Author: rtb77

I am a 45 year old male who was born with spina bifida and hydrocephalus. I have been married to my incredible wife Amanda for nearly 10 years. We live in Illinois and both work in government jobs. I enjoy reading, writing, and watching Chicago Cubs baseball. I also enjoy the absurdity that daily life often brings, especially to those with disabilities. I try to see the humor in these situations. If you are offended by the use of the word “crippled” in the title of this blog please read the first post. I don’t like the word crippled and have never considered myself as such. Furthermore, I have never wanted to stand out from others. However, my intent is to show how humor has helped me deal with the hardship of disability. Likewise, I want to show others how full a life one can lead, even if you happen to be disabled. The use of the word “crippled” for the title is meant to be a bit of irony.

And Then There Were Five

For many years the Peace Corps ran television ads. At the end of these ads a deep, male voice would intone the slogan, “The toughest job you’ll ever love.” I believe the same could be said about parenting. Perhaps, even more so for foster parents. A phone call can change your life in a matter of moments.

For instance, Amanda and I got a call this past Friday from DCFS. We were informed that a two-year-old girl needed placement. As you might know, we just adopted a foster child in March. We are also fostering a two-year-old boy. Needless to say, we never have a dull moment in our house. Despite this, we’d not change a thing. Our two boys bring us so much joy and laughter.

The little girl we just welcomed has been rather timid. She will not let Amanda out of her sight. However, since Friday she has slowly started to warm up to me and the boys. One very special part of this story, is that she is a half-sibling to our four year old.

My days have been enriched by having these young lives join our family. They teach me daily lessons. Likewise, they help me to be more patient. They even make me cry at times, with what they do and say. For example, Hudson, our four year old, likes to sing a song when we are headed home from an event. The song, goes, “Here we go to Hudson’s house to Hudson’s house, to Hudson’s house. Here we go to Hudson’s house, to Hudson’s house today.” This is a song his grandma has taught him.

One day I substituted “Daddy’s House” for “Hudson’s House” and Hudson promptly told me it was his house. Since then we have had a few more discussions about the ownership of our house. He has told me that “Jesus didn’t make me a home.” Apparently, Hudson paid $400.00 cash for “his house.” He also told me that “Jesus made this home just for him.” That is when a tear or two came to my eye. If only he knew just how correct he is about this.

Hudson came to us when he was three days old. From the start, it seemed providential that he would be our’s forever. God answered our prayers and made that so. We pray that our two other little ones stay with us forever as well.

The logistics of having three little ones can be a nightmare. Since saying yes to bringing another child into our lives, we have realized we need a bigger car. However, where God leads, He provides. God has made a home for all of us. We are blessed to share our home with these babies. I am excited for what the future holds for each of them.

In closing, I am thinking about starting a podcast with a fellow, foster father. Would you be interested in listening? Drop me a comment and let me know.

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Letters From a Father to a Son

When my father was in the navy, he would often correspond with my grandfather through letters. Fortunately, my grandfather saved these letters and I have been able to read many of them. They provide insights into my father’s life aboard ship. Likewise, they are snapshots of events that were taking place around the world at the time. For instance, in one letter, the death of a local man is mentioned. This man was killed while serving in the Vietnam War. I believe my dad knew the fallen soldier, as they had been in school together. These are the ties that bind those of us that live in small towns.

This morning I spent a lot of time thinking about these ties. My wife and I adopted a child. On December 29, 2019, Hudson came to us when he was three-days old. His birth parents were unable to properly care for him. We welcomed this little boy into our lives. From the very beginning he was our child. We love him as if he is our flesh and blood. His enthusiam for life is both refreshing and exhausting.

Hudson is a boy after my own heart. He loves cars and trucks, watching tv, and playing outside. I cannot wait to share experiences with him as he grows and matures. I want to take him to his first baseball game. Hopefully, I will have more time with him than I did with my own father. I want him to know who I am while I am here. He is my son and I am proud to be his father. He may only be four years old, but I know he has the potential to do great things. I will be here to encourage him as best I can. My hope is that he grows up to respect me as my father respected his father.

It was a blessing to Amanda and I to have both of our families with us this morning as Hudson legally became our son. I wish my father could have been there. I know he would have been proud. However, a piece of him was there as he was not far from my mind. It is often said that the “Lord works in mysterious ways.” Hudson, I believe is a gift from God.

His story was already beginning to be told in those letters between my father and grandfather. For you see, the fallen soldier mentioned in those letters, was Hudson’s great uncle. The letters from a father to a son written in the 1960’s live on today through my son.

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Agree to Disagree

Earlier this week I ran across a news article on Facebook about a man in North Carolina who has Down syndrome. According to the article, this individual was fired from his job at Wendy’s after 20 years. The reason given is that he did not have the ability to perform the duties of his position. So, why was he employed for 20 years?

Reading some of the comments on Facebook of this particular news story were nauseating. For instance, there was an individual who wrote:

Well, that sucks.

I totally understand both sides and I’m not entirely sure where I fall on the question of the disabled in the workplace.

It is a pain in the you know what to have to figure out what to do with a handicapped person on your shift. They can’t do everything that you ask of them but you can’t say that either because that’s deemed wrong and in some cases illegal so you have to beat around the bush with nonsense tasks and you still have to cover the work that isn’t getting done because dude is gimped out. They blow hole in your budget because they might work 8hrs but only get 4-5 hours of work done. I will say this though once you get them dialed in on a routine they don’t forget anything and I ain’t ever seen em slacking off either. So there is that…

Then there’s the altruistic side me that says everyone deserves an opportunity.

My views on the handicapped are incredibly unpopular and have been labeled extreme on several occasions. I’m a fan of aborting these folks in utero like what Greeland or Iceland has been doing for decades now. They don’t have to negotiate all these social conundrums they just pull the plug and start anew. I look at quadriplegic folks or the folks layer up in a bed for 60yrs. and I got to think that that’s just an awful thing to do to someone. I know I have expressed my wishes to my lived one’s incase I end up gorped.

I responded with the following:

Your views are not just extreme. They are idiotic. I am a disabled person who works full time. I am also married and have a family. I have a right to exist just as much as you.

This person simply replied:

Agree to disagree…

I was actually dumbfounded. Do I not have a right to exist because I am different? I am contributing to society. However, if an individual is not able to be a productive member of their community, should we just cast them aside? It is frightening to think that there are people in the world who still think like this. It is this line of thinking that led to the Holocaust.

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Air

When I was in college I took a music appreciation class. I’ve always loved music. This class gave me an opportunity to explore various genres of music. For instance, we listened to quite a lot of classical music. Through this experience I gained an appreciation for the classical composer, Johann Sebastian Bach. One piece in particular of his that I enjoy is “Air on the G String.”

I heard this particular piece a couple of weeks ago. Since that day “air” is something that has taken on a quite a particular significance. That same day Our Little Fighter was airlifted from our local hospital to one over an hour away. He has a virus that led to an infection in his lung. Our house is just a couple of blocks from our local hospital. I heard the helicopter land and take off as it carried Our Little Fighter away into a world of uncertainty.

A brief time after the helicopter departed, an eagle appeared high in the sky. It circled our house a couple of times and then flew north. I was reminded of Isaiah 40:31, “But they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint” (ESV). These are words that I have had to keep coming back to, especially since progress seems to be slow.

This past week, while Amanda has been keeping watch over Our Little Fighter at the hospital, I have been home with Little Boy. He has been keeping me entertained. This morning he put his fork behind my back during breakfast, proceeded to sit back down, then with a puzzled grin asked me where his fork was. Usually we play this game where he hides behind me and then I ask where he has gone. He will peek around my shoulder and say, “here I am.” Apparently, he is building his comedy chops. I love every minute of it.

We will wait upon the Lord, as He is the source of our true strength. No matter where life leads, God is in control. We will keep trusting Him to provide strength in our weariness. He already is doing so through the humor of a little boy. I am just hoping there are no forks in my bed tonight.

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The Price is Right

If you are a child of the 1980’s, as I am, you probably spent at least one day home sick from school. These days for me were often spent laying on the living room couch watching game shows on television. A particular favorite was The Price is Right.

I’d get my sleeve of saltines, bowl of applesauce, and glass of 7UP and tune in to watch Bob Barker dole out all kinds of “fabulous prizes” to frenzied contestants.

If you have never seen this show, it consisted of people playing various kinds of games to win items such as cars, chairs, grandfather clocks, and a host of other goods.

One such game that contestants would play was called, “Plinko.” In this game a contestant was given a disc that looked like an oversized poker chip. This disc was inserted at the top of a board that would run down through a series of pegs. At the bottom of the board was a series of slots. Each of these slots contained different dollar values. In which slot a contestant’s chip landed that is the amount of money they would win.

Here in the Bradshaw household we have our own “Plinko” player. I will call him Baby Boy. Although, he is getting to be a Big Boy now. Anyway, I get around the house using a wheelchair. Big Boy likes to find various items to use as “Plinko” chips. These are usually wooden letters or numbers that he is using to learn his “A, B, C, D’s,” as he calls them.

He will use a letter or number and drop them through the spokes on the wheels of my chair. He doesn’t win anything, but he doesn’t care. I am hoping he can one day use the skills he is learning to go on to a game show to win some “fabulous prizes.” It would be nice if he could bring home a Corvette for me. I’d also enjoy a nice trip through the Swiss Alps. However, if he never goes on to game show glory that will be fine. I’d just like him to lead a happy and prosperous life.

I miss those days when I’d stay home and let Bob Barker keep me company. Those times were simpler. I am glad I am reminded of them now when I become a rolling “Plinko” board. I should maybe take my act on the road.

I am sure there are other kids who would enjoy this game. I could travel the world reminding people, as Bob Barker did, to “have their pets spayed or neutered.” I’d be a rolling public service announcement. If there are any game show producers out there have your people call my people.

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Punching Clouds

There are times when words or phrases I hear will get stuck in my mind. For instance, the other day I was listening to one of my favorite podcasts and the host used the phrase “willful incontinence.” The twelve-year-old boy that is still inside of me got a good laugh from that. My mind instantly began to wonder how I could work that into a blog post. My mission has been accomplished! But seriously, that is not what this post is about.

I’d like to share another phrase that came to me today as I was watching Our Little Fighter play on the floor. He has a little mat that he can lay on that has various age-appropriate toys suspended overhead. One of these items is a cloud with eyes. As I was watching Our Little Fighter, he reached up and “punched” the cloud. He reminded me of a boxer using a punching bag while in training. Furthermore, it reminded me that I too have a few of my own “clouds” that need a good thrashing.

Those of you who read my blog on a regular basis know I have been battling some health problems lately. With these have come some dark mental clouds. However, I am a fighter too.

I just needed a reminder to keep “punching” the clouds. They are small compared to the good things in life. You just need to have a childlike faith. I’m fortunate to have reminders of that on a daily basis.

2

The Dish Ran Away with the Spoon

I think there must be a special place where things go when we lose them. For instance, I have socks that are missing a mate. However, the real mystery around our house is where has our silverware gone?

When Amanda and I were married we received silverware as a gift. This set included twelve knives, twelve forks, and twelve spoons. I believe we still have all of the knives and forks. Spoons, on the other hand, are a different story. If I had to say, I think we are down to about six of those. Where did the spoons go?

We only have lived in one other house. I don’t think we left any spoons behind when we moved last October. Do we have a monster in the house who comes out at night just to eat spoons? Are guests pocketing them when they leave? Have I lost my ability to count to twelve? All questions I have pondered.

The case of the missing spoons is one life’s great mysteries. It is right up there with the disappearances of Jimmy Hoffa and Amelia Earhart. I am thinking about hiring a private investigator to track down the missing spoons. Where is Magnum P.I. when you need him?

Where do you think things go when we lose them? Will we truly ever know? What are you currently missing at your house?

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Dazed and Infused

I have become an IV drug user. It was just a matter of time before it happened. Fortunately, I am not hooked on heroin or cocaine. My drug of choice is meropenem. This a powerful antibiotic that will be treating the osteomyelitis in my left foot. I will be giving myself infusions through a port in my chest for the next five weeks.

I also came home from the hospital with a wound vac on my foot. This device suctions to my foot and sucks any drainage that might seep from the closed surgical wound. The vac when doing its job sounds eerily like a velociraptor that is about ready to pounce. So, I am now basically a member of a chain gang that is being chased by a deadly dinosaur.

Steven Spielberg, if you are out there, give me a call. I have the story for your next summer blockbuster. Middle-aged man with spina bifida chained to a medical device that sounds like it is about ready to disembowel him. This movie will shatter box office records.

Who should star as the leading man in this story? If you have any ideas drop me a reply. I’m off to take a nap. Hopefully, I will dream of further details for this film. I can smell that Oscar now!

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The Patient Who Lost His Patience

I surely must be in the midst of a nightmare. It is 1:45 a.m. and was just woken up by a nurse requesting that I “sit up” and “sign a consent form for surgery.” Oh, and while I am at, I also need to complete a “risk assessment for anesthesiology.” This couldn’t wait until sunrise for me to complete?

I am having surgery today. This will be my third procedure in a week. I have osteomyelitis, which is an infection in my bone. This past Wednesday I had a surgery to remove some infected bone from my left foot. Yesterday, I had a procedure to close the wound on my foot. This morning I will have one to put a port in my chest, through which I will receive IV antibiotics for the next 6 weeks.

Don’t let anyone fool you. Hospitals are not a place where one goes to rest. I actually have had very little of that since Wednesday.

I am quite certain I didn’t really need to fill out a risk assessment for anesthesiology. Especially, since I have done two of these with an anesthesiologist in the past week. However, I was too tired to argue. I could have asked to speak to a supervisor, but it is too early for me to put up a struggle. So, I signed the consent and completed the assessment.

I wonder if nurses are even made to play the patient while they are in school? If not, perhaps they should be. For the most part I’ve had very empathetic nurses this past week. However, there have been a few who could learn some things about patient care.

Having been in and out of the hospital quite a lot over my 45 years, I have seen it all. Perhaps, I should start a side hustle as a “professional patient.” I could consult with hospitals as to the quality of the care they are providing.

However, for now my patience as a patient has petered out. I am actually looking forward to surgery. Maybe I will get some sleep in the operating room. If not, I might need to conduct my own “risk assessment” with the anesthesiologist.

6

One Little Victory

I am a fan of the Canadian rock band, Rush. One of the last albums they made before disbanding was an album called “Vapor Trails.” Perhaps, my favorite song from this album is “One Little Victory.” The material on this album deals largely with the healing process their drummer went through after some very dramatic losses in his personal life.

For example, the song “One Little Victory” addresses how hard it can be even living from moment to moment when you are experiencing periods of grief. In my struggle with depression over the last few years one verse from this particular song often comes to mind:

Celebrate the moment as it turns into one more/Another chance at victory, another chance to score/The measure of the moment is a difference of degrees/Just one little victory, a spirit breaking free

Sometimes it is difficult to see the forest for the trees, especially when your mind is clouded with the doubts of depression. Oftentimes, the only thing worth celebrating is a particular moment. Its these “little victories” that enables one to keep moving forward when the “big picture” cannot be seen.

I have been in the hospital for the last four days. Laying in a hospital bed for nearly a week can cause you to lose focus on the positives. Therefore, I have been looking for the “little victories” each day that will spur me on to getting back home.

For instance, tonight I learned that I no longer have to be hooked up to my IV unless the nurse is specifically running medications through for me. My veins, my kidneys, and my bladder are all thankful for the rest! It will be heavenly to go to sleep tonight not having to worry about accidently ripping a needle out of my arm! These “little victories” can feel huge at times.

Hopefully, within the next few days I can return home. I miss Amanda and our boys. Being separated from them is the hardest part of this ordeal. However, I am going to wake up tomorrow and look for at least one “little victory.” There is sure to be at least one.

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