He felt uncomfortable with his inadequacies.

The wheelchair was restricting, but not nearly as restricting as the cerebral palsy. It took control of the body; each muscle, each tendon, each ligament. No movement was free from involuntary spasms. Even the comfort of being still, an un-allowed privilege.

He thought as he sat — What do people see when they encounter arms fastened to a wheelchair and a head tilting from side to side? Do they see cruelty? Do they see safety? Do they turn away, not wanting to see anything at all?

Once, the arms had not been fastened to the chair. Or somebody who thought they knew better had released them from imprisonment. That day the arms became battered and bruised. More damage could have been done.

It was now time for breakfast. Cereal and toast, an interesting challenge. The necessity of such a large helping for such a tiny body being obvious, half the meal finishing on his clothes. The tongue was hard to control and sometimes a swallow became a spit.

Maybe this is why the shower had become an after breakfast ritual. Washing away crumbs and honey, which inevitably covered more than clothes. The arms were free in the shower, no velcro band to hold them down. So through the steam they whacked the walls and belted the body of the person trying to wash them.

As warm water pelted on the two bodies in the shower, he thought once more — Do people see this as indecent, not even having privacy in the shower? Do they understand the concept of being unable to wash yourself? Do they care?

Getting dressed is always complicated, but today is special. Underneath the normal clothes, the bathers are worn. Today is beach day. It is not extremely warm outside yet, so many more layers of clothes are also added. The frailty of the body is not imagined. A twenty year old trapped in the body of a twelve year old. The body of a twelve year old which refuses to work properly.

The spasms seem increased with the prospect of a day at the ocean. The thought of the warm sun, the crashing waves and the gentle sand. Excitement, adrenalin, whatever, it certainly made the dressing process harder with arms and legs waving about frantically.

But finally, dried and dressed, it is time to go. The arms are strapped into the chair and it is wheeled into the specially modified van. The engine starts and they are on their way. Travelling along the highway on a day like today is relaxing. The sun shines warmth though the windshield and funny patterns dance over the dashboard.

Stopping at traffic lights provides the most interesting spectacle. Drivers and passengers either side of the van stare at it with different reactions. Some concentrate back on the road, or on the lights, waiting impatiently for them to turn green. Others close their eyes, or stare, as if transfixed by the knowledge of what the van contains. While stopped at the lights he wonders — Why do people stare? Why do they turn away? What do they think?

It is hard to find a park at the beach. The disabled spots are taken and the normal parking spaces that are left are too small for the van. The journey is now less relaxing than it was on the highway. It takes forever to find a park for the van at the far end of the carpark — A long way back to the beach. He wonders as they continue their lengthened journey — Were those disabled spaces taken by people who just couldn’t be bothered finding a park?

Reaching the beach, the wheelchair is left behind. Chained to a rack with a bunch of bikes it draws much attention. Looking back he questions — Is it the wheelchair which fascinates them? Is it the chair which causes them to stare? Is that all they see, a wheelchair?

The day is warm, the water slightly cooler. The inner-tube of an old tyre, less restricting than the wheelchair. The arms are not fastened, they don’t need to be. In the water there is freedom.

Through the waves, those thrashing arms and legs are just as much at home as those similarly around them. They can pick a destination and arrive there. They can stay calm and let the waves take control. While floating in the water he reflects — Is this what heaven is like? Do all these people appreciate their day at the beach as much as we do? Do they understand?

But the day at the beach can’t last forever and everyday cannot be spent at the beach. So the tyre is dragged from the water and the arms and legs once again move without destination. They must be dried and clothed before the trip home, the sand an added obstacle in the comfort of this process. But the risk of illness or infection is too great not to rug up for the evening trip.

The journey home is similar to the trip earlier in the day. The streetlights, mixed with head and tail lights, lack the warmth of the sun, but still create patterns over the dash. Not as many people stare at the van on the way home. It appears the same as all other cars, a vessel between head and tail lights.

Both people in the van are tired as it pulls into the drive. It would be nice to go through the door and straight into bed. But life is not that simple. The shower has to be tackled again to remove sand from hair and bodies. Then the flailing arms have to be calmed for the drying and dressing routine. The warm pyjamas comfortable, yet purposely tight.

One last endeavour before sleep, the taking of medication. A vital part of the day, though not looked forward to. As tablets emerge from their numerous separate bottles he wonders — Do they work? Are they worth the trouble? What choice do I have? Tonight the tablets go down easily. Maybe it was the day at the beach, maybe just the tiredness.

It is nearly time to sleep, but there is something to be said before that time. The communication board has many coloured panels, each panel with its own word or phrase. His eyes wander over the board and the finger which points to progressive panels. Slowly a sentence is spelled out “Dad....I...love...you”.

It was frustrating how long one sentence took to say, but frustration is outweighed by the depth of its meaning. Communication is often hard. Many things in this life are often hard. As the uncontrollable arms are tucked into bed, he bends over and kisses his daughter’s forehead.

It is hard raising a daughter who has cerebral palsy. But she is his daughter, he loves her. He cannot change her condition, but he can love her unconditionally. Still, he feels uncomfortable with his inadequacies.