Fellowship

by Dean Kramer
April, 2003


I’ve never been a big fan of exclusivity. But there are contexts in which, no matter how much you want to include everyone, everyone just doesn’t fit. I imagine each of us with MS who is disabled to any extent has had to sit on the sidelines from time to time watching others have fun. And no matter how much they try to adapt things so that we can participate—maybe even because they try to adapt things, our sense of belonging remains, in that context, incomplete.

Each morning, now, I leave Cripple Creek. In the mobility equipment store where I work the owner and the employees, other than myself, are TABs (Temporarily Able-bodied). Most of the customers, of course, are not able-bodied. The customers come in using canes, walkers, or wheelchairs. They’re used to being approached by someone who stands taller in the world than they, someone who can move quickly and gracefully and who, while extremely knowledgeable about the products we sell and very respectful, really can’t “get it.” Things are a little different there now. I’m not a great salesperson yet, but I can relate (as they say). People come limping, staggering or rolling through the door and they’re met by a limping, staggering or rolling salesperson (depending on the state of my MS that day). There’s a connection.

Sometimes the customer comes in with a caregiver or a friend who, with the best of intentions, is going to “do the explaining” and “pave the way.” That’s testimony to how disenfranchised many of us feel—a disabled person needs an able-bodied person to explain his needs as a disabled person to another able-bodied salesperson. Sheesh!

My presence there cuts out the middleman. Without being rude, I try to get the caregiver or friend to allow the person who actually needs our products to do his own explaining. We meet as equals. We talk about our respective diseases or conditions. They get fatigued? I know all about fatigue. We talk about our rides. Despite the expense (and the caregiver’s rolling eyes), they only need a scooter some of the time? I understand that. They want a particular feel out of a cushion and I spend an inordinate amount of time on my butt. So it works.

And the most interesting aspect of this is the exclusivity. Those of us who hang out at MSWorld or in other disability support group venues have had the wonderful experience of being with others who, on the level of disability, are our fellows. But there are lots of people who haven’t had the experience. Some of them come to the store where I work. What I love the most, the coolest thing to me, is the look of relief on the face of a customer who doesn’t have to struggle to explain. I see a person relax and begin to enjoy her shopping experience. We chat on and on, trying this, trying that (dissing this, raving about that). The friend or caregiver falls behind, not exactly excluded, but not really in the picture, either. The customer and I can’t move fast physically but in the speed of our rapport we leave the able-bodied in the dust.