Connecting The Dots of Healthcare

Wrapping up my NSA convention I discovered the last set of breakouts really didn’t have any topics that seemed to grab me. I ambled out of the last general session and had the good fortune to bump into my friend, and past NSA President, Dave Gordon, CSP. Dave said he was going to drop by the Youth Leadership Group, (see earlier posting), because Alvin Law was speaking. “Have you ever seen Alvin speak?” Dave asked.

I told him I hadn’t and he said “He’s really great.” So I tagged along. Well, it all worked out. And, like the cliché, I discovered I had indeed saved the best for last.

Alvin was born with no arms because of his birth mother’s thalidomide usage. Put up for adoption after birth he was taken in by a foster mother and father, well into their fifties, who became Alvin’s patients. His story was compelling, his message was relevant, and his delivery was expert, creating an emotional roller-coaster that left the audience uplifted and sharing his joy in life, refusing to accept limits that had been placed on him by I’m sure well meaning adult authorities, both in and out of healthcare. Fortunately, Alvin didn’t consider his “handicap” a handicap. He just didn’t have arms. But that didn’t stop him from playing the trombone, playing the piano, or playing the drums. And he was great at soccer. (As he put it, he never got penalized for touching the ball with his hands.

But what was most compelling for me, was the story he related to the audience about his first day registering for school with his parents and a meeting in the privacy of the principal’s office. Alvin and his parents were told by the principal that “children like him” couldn’t attend the school.

Alvin’s mom said “Children like what?”

“Well,” the principal replied, “Handicapped.”

Alvin’s mom responded, “He’s not handicapped!”

The principal shot back, “He doesn’t have arms! What would you call him?”

His mom looked at the principal, (a very perceptive man indeed to notice the fact that Alvin had no arms, I’m sure!), then at Alvin, then back to the principal and evenly replied, “I call him Alvin.”

Alvin doesn’t want people to call him “handicapped,” “disabled,” “impaired,” “physically challenged,” or whatever politically correct term you may choose, he simply wants to be called “Alvin.”

If your name was Alvin, wouldn’t you?