Errol Clifford Slideshow

Moravians at the gate

Old Salem is an 18th century Moravian settlement a ten-minute walk from our house. Much like Colonial Williamsburg and the state of West Virginia, the streets and homes of historic Old Salem are populated by pilgrims in colonial garb. As you enter their world, the ersatz colonists call you “sister” and “brother” to make you feel like you are either back in the eighteenth century or in a Southern Baptist church. And unlike the Moravians of yore, these old-school interlopers get to go home at the end of the day and watch their satellite TVs and flush their toilets. Despite the fact that they had no toaster ovens or microwaves, the Moravians had a pretty good life.

On our tour, we watched a gunsmith work on a rifle that he said would take 125 man-hours to complete. I’ve never spent 125 hours on making anything (unless you count Susie Mandelbaum!) Not only did the gunsmith make the gun by hand, he made the tools that made the gun. “Yeah,” I asked him, “But did you make the tools that made the tools that made the gun?” Slacker! Living in a world of specialization, I image how wonderful it must have been to make something from start to finish, to see it come to life, to engrave your name into it, to use it to shoot a cow.

For all their faults, The Moravians lived life at a very human pace. As we walked through this advertisement for stress-relief, I could feel time slow down (maybe it was the taco I had for dinner). I breathed easily and drank in the pace of this beautiful place.

Errol is retarded, or as people say around here, “a little slow.” Most of us value speed, and when it comes to intelligence, slow is definitely bad. But I think, most of the time, slow is better than fast:

But when you think about it, which would you rather have?

Fast food: slow food
Fast conversation: slow conversation
Fast nap: slow nap

OK, stupid question.

Remember, at the finish line of life is death, so there’s really no rush. We could all use a little more slow in our lives, and Errol helps us quiet our frenetic days. After all, Errol doesn’t have a to do list, he doesn’t have goals to achieve each day, he doesn’t rush from task to task. He enjoys it when I hold him by his legs and run around the house chasing the dogs, “he, he, heh!!!!” He loves it when we take half an hour to eat applesauce. “he, he, heh!!!!” He loves it when we take a long slow bath, “he, he, heh!!!!” Errol enjoys where his is so much that he is in no rush to leave.

Apart from his wheelchair (had those Moravians never heard of handicapped ramps?) Errol fit right into the 18th century. We had a beautiful day at Old Salem, and if we are patient enough, Errol will help keep the best parts of the past and the present right here with us.

Back to School

Errol loves school. Today was the first day back to school after the winter holiday and Errol was happy as a clam.

We pulled into the parking lot (late, of course), got the wheelchair out of the back of the car, peeled our little scholar out of his car seat, and then settled him into his wheelchair. As soon as Errol looked around and realized where he was, the professor broke into a huge grin and laughed and laughed. Errol loves school, and no wonder - today he got to sing, eat yogurt, go to the motor lab to play on cool swings and tumble mats, see his brother, drink infant formula mixed with hydra-aid (try it with a shot of vodka), take a power nap, and play with his wonderful teachers.

Errol fell right to sleep tonight, exhausted from his big wonderful day. He’ll probably dream about school tonight (what does Errol dream about?) and greet his school with another round of laughter tomorrow morning.

Hanukkah Wishes

We celebrate Hanukkah, we’re not Jewish (it’s complicated. Don't even ask about Ramadan!)

Owen gave us a list of his Hanukkah wishes this year.
I wish Transformers were real (they’re not?)
I wish I could eat my bottom (who doesn’t? He really said this.)
I wish Errol could walk and talk (we do, too!)

Owen loves his brother, and he’d love it if Errol could get up and play with him.
But his wish isn’t just selfish, Owen knows how great it is to run, jump, scream and sing (and it really is, try it some time, really, try it), and he wishes that Errol could do all the things he can. We do too.

There is hope. Always hope. One day…

Arc

Errol has a good day pretty much every day, which is good, except that every day is pretty much the same. Here are your socks, Errol: smile. Here is your wheelchair, Errol: smile. Dick Cheney is coming for dinner, Errol: smile. If variety is the spice of life, Errol’s happy life has been pretty bland.

We went to the zoo. It was a sunny and warm late December day. The chimpanzees howled at each other as they bounced off the trees. The patas monkeys pranced around their faux patas monkey habitat like little princes. Even the elephants seemed happy (though how would you really know?) The polar bear, on the other hand, was pissed. It was finally getting cold and then, bam, 70 degrees. Then again, it might not have been the weather. Mr. Bear is usually pretty sour (wouldn’t you be, after all?) Poor fellow, stuck behind glass, day after day, no paid vacation, no benefits, and all those round Americans, waltzing right past him, like hors d'oeuvres in tennis shoes, that he will never ever eat.

So far, big events like Christmas haven’t really registered with Errol. As we left for the zoo, I felt a little guilty about taking Errol on a trip far from home when he would probably be just as happy sitting in the car in the driveway. But still, I haven’t given up on special moments, and so the trips, birthday parties, and Hanukah presents (he’s not even Jewish) continue, with the hope that one day they will sink in and slowly but surely give his life a bit of an arc.

Today was a departure from past trips to the zoo, beach, museum, fair, gun show, gem and rock convention, tribal meeting, debutante ball, Racquetball Hall of fame. As soon as we got to the zoo, we headed straight for the seal-viewing tank (we watch the seals, not the other way around. I think) I held little Errol inches from the thick glass, and every time a seal would glide past us, Errol would wiggle in my arms as he let out his little belly laugh, “heh, heh, heh!!!” Something about these graceful beasts gliding through the water, tickled little Errol, and tourqued the arc of his day.

Errol smiled, Errol laughed, Errol watched his hand, Errol did all the normal things he does, but when you added them up, this was not just a normal day: it was bigger, grander, more special than usual. Maybe it was the seals, maybe it was the surprise weather, maybe Errol’s memory is starting to take hold, or maybe Errol’s just getting older. Whatever it was, today was a special day for all of us (except for that hot and hungry polar bear).

Errol Scores a Goal on Christmas

Merry Christmas from Errol

Guilt

The four of us had a great Saturday. Just our little, unusual family. We drove to the mountains to go Christmas tree hunting. We bagged a six-footer. The people of Alleghany County (where Cary and I got married 13 years ago) tend to be sweeter, gentler, more likely to make eye contact than even the flatlanders down in Winston-Salem. The cocky young lumberjacks with their military haircuts, Carhartt work clothes, and tan boots walked up to Errol, patting him on the head or shoulders saying, “hey there little feller”. They probably don’t get a whole lot of not quite normal looking kids in all terrain-wheelchairs prowling the mountains for Frasier firs, but they didn’t seem to mind. They made physical contact with our little boy. Maybe they were taken off guard. Maybe they were drunk on the mountain air. Maybe they figured all the city slickers had wheelchairs these days and didn’t know Errol was disabled. Maybe they didn’t care. Maybe it made them care. It doesn’t really matter. They were kind to our boy.
Most people are; it’s just surprising sometimes who goes out of their way to touch an untouchable.

On a high mountain ridge, looking down on hundreds of trees lined up like soldiers, we picked our tree. Errol cried when they started to saw to cut our tree. The tree was felled anyway. Errol stopped crying. The tree choppers lashed the tree to the top of our car. I asked one of the young men if the tree would stay put for the drive home. He told me to take it easy on the way home. I told him home was 60 miles away, on the interstate. He thought for a second. They put another rope on the tree and tied it tighter. Now the tree and the car were headed wherever they went together. We implored the gods to see us and the cars in our wake home safely. We drove home quickly. We started a new family tradition that sunny day; it was a day we didn’t want to end.

The next day was rainy and cold. We wanted to read the Sunday paper, but felt like we should hold Errol. We felt guilty when we ate pancakes and Errol only got mushed up bananas. We felt guilty that we could remember, talk about, and savor the perfect day before, that fell so quickly from Errol’s mind.

In parenthood, guilt is never ending: we should play more with Owen, he needs be independent; we shouldn’t spoil Owen so much with Christmas presents, he really would love that Tupperware set; we should have given Owen a normal brother he could play with.

So far, the guilt is unending, and like our children, it grows bigger every day.

With Errol the guilt is darker. We worry he won’t walk, he won’t talk, he won’t remember anything. When we are at home on a Sunday afternoon and Errol is lying on his mat we know we should pick him up and work on his speech, or his sitting up, or just play with him; but we’d rather just do something fun like the laundry or the dishes. Life is a balancing act. It’s especially hard to balance heavy things.

We’ll always have that blissful Saturday, I just hope Errol knows it.

Marriage

We were driving to the mountains to cut down a Christmas tree when Owen told us about his plans for the future.

Owen: Are Ken and Rick married?

Mama: Ken and Rick have lived together a long time, and they love each other, but our state doesn’t allow them to marry.

Daddy: Who will you marry, Owen?

Owen: I don’t know.

Daddy: You could marry your friend, Sophia.

Owen: No, Daddy. Not Sophia.

Mama: What about Noel or Ireland?

Daddy: You could marry Sophie, or what about, Roman?

Owen: Roman! That’s silly, Daddy. I’m not gay!

Daddy: Who would you like to marry, Owen?

Owen: I’m not going to get married. When you and Mama get old and die, I’m going to live here in the house with Errol.

Pie Eating Contest

Errol’s mother and I go to great lengths to be happy. Errol doesn’t have to go anywhere. He’s happy right where he is.

Which is great; and makes me worry. Errol is always so happy right where he is that he doesn’t try to go anywhere else. Which may just be the point, or maybe not.

19 millennia ago, the people who lived around modern day Lascaux, France painted their lives on cave walls. For over twenty five hundred years, these Paleolithic folk painted their world in exactly the same style. Archeologists believe that these ancient cave dwellers must have achieved a kind of cultural equilibrium, and were so satisfied with their lives that for generation after generation, they did not want to change.

This story says as much about us as them. As impressive as our pace of change is, it also shows that we moderns are pretty damn dissatisfied with our lot. And while we can point to the many longer years we live today (I’ve already doubled the average Paleolithic life span), we don’t always seem to have fun with all those extra years we get. Modern life is like a pie eating contest where the prize for winning is more pie.

Errol has for most of his life been remarkably, dare I say unbelievably, satisfied with everything. “How’s your milk, Errol?” Smile. “Would you like to read a book, Errol?” Smile. “Did the doggie just vomit on your head, Errol?” Smile. With Errol, just about everything has been not just fine, but great! Sometimes, as Errol laughed his way through his first two and a half years of life, I found myself wishing he was just a wee bit less satisfied, and a tad more inclined to change things: crawl, talk, walk, complain! Recently, finally, thankfully, at long last, Errol has been showing signs of dissatisfaction. He’s been flipping and flapping around more, screaming when left alone, wiggling his way across the floor, voting for Obama. In short, Errol is less content. Which is a good thing, if it leads to his crawling and talking. But if the goal is contentedness, then perhaps he was better off last year when he was ever happy. What would those cave dwellers make of us? And what would they think of Errol, laughing as the world swirls around him. In a perfect world, Errol would be pissed off just enough to learn to walk and talk, and still laugh at my pirate jokes.

Jousting

Two years ago, when Errol was diagnosed with mental retardation we cried and cried.

Errol’s favorite piece of therapeutic equipment sits atop four wheels, has a tight turning radius, and is called The Bronco. Errol is riding his tricked-out Bronco across the living room floor. He has a massive grin on his face and is laughing at the top of his lungs. His unsuspecting brother waves a foam sword at Errol, who rolls towards him at full speed. Owen is laughing too; he doesn’t yet see that Errol has a foam sword of his own wedged under his arm. It’s pointed right at Owen. They joust. Errol wins again.

Errol can’t talk, he can’t walk, he can’t even sit up by himself. Sometimes when I’m feeding Errol and he bobbles his head and gets food all over himself and me I think, “why can’t you just eat like a normal kid?” (Not very empathetic, you might rightly think. As if Errol really chose to be wheelchair bound!) Sometimes I see other kids his age running around, playing, and I think that Errol will never have these simple pleasures.

We went to a play tonight. Errol laughs at the funny parts and he laughs at the serious parts. He laughs right through the whole damn play. Errol is ever more connected with the world outside him. He keeps swiveling his little head around, mid-laugh, to see his mother, then me, to make sure we get the joke. We do (Hamlet’s soliloquy was hilarious!) When Errol thinks something is funny, it is.

Errol is mentally retarded, but now we just laugh and laugh.