One of the few milestones Oldest Child met early was ‘becoming mobile’. He learned how to get from Point A to Point Way-the-Hell-Over-There in 1.2 seconds by log rolling, and he did it within 48 hours of learning how to roll both ways. (And to think, both of his clueless parents were so proud when he not only figured it out at a gathering of friends, but repeatedly demonstrated it at 3.5 months of age!)
By 4 months, he’d graduated to a ‘quick like my underside is lubricated with WD-40’ army creep to get where he wanted to go, wiggling and grunting and kicking.
By 15 months, only the slightly sticky trail and the ‘whoosh’ of air currents as he whipped by indicated that there’d briefly been a toddler-sized humanoid anywhere in the vicinity.
At this point, I’d examined a fairly high sample size of his peers, and they were all– including Oldest Child– always slightly damp and slightly sticky. What I didn’t understand at the time, and I still haven’t figured out to this day, is how someone whose skin should by all rights have a very high coefficient of friction simply due to the stickiness levels, could slip right out of my grasp any time we went near an open window, door, a street, or I got him out of his carseat in any parking lot whatsoever.
Whoosh.
He’d be gone, running with abandon and never looking back, faster than the speed of– well, than of me.
Forget not looking back. Not looking forward, or to the sides, or…
Every time I parked the car with Oldest inside, I swear I heard another guardian angel yell, “That’s it. I quit this gig, you hear me? I. Quit. This is the last one, you get me?” And with good reason, because the narrow misses with cars, trucks, shopping carts, camel caravans, river bluffs, and other people’s minivans was really something.
Making our way from the back of the dangerous territory of the parking lot to the store without Oldest dying took most of my available energy. Getting through the store without Oldest somehow going boneless, changing his specific gravity, and oozing out of the leg hole of the shopping cart to escape– or worse, discovering he was buckled in securely and having the Mother of all Meltdowns before I’d finished getting the groceries?
Ah, good times. I hadn’t learned to pick my battles yet, or to just leave the groceries and the store if we hit Defcon 11.
That was when I learned, as a physician, that some kids qualified for a handicapped “hangtag”.
See, here’s the thing. Who gets a handicapped parking plate– one of the permanent ones that goes on your vehicle and doesn’t get removed– or hangtag that you can hang from the rearview window of any vehicle– that varies, state by state.
Some states allow individuals with neurological delays or compromise to qualify. Unfortunately, Minnesota does not. Our statue, listed here, specifically states that the individual must be “physically disabled” according to some fairly strict definitions.
(As an interesting side note, you can go to your chiropractor to get your handicapped permit signed if you think you qualify. Apparently they’re just as qualified as your physician, physician assistant, or nurse practitioner to determine whether you get a handicapped hangtag.)
(As a second interesting side note, you don’t need a medical permit at all if you are getting handicapped plates for a specially modified vehicle that is used exclusively by a permanently physically disabled person. So I guess if I bought Oldest a van with a wheelchair lift and taught him how to drive, and he needed a crutch (!!) or orthotic to get around without pain, we’d be fine.)
I can’t help but think of all the mental and physical energy expended by parents with kids like my Oldest, and all the chaos and potential heartbreak that can ensue. When and where I can, I offer handicapped hangtags.
On oxygen? Absolutely.
Adapted stroller or extra medical equipment? 100%.
Low tone or orthotics? Every time.
Autism alone? Sorry. No.
But …oh, how I wish I could provide some ease for those parents, even if it is just a shorter trip from car to door. That alone might make the difference between a successful grocery run and a failed trip, with a miserable night to come for all involved.
It remains a source of frustration to me that many children with disabilities in Minnesota will continue to be at risk in parking structures and parking lots simply because their disability cannot be labeled as “physical” in nature although it is neurological. Their parents will attempt to keep them safe over the long distances from the lot to the door, while distracted drivers may not be paying attention. I am certain we all will hope they do not become part of the 2,000 deaths per non-pandemic year that occur in parking lots and parking structures around the nation.
To the states that have included developmental disabilities and neurological disabilities as reasons to be eligible for handicapped plates and hangtags: well done, you, for recognizing that disability is disability, physical or otherwise– and that being overwhelmed by what is going on in a parking lot or store can be just as overwhelmingly difficult as navigating through the same environments sans leg, or with an oxygen tank.
Here in Minnesota, we’ll just continue to work toward that type of understanding, and a change in the law.
