim two tables in the back.

The bartender comes back for our cards.

"Oh," he says, "his drink is on me." He gestures at Dennis.

"Fucking wheelchair!" I burst out.

"You know," I ask the bartender, "that these men are all disabled veterans?"

Yes, he knows. He has worked the banquets the previous nights. He doesn't know that my husband drove over an IED, just like Dennis except that Dennis developed MS after his TBI, which is why he's in a wheelchair. He doesn't know that one of the other veterans in our group was shot in the head. He doesn't know, and neither do I for that matter, the story of the fourth veteran in our small group.

The woman who has gone to claim tables for us turns to my husband and asks him how long we have known Dennis.

About an hour.

A woman next to us at the bar is laughing incredulously. Dennis is cracking up.

"Look, it's okay for me to say it. It wouldn't be okay for you to say it," I point at the bartender, "or for you," I point at the laughing blond, "but it's okay for me because I get it."

The bartender neglects to charge me for Karl's drink anyway.

Later, I make sure to tell Dennis that I don't begrudge him his wheelchair or his free drink. The reason I cursed his wheelchair is that it's what everyone thinks you need to be a disabled vet.

There is a fine line between respecting veterans and putting them on pedestals. I appreciate Dennis. He is funny and sincere. I appreciate that he served our country. I don't "appreciate his sacrifice" or any other such trite dismissal of his injuries and the way his life has changed, neither do I feel sorry for him. Things happen. What happened to Dennis is that he volunteered to serve his country, his country sent him to war, he drove over a bomb, and he developed MS. It happens. Driving over bombs happens. Wheelchairs happen. Sometimes your fucking wheelchair gets you free drinks, which is probably not reason enough to drive over a bomb or even motivation enough to join the military.

I met Dennis our last night in New York. The next morning at breakfast as I walked into an elegantly appointed room on the 18th floor of the Waldorf=Astoria, Dennis spotted me.

"Fucking wheelchair," he yelled at me and we both erupted in laughter.

I said hi to his mom who was with him and she told me that the night before we had gone to the bar, she had left Dennis downstairs. Her mother called and started giving her flack for leaving Dennis alone in a strange city by himself in his wheelchair. So Dennis' mother went to look for him.

"When I got downstairs, I found him surrounded by other veterans."

Of course she did. He's one of them. They're all part of the same club and they have each other's backs. He's perfectly safe, wheelchair and all, among his brothers and sisters.

There is a fine line between putting someone on a pedestal and ostracizing them. Not here though. Not with these vets. There are no pedestals, just service dogs and brotherhood and fucking wheelchairs.