Always shocked by a three-year-old.

Over the last 20 months, I’ve often wondered about the impact that my accident and subsequent disability would have on those in my life. Some friends have told me that they haven’t had the courage to get back on a bike. Others have had a period of trepidation, but ultimately remembered that random events occur, and re-found the happiness they’ve experienced on a bike. Others have become more acutely aware of the limitations that exist for people with disabilities: how difficult it is to navigate Manhattan; how people park in parking spots reserved for those with a handicap (or wait in them), whip out their hang-tag, and then walk without difficulty into a store; or recognize that some stores or restaurants are not set up for success if you live your life in a wheelchair.

I’ve frequently pondered how my nieces, age three and almost-two, would process my disability. When would they start to ask questions? How would I answer those? How can I tell them about a bike accident, yet ensure that they’re not fearful of an activity in which they should take part without reservation (though with a helmet, obviously)? What I do know is that they’ll grow up never knowing that their uncle once walked, standing 6’5” and able to see above the crowd. They’ll see pictures, and they’ll have to process the dissonance. I wish I could carry them on my shoulders so they could see the world from greater heights. I’ll never have that joy.

I’m surprised, though, by the knowledge and empathy of my three-year-old niece. She asks why I’m in a wheelchair, though I know she actually knows. I understand she doesn’t want to have a conversation that is that straight-forward. Today, though, she surprised me. She pointed to a parking spot demarcated with the standard wheelchair paint-job and the blue wheelchair signage, and she said “Uncle Daniel, this is a parking spot for you. There’s one here that’s special for you - and there are other places too. So you can park there.” Now, the concept that a three-year-old understands a parking spot, or even a “reserved” parking spot, is pretty remarkable (I think). But that she recognizes that I’m in a wheelchair, and therefore need a special parking spot means that she has empathy.

If nothing else, I’m grateful that my nieces will grow up being more aware of people with differences, comfortable with people in wheelchairs, and empathetic human beings. That will be an amazing long-term win.

My brother, sister-in-law, and nieces