The U.S. Census Bureau estimates 20 percent of Americans (or about 54 million) have a legally qualifying disability. I am part of that 20 percent or one in five. Despite being part of a significant minority, prior to 1990, recognition of the equal access and equal rights of people with disabilities in our society was nonexistent. A person with a disability is a minority that crosses all the other groups. A person with a disability can be young, old, rich, poor, any ethnic or cultural group, gender or sexual orientation. A disability can affect any of us at any time regardless of our station in life. America’s core values, as I’ve always known my country, has focused on being a land of inclusion with the promise of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness for all, though not without some amount of struggle for each and every one of us. As I reflect on the recent 20th anniversary of the Americans with Disabilities Act, I think about it as a testament to the fact that change really can happen in incredible and profound ways and, like a ripple in a lake, continues to spread outward. The passage of the ADA on July 26, 1990, was the highlight of my teens. It ushered in, for me, long overdue access to the American Dream for people with disabilities like me. This legislation, distinctly American, revolutionized and transformed the lives of all people all over the country for the better, but we still have far to go, if not in legislation, then in how others receive and perceive us in the human community. At least it opens a dialogue for changing mindsets. The ADA opened wide the doors to better education, more employment opportunities, accessible transportation and essential socialization making people with disabilities relevant to humanity, rather than outcasts. We now have a clear laser lighting the way for people with disabilities to be equal participants in society and realize our full potential. With the power of the pen, and the words of “The Father of the ADA” Justin Dart, Jr., the law finally stated that people with disabilities have the right to go to school, get a job, travel on an airplane, use various means of communication and otherwise experience life to the fullest. Without the ADA, I’m unsure how I and other people with disabilities would live in an apartment, work full-time, use public transportation, go to the store, watch a football game or safely cross the street. The ADA has set clear, unambiguous guidelines for engineering, architecture and human resources, with no bias, to level the playing field so we can access life’s experiences. It spells out what to...

Six months ago today, I was lying in a hospital bed recovering from the necessary amputation of my left leg just above the knee. I had battled, within an inch of my last nerve, a myriad of minor to life-threatening infections and chronic illnesses over the years. In the end, it took over my left foot and my leg just above the knee. Every so often, the foot would give me a problem, heal up, then give me another problem for a little longer. More serious and longer bouts of  infection would invade my body each time. By Thanksgiving 2009, I was done with my nightly date with my husband over bandages and wound care supplies. We fought the good fight, visiting various specialists along the way. Eventually, I realized that if we were ever to resume a normal life, if I was ever to feel well again, I needed to face the fact that my foot no longer wanted to play nice with the rest of my body. My body was weary. And wow, so was I! So began what was, for me, a really long goodbye process. We prayed, meditated, sought opinions and finally decided between Veteran’s Day and Thanksgiving that the time had come. I was ready to eliminate the infections and the tiring battle of fruitless wound care regimens that took me away from work, my husband off work early too often and tied up our evenings with rewrapping my bandages. I began literally talking to my foot once the decision was made to have surgery on January 8, 2010. When I would bathe, I would whisper how good my left leg was for giving me full form and a placeholder during wheelchair to car or bed transfers, even if I couldn’t stand on it. I thanked it for how nice it was to have a foot to fit in nice lace-up shoes rather than be confined to the clunky orthopedic ones from my childhood. I apologized for breaking my grand pronouncements to various doctors that, “I came into this world with all 10 fingers and toes. Whether I use them or not, I’ll die with all 10 fingers and toes!” It just wasn’t in the plan was it? Leaving the world with my 10 fingers and toes intact, that is. But, in the years of on-again, off-again wound care that slowly morphed into a long-term, unsuccessful routine, I realized I gave it my best. I did right by left foot. Took good care of it the best we and I knew how. The infections had just taken their toll and it was time to go our separate ways so I could resume a healthier state of being. As...

It’s hard to really understand what the father of a child with a disability, or “special needs child” goes through unless we have been in their shoes. These dads, like my own, are there with their children giving a gift that no one else can give. They give comfort and reassurance that no matter what, everything will be okay. Sometimes dads pretend to be strong when deep down inside, they are uncertain or even terrified. They are the unsung heroes to special needs children. They are special needs fathers and dads. Any male can become a parent. It takes a real man to be a father.  And it takes a man, I think, of extraordinary stock to be a father to a special needs child. We deserve extraordinary after all, don’t we? When a child is sick, typically it is Mom who handles the care unless the mom decides to work while the father stays at home, or works from home. Special needs moms are very special, but in the world of a child with a disability, Daddy is equally vital. Fathers tend to provide a calming and logical presence, to help bring some clarity to the fuzziness in the world, and help calm and reassure a child in a way no one else can. In families with multiple children where one child is hospitalized or in need of regular care, usually it is dad who stays home with the other kids while mom is at the hospital with the sick child, unless there’s a relative to sit with the kids while they both go. Dad is the one holding down the fort, keeping the other kids safe and happy, and bringing the siblings to visit the sick brother or sister. Dad’s role is very often overlooked because he is so quiet and often working behind the scenes. In my dad’s case, he was a grade parent bringing cupcakes to school, taking me to school or on field trips around his Coast Guard base schedule, helping me get ready for school, while my mother worked and went to school to finish her degree. Other times, they worked as a team day and night investing in the best opportunities for my development inside and out. It made sense when my dad ended his career in the Coast Guard due to kidney disease and wasn’t totally ill quite yet, to be the house dad. And he did well, right by me. To my mother’s half dismay, I’m sure, I grew up to be a Daddy’s girl, still loving her very much, but bonded close to Daddy. I learned her head strong ways and some of his level-headedness. I learned to freak...

In ever particle of dust flitting in the air  or piece of old paper we crumple up as we rest from a full week of packing and planning, there’s a memory.  In every piece of lint we’ve wiped from counters and baseboards and in ever dust bunny that seems to scurry from our brooms, there is a memory. Thursday night was the last night in our first apartment together as a couple. Two hearts joined here under one rented roof. We’ve called this place home since the summer of 2004 – much longer than we had anticipated. We’ve seen good and bad here, but mostly good. And for all the not-so-good, there have been good lessons and reminders, so I guess you can’t call anything we’ve experienced really bad. Behind the glossy black door of the accessible unit on Hidden Ridge Lane, many things were revealed and many barriers broken. We opened many minds about what ‘accessible’ really means beyond architecture. Many bonds have been made here that we will pack with us among the many boxes. A loving partnership deepened into marriage in spite of Bryan being mistaken many times for being my attendant or my ‘special roommate’. Job changes and fluctuations in the economy tested our resolve. Dreams were dreamed and realized with still others to come. There was a temporary sick bed for me and my loving caregiver who got me strong again for ‘the next leg of our journey together’ so I could take care of him like I promised I would on our wedding day – even if it is with one leg-and-a-half and two wheels. We survived two home invasions just in the last 20 months, and even more welcomed visitors over the last six yars. We’ve made many dinners here, done many loads of laundry and talked away nights doing bandage changes on the foot I no longer have, before dozing to the sounds of late night cars pulling into the parking lot out front we wished was our front yard instead. We’ve gazed at the pinkish night sky that never got completely black because of Uptown Charlotte lights just over the rise. For all of these things, I am grateful. The apartment may not have been 100% accessible to me, but we learned to adapt together. Across the street, mall security knows us on sight for the countless weekends we saw a movie or had dinner. Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police remember us for not the greatest reasons because of two home invasions where I was home and Bryan at work, but we will be missed they tell us. When others recall an old homestead they think of the penciled in growth charts behind a door...

In the midst of all the packed stuff from the last six years of mine and my husband’s life together as renters, I felt safe, nestled in our mess and safe in the knowledge that I was moving to quieter, family-surrounded digs in the small town of Landis. Except on this morning, that quiet nestled feeling was broken by a home invasion – for the second time in just over a year and a half. It was as it was before in October 2008. I was home alone, lounging and being a bit lazy before getting up for the day when I heard banging at the door. I live in an apartment, albeit not for much longer, but I’m used to delivery people banging, leaving and taking packages to the leasing office. Only this time, the banging was followed by a try at the door knob. And then, a hard thud and crack after that. The hard thud and crack from Monday morning was all too familiar to me, almost like a rewind of the home invasion in October 2008. Only, this time, I had a weapon and was terrified more by the familiar known than the unknown on the other side of the door cracking their way into our home.  I called out this time during the pounding at the door to let them know someone was at home — something I hadn’t done during the first home invasion, thinking mistakenly they would go away. So, I called out this time during the banging, but must not have been heard because he kept coming. As soon as a try to the knob and a light kick echoed, I immediately grabbed the phone to call 911 and grabbed a weapon. I heard yet another kick, thud and crack to the door. No voice calling out to me as before, just silence, other than my whispering on the phone to 911. The 911 operator directed me to talk as if I was talking to a friend, not to panic and keep my weapon in view, I was going to be okay. The police were coming, she assured me. I talked with her more, hearing whoever it was walking around in our living room, where there was a laptop, my watch and wedding set, a TV, some of our moving boxes packed and a bag for Goodwill set to the side to go out.  He must’ve heard me talking because he made his way without a word to the bedroom door and peered in with what looked like a lanyard or wire wrapped around his left hand. The eye contact made my body go electric with fear. As he slipped into view, he made direct eye contact with...