Lil Herbie and His Shopping Cart

If you're a fan of the Los Angeles Chargers, you might have heard about one of quarterback Justin Herbert's pet peeves: abandoned carts. I'm not talking the virtual kind. I'm talking about the real, physical shopping cart that people push out of stores, unload the contents from into their vehicles, then oftentimes ... just leave right there in the parking lot - or push into those striped lines next to the accessible parking spaces thinking it'll be out of the way (it won't - and I'll get to that in a minute).

In an article for ESPN, analyst Mina Kimes wrote about a time that Herbert's teammate Gabe Nabers saw his usually low-key quarterback's temper flare while they were out shopping. Nabers was manning the cart, and after they'd unloaded their goods, he gave it a gentle push, planning to abandon it in the parking lot. The story goes that Herbert addressed the abandoned cart issue and told Nabers, "No. Take it all the way back."

This story was eaten up by Charger fans - my family included - highlighting another reason to love our new quarterback. He does the right thing - the decent thing - and helps to make sure his teammates are doing it too.

And if this story doesn't make you love this guy even more, then I seriously question if there's a heart beating in your chest.

But beyond the fact that it's the right thing to do, I liked this story - and more importantly this characteristic in our young leader - for another reason.

Abandoned carts are a big deal in the disability community, namely for wheelchair users. And my family happens to be a part of that community. My husband Jeff sustained a spinal cord injury in 2013 and now uses a wheelchair. 

I'm the driver in our family. My husband doesn't have arm function, so he sits in the middle aisle of our accessible van in his power wheelchair. I can't tell you how many times I've tried to park in a space, only to have an abandoned cart in the way.

I'm going to be super honest here. Since I'm able bodied, this type of thing - while frustrating - falls more into the "inconvenient" category for me. Because I can hop out of the car and move the cart.

But I know so many wheelchair users who drive their own vehicles using adaptive controls. And when they encounter an abandoned cart in their way, what is inconvenient for an able-bodied individual simply becomes impossible for them. They don't have the option of "hopping out of their vehicle" to move the offending cart. 

Wheelchair users who drive have vehicles with ramps so they can enter and exit. And oftentimes those ramps are located on the side of their vehicle making it impossible for them to park in a regular spot, hence why they must use an accessible parking spot - the ones I mentioned previously with the striped lines - they're called hash marks - like in football. And like in the sport, they're there for a reason - in this case, to make it possible for wheelchair users to access their vehicles safely.

But what if there's an abandoned cart in those hash marks? What if that cart makes it impossible for a wheelchair user to deploy their ramp and exit their vehicle? What if the hash marks that are often in between rows of cars leading to a store entrance are littered with abandoned carts blocking the path for wheelchair users who can't simply roll around them?

I think I've asked enough questions at this point to drive home my message.

Abandoned carts are a big deal - a huge one really.

So when I saw Justin Herbert's stance on them, it made me like him even more.

I've recently crocheted a Justin Herbert doll for my husband for his birthday, and he's become somewhat of a sensation among Charger fans. It's not something I anticipated, but I've embraced it. People love Lil Herbie because people love the real deal. And it's been a blast to share Lil Herbie's adventures on social media.

I was reminded of the cart story this week from a comment on Twitter, and it prompted me to see if I could find Lil Herbie his very own shopping cart. Amazon came through, and now Lil Herbie stands proudly beside his cart. The cart he's returning. The cart he's pushing back to the store or to the designated collection areas in the parking lot.

It stands next to him as a gentle reminder that taking a few moments to do the right thing - the decent thing - doesn't just benefit you, it helps others as well.

The Sunflower and the Cactus - 8 Years Living with a Spinal Cord Injury

Back in early spring of 2013, we decided to spruce up our backyard. We bought heavy bags of wood chips that Jeff heaved in from the garage and spread underneath the trees lining our little enclosed backyard patio. We also bought two wooden planters that we filled with soil. And I can remember kneeling down with little Evie, who was still in preschool and going to turn 4 soon, and we planted sunflower seeds.

We'd never planted anything before, so we were very excited to watch the sunflowers grow. Evie's patience waned, but I was diligent in checking on those flowers. When the buds started to peek through the soil, I called Evie out so we could ooh and aah at nature sprouting right before our eyes. Within a couple months, we had pretty good size stalks, and by summer, we could see that the flowers would be opening soon.

I would check them every single morning. 

Then one day, July 25th to be exact, one of our sunflowers burst forth. It was almost entirely open, with just a few petals that still needed to stretch out. I snapped a photo before I left for work that day, and I posted the image on Instagram with the caption: "Our sunflowers are starting to bloom!" I was so excited.

Two days later, we went to the beach with friends, and Jeff was paralyzed diving into the ocean.

And just like that, I never thought about those sunflowers again.

In the blink of an eye, everything, every-thing changed. What used to be important to us, what used to make us happy, no longer mattered. We were handed a new set of responsibilities to prioritize that day, and that list definitely didn't include growing sunflowers.

I remember going out in the backyard a couple weeks after Jeff's injury, when I was home briefly with just enough time to shower, pack new clothes and grab some food before heading back to spend another impossible night with my husband in the hospital. I walked out the back step and looked around. Everything seemed so bleak in the waning light of the evening. It was like all the joy had been sucked out of what used to be a place filled with life. Our life. A place where just a week prior, we'd hung twinkling lights on the canopy. Where Jeff had meticulously run a cable from our bedroom out to the patio and connected it to a TV in preparation for watching football while he grilled us dinner. A place where Evie chalked sweet figures on the concrete and ran through the sprinkler giggling.

I turned to see the sunflowers, and they were all wilted, bent over, dry. Completely dead. I didn't even try to salvage them, which would have been impossible anyway. But more than that I remember thinking what's the point? I'd already learned that we'd need to move as soon as possible. The condo we rented wasn't anywhere near accessible for the wheelchair Jeff would need to get around. All of this - all the stuff in our backyard - would need to be stored or sold. It was too much for me to mentally wrap my mind around in the moment. I stepped back in the house and closed the door on our old life.

Because that's what that sunflower was - our old life. Days before everything changed, it was all going so good. Jeff and I had great jobs, we had a happy, healthy daughter, we had friends we hung out with on evenings and weekends, we had everything.

But now that life was gone. 

Yet somehow, through all the difficulty and challenge, we've managed to grow a whole new life. 

Year eight hasn't been easy, which has honestly been a surprise for me. You'd think that having eight years of SCI life under our belts, we'd be pretty good at it. And we are. But this year presented quite a few speed bumps. Last summer Jeff developed a pressure sore which kept him in bed for seven months, and turned me into a wound nurse. Those months of bed rest and constant wound monitoring were very difficult for us both. Jeff missed every holiday last year, just like he had the first year. Evie and I decorated for Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and he didn't see any of it in person. And the stress of the wound and so much of the healing responsibility belonging to me almost broke me. It certainly caused me to hit an all time low as a caregiver, which I'm just now climbing out of with the help of some self-care and self-reflection on the stresses I've had to carry the last eight years.

Through all of the ups and downs, the one thing I can honestly say that hasn't disappeared from our old life - the one thing that has actually grown stronger - is the love between me and Jeff. I am so thankful for who he and I are together. How we have pushed through even the darkest of days to find light again. How we've refused to let a shitty situation destroy us.

Sometimes I think about our old life - that sunflower - how beautiful it was, and how we'll never have that again. But I'm quickly reminded that there's still beauty to be found in our new life as well. 

Just this past spring, Evie and I tried planting seeds again. We'd picked a spent flower from a barrel cactus and opened it up to find hundreds of seeds inside. We planted several in the front yard and in the back yard. And even a few in little pots that we put on the windowsill in the kitchen. And just like the sunflowers, I checked those seeds every day. For so long I didn't see anything. Then something happened. Jeff was hospitalized, and of course I was by his side the whole time. And I forgot all about those seeds. So imagine my complete surprise when after 11 days' absence, we came home to find that one of those seeds had sprouted. And a tiny little barrel cactus bud was pushing up out of the dry soil, resilient and strong. 

Just a little reminder that life still finds a way even through the harshest of conditions.

Here's to 8 years!

Year One

Year Eight