For over fifty years I have pushed my chair through a society that doesn't make it easy for wheelchair users.
On September 2, 1969, at the age of eighteen, I dove into Lake Independence - and my definition of independence changed. I'm not "wheelchair bound." I'm not "confined to a wheelchair." My wheelchair gives me freedom. As a C5/6 quadriplegic, I earned a BA and JD from the University of Minnesota, passed the bar exam, married the love of my life, and raised my son. My story is not just an inspirational anecdote: it tells the ups and downs of my life.
I overcame many accessibility issues while rolling through countries that included France, Spain, Morocco, New Zealand, Tahiti, England, and Ireland, all while on an extremely limited budget. I discovered my femur broken on an Island in the Mediterranean,
I spent several years and three ALJ hearings to force Social Security to help pay for a van I am able to drive by myself.
Films (Me Before You, Million Dollar Baby) suggest suicide is preferable to quadriplegia, but I chose life. There are many stories of people choosing life, but it's a story that doesn't get told often enough.
For over fifty years I have pushed my chair through a society that doesn't make it easy for wheelchair users.
On September 2, 1969, at the age of eighteen, I dove into Lake Independence - and my definition of independence changed. I'm not "wheelchair bound." I'm not "confined to a wheelchair." My wheelchair gives me freedom. As a C5/6 quadriplegic, I earned a BA and JD from the University of Minnesota, passed the bar exam, married the love of my life, and raised my son. My story is not just an inspirational anecdote: it tells the ups and downs of my life.
I overcame many accessibility issues while rolling through countries that included France, Spain, Morocco, New Zealand, Tahiti, England, and Ireland, all while on an extremely limited budget. I discovered my femur broken on an Island in the Mediterranean,
I spent several years and three ALJ hearings to force Social Security to help pay for a van I am able to drive by myself.
Films (Me Before You, Million Dollar Baby) suggest suicide is preferable to quadriplegia, but I chose life. There are many stories of people choosing life, but it's a story that doesn't get told often enough.
I was eighteen years old, had been out of high school for a year, and the summer of '69 had just begun. Both of my two custom motorcycles, a 1948 Harley knuckle head and a 1951 650cc rigid frame Triumph chopper, were completely disassembled and consisted of many boxes of miscellaneous parts. There never seemed to be enough money to get the Triumph engine back from being rebuilt by Bob Chantland (who once worked on Jay Leno's motorcycle). Plus, I wasn't quite sure of my ability to put either bike back together, but even if I could, it would take months, if not years.
What I wanted was something I could drive. So, after I saw an ad for a 1965 BSA 650 cc, I sold my convertible, my mother helped me get a loan, and I bought the bike. I remember taking it out for a test ride in my old neighborhood of North Minneapolis, up Penn, and out past the cemetery. The BSA would be my only transportation. On one occasion I drove it out to my parents Lake Koronis summer cabin, but I also drove it back and forth everyday to work at the rubber factory.
Summer was almost over, and I had just installed a new set of handlebars. Since owning the bike, I had done minimal modifications. My friend Ron's dad painted the gas tank with some green lacquer that came with my Triumph, and I removed some excess wiring and unnecessary parts, but other than that, it was just like I purchased it. The bike had some problems with the clutch and front forks, but it always ran.
I tickled the carbs till gas overflowed from the bowls, and I probably gave it two or three kicks. The bike rarely started on the first, but almost always by the third. To try out the bars, I drove to my friend Dave's, near Delano, about 30 miles west of Minneapolis.
It was a great day to take the bike out on the highway. I took Highway 12 and headed west through Long Lake and Maple Plain. The Labor Day weekend had just ended, and it was a warm sunny September day. After arriving at Dave's and parking the BSA, we took Dave's car and met two girls Dave new. We were giving them a ride home, and after driving around we ended up at a park near Lake independence. We didn't have bathing suits, so we rolled up our pants, waded in the water, splashed around, and swam a bit near a dock, owned by Glampe's resort, right next to the park. The water was shallow, like the water at the end of our dock on Lake Koronis. I had swum and dove there ever since I could remember.
As I was walking on the dock, diving off the end just seemed like such a natural thing, so I took a run, and I dove into the water. Once in the water, the first thing that I remembered was floating face down, straining to move my head to get some air. I could see the sky, but couldn't breathe and continued to struggle trying to reach the surface. I did not know what was wrong, but do remember, at some point, briefly praying. Then I saw myself walking in the snow and flying in a plane, a single-seat style jet flying above the clouds. The memories I had before blacking out and going unconscious were there, but it didn't seem possible there was enough time to have all those thoughts. Not all the memories of the conversation I had with God with very clear - I may have tried to make a deal, as I often did - but the visualizations were quite vivid even months later.
Then I opened my eyes and saw white cumulus clouds floating in the bluest sky imaginable. The sun was shining warm on my face, and everything was so peaceful, if there is a heaven, this could have been it. For just a few seconds, it felt good to be alive. I now realized I was alive.
Then Dave and the girls were asking me questions. A sheriff was standing over me and asked me what was wrong. Did I hurt? I did not know what was wrong. I didn't have any pain, but I couldn't move my arms or legs. He asked me if I needed an ambulance and I must have said yes.
I found out months later that the sheriff was there because the resort refused Dave use of their phone to call an ambulance. They did not want to be liable for the cost, so instead they called the sheriff. I cannot remember anything about that ambulance ride.
Lying on the litter in the hallway of the hospital, I was wet and so cold. I was told that my parents were called and would arrive soon. Because I was only eighteen, the hospital needed my parents' consent prior to starting any procedure. I talked with a doctor, not having any idea who he was, but asked him what was wrong with me.
He politely informed me, "you broke your neck"
I responded, "shouldn't I be dead then? Isn't that what they do to people when they hang them?"
He told me that you don't always die when you break your neck. I don't remember ever seeing that doctor again.
I spent six weeks at North Memorial Hospital in a circle bed. My cousin Terry had died a year earlier in that hospital after crashing his Harley motorcycle. Yet, my mother was still willing to help me get a loan to buy the BSA. Contrary to what I was warned would happen, my motorcycle did not put me in the hospital. It was still safely parked at Dave's parents' farm. I had kicked the starter for the last time in my parents' driveway.
James LaBelle and his friend Dave cruised around town with some girls on a sunny September day in 1969. They decided to stop and cool off in Lake Independence in Hennepin County, Minnesota. James remembers the waters were shallow, but not unlike the familiar Lake Koronis where his family had a cabin. He jumped off the dock at a nearby resort and fractured his spine, severing his spinal cord at the C5, C6 vertebrae. James writes the story of his life before and after that pivotal moment of paralysis. After the accident, James would have further surgery to reroute healthy nerves above the injury to help him regain some mobility. He never saw himself as "bound" or "confined" to a wheelchair; he said, "My chair gives me freedom."
James would learn to adapt to this new life as a quadriplegic. He found work-arounds when buildings had no ramps or wheelchair access. He learned how to drive a car using levers and other unique features. He also traveled to more than 23 countries! His accounts of friends and caregivers stepping up during those adventures were the best parts of his life's story. Many strangers also stepped in to aid in his care.Â
James studied psychology and then law at the University of Minnesota. He passed the bar in three states, but didnât find many opportunities to work full time. Law is competitive, he said, and the path he took to get his law degree looked different from the traditional lawyer. But he said some people also thought a lawyer in a âwheelchairâ meant that person had mental deficiencies as well. James did advocate for children in custody cases, as well as those facing eviction. He provided legal assistance as a volunteer with Catholic charities.
While James often had thoughts of suicide during low periods of isolation, he didn't act on feelings. He had multiple people care for him who became lifelong friends. He met a wonderful woman, Kathleen, and just knew their relationship would work out. He became a father to Sean and had new adventures with him.
James suffered losses, endured pain and ongoing medical problems, but he looked past his circumstances. He saw beautiful places, enjoyed great food and companionship. His is a story of someone who has had a rich, full life because he kept going. If he had chosen death, heâd have missed out on so many wonderful things.
âI am not trying to be a role model, just a possibility,â James said. âThere are obstacles, and people may not always treat you properly, but there is progress. My story is one of many that doesn't choose death over paralysis. It's just not a story that gets told often enough.â
I would like him to call this memoir something else. "Free-Wheeling: My Life After Paralysis" came to mind. James wrote about his love of motorcycles and cars. He talked about when he worked on them by himself or with his Dad. I waited for him to show the connection, but instead I connected those, which isn't bad. But he could use those stories to connect to all the ways wheels have helped him make lasting memories in his rich, full life.Â
Another connection: Strangers intervened in his life several times to help him or protect him, to give gifts of time or resources to him. Tears came to my eyes when he talked about a stranger feeding him and his buddy Mark while on a European vacation. James and Mark ate spoiled Chinese food one day and became sick. The next time they had âiffyâ food, they went hungry. The stranger brought these sardines and potatoes he had cooked and fed them at no charge. Another time, Mark went to straighten out their passports, and two train station employees aided James off a train returning to where he and Mark had just left. He would have been alone, his chair in pieces next to him, and no one he knew to help him. The first Christmas with Kathleen and baby Sean he tells of a man handing him an ornament outside a Hallmark.
I requested an advance copy of James' book because his story reminded me of another person I admire: Joni Eareckson Tada. I remember finding her book Joni at a garage sale. I was about 8 years old, and my Grandma Pringle bought it for me. Joni dove off a dock into the Chesapeake Bay in Virginia on July 30, 1967. She became paralyzed from the neck down. Her sister Kathy said a crab bit her foot, which prompted her to warn Joni. She saw her sister floating face down in the water and saved her life.Â
I mention her story for two reasons though. James' story is like reading journal entries, which is fine, but I found myself skipping sentences to find out what happened next. I thought his story would lead to a connecting idea. Joni's memoirs provide a writer's outline. She uses her story to say something impactful by anchoring the narrative to a central idea. Her story then is a bridge to an over-arching idea she wants the reader to takeaway. Her life's story provides lessons.Â
I think Joni would agree with James and other disability activists who speak out against those who advocate giving up this life after paralysis. James and Joni have lived well. In fact, they've outlived their projected life expectancy. They just needed to use a wheelchair.
I enjoyed this journey with James. He didnât let his disabilities derail him from going after the desires of his heart. With his law knowledge, he also became an advocate for people who have no voice. He tells the early and the continuing story of people making changes in accommodating those who have disabilities in the U.S. James didn't let his circumstances change how he saw life. He has survived through many medical challenges to his body. He doesn't give up. He has too much to live for, and I think he has ârun his race wellâ using a wheelchair to do it. I thank him for letting me vicariously travel with him.Â