I turn 50 today and I got a terrific present last night. I even paid for it.
I, and other Milwaukee Marquette High School fathers and sons had the chance to hear Dick Hoyt--one-half of the now-famous father/son team who've been the subjects of stories on HBO's "Real Sports" among other places.
You may know their story: able-bodied dad runs with wheelchair-bound son in a couple of 5K events before they graduate to marathons and triathlons. Father does it because son tells him it's the only time he doesn't feel handicapped.
Dick told the story before a packed house at the Pfister Sunday night, injecting his tale with a mix of self-effacing humor and defiance--especially when describing those who suggested his son be institutionalized as a "vegetable", of race officials who seemed more intent on building obstacles than knocking down hurdles.
I don't think there was a dad in the house who didn't feel a just a little inadequate after the presentation--who wouldn't? Here's a guy who competed some 50 times a year without complaint, yet here I am beefing about having to drive my kid to meet a friend at the movies the other night.
Dick reminded me of three other incredible people I'd met, and his speech reinforced why their picture is on my dresser, even though they've been gone for years. I dust it off each week, treating it like just another nick-knack. It took the Hoyts to bring back the memory, and to reinforce what it means to sacrifice for someone you care about.
No HBO special is in the works for George Harms, his wife Helen, or their son Ken.
Like Rick Hoyt, Ken Harms had cerebral palsy. Like Rick, doctors told George and Helen there wasn't much that could be done. Some suggested institutionalization. The Harms' said no. This is our son. He stays with us.
He did, for 40+ years. Helen and George got Ken out of bed each morning, fed him every spoon he'd ever digest, bathed him, cleansed him and made him their life. Forgot about vacations alone. Built a single-level home. Kept Ken entertained, with t-v and sports and by treating him like, well, a person. They gave Ken dignity.
Two things they never did: seek sympathy, or ask "why us?"
Like Hoyt, I remember how upset my aunt and uncle would get when Ken didn't get treated like others--or when people talked to Ken as though he wasn't mentally up to snuff. Inside was a thinking, functional adult with moods, feelings, thoughts, free will. His body denied him the opportunity to express it all, but if you really tried, you could understand. It was well worth the effort.
Ken outlived the Harms' ability to deal with his special needs. Even though they were well on in years, it took the coaxing of relatives to convince George and Helen they did all they could for their son, that it was time to let others take over.
They died within a few years of each other, without fanfare. The story is still in me, the picture is on the dresser, but it took Dick Hoyt to give it new juice. My aunt and uncle live on, in others who take care of loved ones every day, without complaint. The Hoyts are the public face of those in private who share the same trait: the inability to say, "can't."
It's a story that plays out all over the world, when parents who hope for the best for their children get the news that all didn't come out as planned. For children who become care-givers for elderly parents. For spouses who take care of mates whose health betrays them.
The Hoyts aren't here to make us feel inadequate. They, and others without the megaphone, exist to remind us that the thing our kids crave most of all is our time, be they on a bike, in a wheelchair, or if they're just waiting for you to cart them to the movies. Ask you kid what they remember most about you, and chances are it won't be what you bought them but rather, the time you two did something together. I'm guessing it won't be anything as trying as a bike trek across a lava flow, either.
Here's the Team Hoyt story: http://www.teamhoyt.com/
I, and other Milwaukee Marquette High School fathers and sons had the chance to hear Dick Hoyt--one-half of the now-famous father/son team who've been the subjects of stories on HBO's "Real Sports" among other places.
You may know their story: able-bodied dad runs with wheelchair-bound son in a couple of 5K events before they graduate to marathons and triathlons. Father does it because son tells him it's the only time he doesn't feel handicapped.
Dick told the story before a packed house at the Pfister Sunday night, injecting his tale with a mix of self-effacing humor and defiance--especially when describing those who suggested his son be institutionalized as a "vegetable", of race officials who seemed more intent on building obstacles than knocking down hurdles.
I don't think there was a dad in the house who didn't feel a just a little inadequate after the presentation--who wouldn't? Here's a guy who competed some 50 times a year without complaint, yet here I am beefing about having to drive my kid to meet a friend at the movies the other night.
Dick reminded me of three other incredible people I'd met, and his speech reinforced why their picture is on my dresser, even though they've been gone for years. I dust it off each week, treating it like just another nick-knack. It took the Hoyts to bring back the memory, and to reinforce what it means to sacrifice for someone you care about.
No HBO special is in the works for George Harms, his wife Helen, or their son Ken.
Like Rick Hoyt, Ken Harms had cerebral palsy. Like Rick, doctors told George and Helen there wasn't much that could be done. Some suggested institutionalization. The Harms' said no. This is our son. He stays with us.
He did, for 40+ years. Helen and George got Ken out of bed each morning, fed him every spoon he'd ever digest, bathed him, cleansed him and made him their life. Forgot about vacations alone. Built a single-level home. Kept Ken entertained, with t-v and sports and by treating him like, well, a person. They gave Ken dignity.
Two things they never did: seek sympathy, or ask "why us?"
Like Hoyt, I remember how upset my aunt and uncle would get when Ken didn't get treated like others--or when people talked to Ken as though he wasn't mentally up to snuff. Inside was a thinking, functional adult with moods, feelings, thoughts, free will. His body denied him the opportunity to express it all, but if you really tried, you could understand. It was well worth the effort.
Ken outlived the Harms' ability to deal with his special needs. Even though they were well on in years, it took the coaxing of relatives to convince George and Helen they did all they could for their son, that it was time to let others take over.
They died within a few years of each other, without fanfare. The story is still in me, the picture is on the dresser, but it took Dick Hoyt to give it new juice. My aunt and uncle live on, in others who take care of loved ones every day, without complaint. The Hoyts are the public face of those in private who share the same trait: the inability to say, "can't."
It's a story that plays out all over the world, when parents who hope for the best for their children get the news that all didn't come out as planned. For children who become care-givers for elderly parents. For spouses who take care of mates whose health betrays them.
The Hoyts aren't here to make us feel inadequate. They, and others without the megaphone, exist to remind us that the thing our kids crave most of all is our time, be they on a bike, in a wheelchair, or if they're just waiting for you to cart them to the movies. Ask you kid what they remember most about you, and chances are it won't be what you bought them but rather, the time you two did something together. I'm guessing it won't be anything as trying as a bike trek across a lava flow, either.
Here's the Team Hoyt story: http://www.teamhoyt.com/
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