Thunder Dog - Michael Hingson [56]
I chose USC, but not for the School of Library Science. Instead I was honored with a doctoral scholarship in the School of Education, and I earned a master’s degree in the area of mental retardation. I did my student teaching my senior year but again ran into very limited opportunities due to lack of accessibility for someone in a wheelchair. I graduated from USC and started my teaching career in a junior high school with students diagnosed with educational handicaps. Two years later, I got the chance to be a team leader in a new program at a brand-new elementary school in Irvine, California. At the time, the state of California was master-planning education and pushing the inclusion of all students with special needs in classrooms. All children were mainstreamed, and the services were brought to the children rather than children being pulled out of classrooms for special programs. Many teachers were resistant to the new philosophy, but I found it fun and challenging. My room had a mini kitchen, so many of the young teachers ended up in my room, where we shared soothing cups of tea and brainstormed ways to deal with particular kids with bizarre behaviors. After about five years, I moved to another new school and became a regular classroom teacher. I taught third and then fourth grade.
In 1980, I took a group of people to Oberammergau to the passion play and fell in love with the travel business. I eventually opened my own business focusing on accessibility and making it possible for people with significant physical disabilities to travel safely and comfortably.
Mike and I met in the early ’80s at dinner with mutual friends. We were in our early thirties. Mike was working for Kurzweil and traveled constantly. I was working as a full-time travel agent by 1982, after taking a leave of absence from the classroom. I started handling Mike’s travel arrangements. We went two months without seeing each other again because of our schedules, but Mike was relentless. He called me every single day.
We liked going to the movies together, and we really liked to talk. I had a comfortable feeling with him, like I didn’t have to entertain him. He seemed to enjoy just being with me and talking to me. We just fit. After a few months, we just grew into a couple. One day he came over, and he was burning up with fever. He had just returned from a convention in Minneapolis, where he had contracted Legionnaires’ disease. I moved him to my parents’ house, and he lay on my parents’ couch for two weeks. My dad took care of him because I had to work.
Mike never really proposed. One day we were driving near my apartment in Santa Ana, and the subject of marriage came up at a stoplight. By the time the light turned green, we had decided to get married. A few days later Mike showed up at the travel agency. I was busy on the phone with a customer, and Mike didn’t care. He grabbed my hand and slid a diamond ring on my finger. “I think I have to stop talking to you now,” I told my client.
We got married at Irvine United Methodist Church on November 27, 1982. Mike wore a white tuxedo. I wore a white gown with a high neck and a white hat. The church was decorated in autumn colors and peachy-pink roses. The wedding was scheduled for 4 p.m., and we were expecting about 225 people. But 4:00 came and went, and the church was only about half full. At exactly 4:12 p.m., the doors opened, and the church filled up as people rushed in. Hours later, we learned that the mysteriously missing guests had been out in their cars, listening to the USC– Notre Dame game. My dad also graduated from USC, so we were all loyal fans and excited that they won on our wedding day.
Dad pushed me down the aisle in my wheelchair, and Mike was waiting at the front with his guide dog Holland. We had two ministers because we couldn’t pick between them, and we said traditional vows.
After we were pronounced husband and wife, Mike pushed me back down the aisle, out into the sunset. We all headed to beautiful San Juan Capistrano for a