Looking back, I realize that his parents did the best they could-the shoes were probably the only ones that fit his feet cardigans are easier to get on a spastic child than pullovers and bathing a young man withĬerebral palsy is a grueling job for aging parents beaten down by endless caretaking. I remember thinking that it would sure help if his parents dressed him nicely and cleaned him up a little. His dark hair was greasy, and he smelled bad. Russell wore pointy red Keds and a baggy old cardigan sweater. Mom wasn’t superstitious, and I knew her warning was only meant to sober us enough to get our giggles under control. “God may give you one like Russell someday.” “Laura, we’d better not laugh,” she said before going back to face poor Russell again. Even my compassionate mother sometimes had to excuse herself to giggle in the My brother Scott and I tried in vain not to laugh at him. His long neck was thick with muscles pulsating from the strain of holding his large, constantly moving head.ĭespite his challenges, Russell always had a huge, improbable smile on his face. His hands were gnarled and bent at the wrist, fingers curled, in a way that myīrother and I found impossible to imitate. He walked in a spastic, bouncing stumble. Russell was pigeon-toed as I had never seen before, causing his knees to face each other. He was twenty years old and had a severe case of cerebral palsy. He was my mother’s cousin, but everyone called him Uncle Russell. When I was eight years old, Uncle Russell came to visit. “This is not a book about a young man with a disability, but rather a story of love, adaptation, and acceptance.” Kindle
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