He weighs 58 pounds. I know you're asking because its quite shocking to watch me lift his large limp body out of his wheelchair. I know I'm small. But please don't ask me while I'm lifting him,
Dermot is heavy. We've got that covered. He's heavy for many reasons. His wheelchair alone weighs 87+ pounds, then factor in the TLSO brace, the fact that he can't assist me while I lift him and his 58 pounds, that equals heavy.
But for some reason when you ask me how much he weighs it makes me think you're going to talk about how you can't believe I can still lift him, or how you worry about when I won't be able to lift him anymore. "What will she do?" I imagine you saying to your confidant at the end of the night.
Is it pity? Beats me, but it feels like it.
How about "what can I do to help?" instead? Or perhaps taking action on your own. Yes he's heavy, but reminding me of it isn't helpful. It reminds me that it's hard.
I lift him every day, multiple times. I have taken steps to ensure I have a strong core. And when I say core, I mean it in a few ways.
Yoga, God, Friends. These things make my core stronger. I practice yoga to calm my mind and strengthen my muscles. I believe in God to strengthen my mind and calm my soul. I nurture my friendships to surround myself with people who support, understand and love me.
Dermot is heavy. I get that. I am strong. I get that.
Will you walk along the ramp with us instead of taking the stairs? Will you sit in the handicap seats with us, instead of in the bleachers? Will you push the wheelchair sometime to give me a break? Will you answer the stranger's kid asking the awkward question? Can you sit with Dermot and hold his hand sometimes so I can go play with my other boys? Can you do the hard stuff with me, instead of talking about it after I'm gone?
That's what I need. That's how you can help. Not for me to tell you how much he weighs and how many seizures he has every day. The answer to both questions equals a lot, and I'm afraid you'll use that information against me.