In 1959, seventeen-year-old Gary Presley was standing in line,
wearing his favorite cowboy boots and waiting for his final
inoculation of Salk vaccine. Seven days later, a bad headache
caused him to skip basketball practice, tell his dad that he was
too ill to feed the calves, and walk from barn to bed with shaky,
dizzying steps. He never walked again. By the next day, burning
with the fever of polio, he was fastened into the claustrophobic
cocoon of the iron lung that would be his home for the next three
months. Set among the hardscrabble world of the Missouri Ozarks,
sizzling with sarcasm and acerbic wit, his memoir tells the story
of his journey from the iron lung to life in a wheelchair. Presley
is no wheelchair hero, no inspiring figure preaching patience and
gratitude. An army brat turned farm kid, newly arrived in a
conservative rural community, he was immobilized before he could
take the next step toward adulthood. Prevented, literally, from
taking that next step, he became cranky and crabby, anxious and
alienated, a rolling responsibility crippled not just by polio but
by anger and depression, "a crip all over, starting with the
brain." Slowly, however, despite the limitations of navigating in a
world before the Americans with Disabilities Act, he builds an
independent life. Now, almost fifty years later, having worn out
wheelchair after wheelchair, survived post-polio syndrome, and
married the woman of his dreams, Gary has redefined himself as
Gimp, more ready to act out than to speak up, ironic, perceptive,
still cranky and intolerant but more accepting, more able to find
joy in his family and his newfound religion. Despite the fact that
he detests pity, can spot condescension from miles away, and
refuses to play the role of noble victim, he writes in a way that
elicits sympathy and understanding and laughter. By giving his
readers the unromantic truth about life in a wheelchair, he escapes
stereotypes about people with disabilities and moves toward a place
where every individual is irreplaceable.