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One night, while tucking in Ben, our 11 year old, he asks: “Would you trade being in a wheelchair for being able to walk, but you could never sit down?”

“Yes!” I quickly reply; however I know this is a knee-jerk reaction, for when you’re permanently confined to a wheelchair, you tend to automatically take any deal that comes, regardless of the terms.

“Really?” He seems surprised. “Even if you could never, ever sit down. Not even once?” I’m not sure where Ben’s offer of freedom-for-a-price is coming from; after all, it’s his mother who watches way too much Deal or No Deal, and I doubt he and his other 6th grade buddies have been checking out old clips of Monty Hall on YouTube—

“I still have to say yes.” I’m adamant. Hell, cows and horses sleep standing up, don’t they?

Ben, on the other hand, is completely floored. “You’d never sit down, for the rest of your life—“

“Trust me,” I say, wheeling over to the light switch, “sitting down all the time is completely over-rated.”

In the darkness, Ben expresses more puzzlement, but I’m already gone. All this wishful thinking finds me wheeling down the hall, lost in my favorite daydream; the one where I’m running on the beach, feeling the cool wet sand between my toes; then my second favorite, where I’m carrying a chest-of-drawers up the stairs to a 5th floor walk-up in Manhattan with Jane Fonda; but wait, here’s a new one: I’m blue, 10 feet tall, and have pointy ears and a tail—where’d I get that one?

Ben’s been my step son since age two, Josh, his older brother since he was five, and our youngest, Noah, popped out of the womb five years ago knowing nothing but wheelchair. Out of anyone, I would have to say that my children are more accustomed to my disability than anyone I’ve ever known. Yet as used to me as they are, I am still amazed at how persistent their curiosity remains—even after ten years.

Ben’s hypothetical scenario the other night might at first blush seem like a torturous pair of choices to an old crippled guy who in reality has none. I should be outraged, or at the very least, indignant. Nine and a half years ago I might have been all these and then some. Thankfully, if there is anything I’ve learned from being a parent, it has been patience.

But then it dawns on me that this little quiz is really Ben’s way of putting himself squarely in my shoes. For what better way to understand the depth of my suffering, than to see just how far I would go to get away from it. And willing to never sit down again must speak volumes about just how eager I am to be rid of this wheelchair I’ve been stuck in for the last 25 years of my life.

Perhaps I’m overemphasizing a bit here too, just to prove a point. I may not be able to show them how to pitch a slider or bend a soccer ball around the goal post, but I sure as hell can show them what can happen if you get into a vehicle driven by a drunk driver, using myself, of course as the primary example.

At fifteen, Ben’s older brother Josh may soon be faced with those very same choices, and I intend to be a nearly constant reminder of the perils that await the wrong choice—a human crash test dummy, with the added feature of being able to verbally tell all about my seventy five foot ride through the front windshield of a friend’s car back in 1984.

Of course I can’t be all-downer, all-the-time either. The other lesson I hope that I’ve conveyed to the boys over the years is just how functional and full a life can be with a disability; that while I’d apparently do just about anything to get out of this chair, it certainly doesn’t mean I won’t live life to the fullest while confined to it.

It’s a tricky balance: on the one hand, I’m a role model for overcoming adversity; a hero! On the other, I’m a shining example of what not to do; a pariah. But that’s okay, even if the focus shifts to the latter. For no one should have to live through a traumatic spinal cord injury if it can be avoided, and I can sacrifice a measure of respect and reverence if it will keep my boys out of harms way; because that is truly non-negotiable.