By David Shapiro

There's nothing like a little outright humiliation to provide a good lesson in humility.

I suffer from the twin afflictions of multiple sclerosis and bad knees from old sports injuries. Poor balance and weak muscle control from the MS sometimes cause me to fall when I move in and out of my wheelchair. The bum knees make it difficult to get back up — especially when I land in tight spaces with little to grab for leverage. The extra pounds I carry don't help either condition.

So it was that I found myself flat on my back in a narrow hallway late one night last week.

With little room to maneuver, I had no chance to pull myself up. The more I struggled to elevate in the poorly ventilated space, the more it exacerbated the MS and the weaker I became. Pretty soon, I could barely turn onto my side.

Given my immobility and the cramped quarters, there was nothing my wife could do but stand over me with her arms crossed giving me that look. We had been here before.

"This really wouldn't be a good time to yell at me," I pleaded.

"I would never do that," she said.

It was apparent that we were going to have to call for help, but I was too mortified to admit it.

I asked her to please get me a pillow and give me some time to figure out a way to get back on my feet without assistance. Secretly, I was hoping that if I could get comfortable and take a nap, this would all go away and I could resume my life with some measure of dignity. I was brought back to reality by the same urinary impulse that had caused me to get out of the wheelchair in the first place.

"I'm out of ideas," I said. "Would you please call 911."

She ably explained the problem to the dispatcher, and they decided it was more a job for the Fire Department than the paramedics.

"Be sure to tell them that it's not an emergency and there's no need to make a big to-do about it," I said. Within minutes, I heard loud approaching sirens.

"Oh, good grief," I moaned. "Could this possibly get any more embarrassing?"

I cursed my carelessness and stubbornness. "I refuse to let this disease define me," I always proclaim bravely, knowing full well that parts of my life are very much defined by the limitations MS places on me. I didn't want to even think about the implications if these rare accidents started to happen often and I could no longer move safely around my own house.

Soon, a fire truck roared onto our quiet cul-de-sac with lights flashing.

Four firefighters fully decked out in heavy boots, gloves and yellow slicks were quickly in the house sizing up the situation.

Bless them all. They were compassionate, reassuring and gentler than I deserved in extricating me from my situation. Not a single one of them laughed in my presence. After a brief huddle, they slipped a blanket under me, each grabbed a corner and hoisted me back into my wheelchair.

I shook their hands with profound gratitude and babbled apologies for the trouble I had caused — all the while, my eyes fixed in ignominy on the floor they had lifted me from.

"Now I know what every kitten ever rescued from a tree felt like," I told my wife after the firefighters left.

"You should think more of a beached whale," she said.

Humility.

David Shapiro can be reached by e-mail at dave@volcanicash.net.