My fiftieth high school reunion is next month. My memories of those times are a bit Dickensian. Yes, it was the best and worst of times. I have many rich, fond memories, but a specter also haunts those memories.

Despite relative success in privileged conditions, I didn’t like myself then. I secretly believed I was broken and perhaps beyond repair.

Teachers said I lacked focus and discipline. Friends called me “scatterbrained.”

The same constellation of behaviors that evoked these comments today would likely be diagnosed as ADD. Though it wasn’t widely recognized in the early 70s, kids were commonly self-medicating with caffeine, nicotine, and even speed.

Mr. Benson, my guidance counselor, attributed my mental focus issues to an overfull schedule of extracurricular activities. I competed in gymnastics, played leading roles in plays and musicals, and taught swimming and lifesaving.

What made my mind truly unmanageable was my seemingly parallel life in the Boy Scouts world. This wasn’t what you’d imagine, such as weekly troop meetings, hiking, and campouts.

I was elected State Chief of Scouting’s honor society, The Order of the Arrow. Next, I was elected Region Chief and finally served as National Conference Vice-Chief. This involved regular air travel, training, speaking engagements, and media spots.

It was all heady and overwhelming for a barely-pubescent 15-year-old boy.

One day, as I prepared to fly across the country for an important conference I was leading, I approached the front of the check-in line at the airport. I feel the heat of panic in my head as I furiously pat all my pockets in search of my wallet.

The agent asks me, “May I have your ticket, please?”

“It’s in my wallet, which is missing now,” I reply.

“Please, step aside while you search for it.”

Tears well up in my eyes as reality hits: my wallet is on the kitchen table, and the ticket is folded inside.

“What is wrong with me?! Why can’t I remember anything?” I’m in full meltdown mode now

I slump down on the floor, oblivious to everyone around me as a deluge of hateful thoughts flood my mind.

“I’m such an idiot! My life is a *#$@ing game of Whack-a-Mole! I’ll never get it right.”

I’m unsure how much time passed, but I suddenly became aware of my surroundings again. It was like I had been in a dark room when somebody walked in and turned on a light.

I saw a young man in a wheelchair approach the counter. With some effort, he handed his ticket to the agent. She greeted him by name and asked, “How are you doing today?”

His face beamed as he strained to speak. “I’m great!” he blurted out as if he were Tony the Tiger.

Something in me cracked open as I watched him. Tears blurred my vision again.

I couldn’t have named what I felt in the moment. Was it pity? Was it shame? Was it the bottom of my own despair?

When the agent finished, I approached her again and apologized for my meltdown. She graciously offered to book me on a later flight.

I got a cab driver to take me home and bring me back with my wallet. On the ride back I thought about all that had happened.

I thought about the guy in the wheelchair who was so full of joy.

I wondered, if he can be joyful with such limitations, why can’t I cope with my struggles?

It turned into one of those internal debates. “His body isn’t functioning, but at least his brain works. How can anyone function without a functioning brain?”

“You just need to try harder,” comes my mother’s voice.

“I should be able to remember things.”

“Maybe that’s the problem. It isn’t that you don’t remember. Your problem is that you think that you should.”

“Wait. What?”

“Imagine how miserable that guy would be if he just kept thinking, ‘I shouldn’t be like this. I shouldn’t have to use a wheelchair.’”

“That wheelchair empowers him to do things he otherwise couldn’t.”

“Maybe you need a wheelchair for your brain.”