top of page
  • Writer's pictureNate Methot

Form Over Function




I was in a hotel lobby in Rochester, New York. It was the spring of 2012, more than eight months after my ALS diagnosis. There were a few steps to get to the front desk, because someone thought the aesthetic improvement outweighed the inconvenience. To accommodate luggage―among other things―they'd installed a motorized lift, a black metal cage to traverse the rise. I approached the stairs pulling my suitcase behind me. I didn’t notice the lift; it didn’t occur to me to seek an alternative route. I climbed those four or five steps like it was a mountain. I thought it’d be easy to drag my rolling suitcase up one step at a time; I figured no one would notice my deliberate pace. The woman at the counter saw what I didn’t and called out to the man she saw struggling with the stairs. “Do you need a hand, sir?” she asked as she’d surely repeated many times before. “I’m OK,” I shot back, as would become more routine in the future. I just wanted to be invisible in that moment; I wanted to be like the others, like I used to. I don’t want to be different; the person I know isn’t different.


130 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

It's Valentine's Day

It’s Valentine’s Day. Last year, in the little dirt parking lot of Geprags Park, I sat in my van with a woman I met on Tinder. We’d been chatting almost every night for more than a month, filling my o

A Real, Full, Human Man

I realized something on the drive home from therapy. So much so that by the time we'd exited the parking garage, I'd completely forgotten what we'd touched on in those last minutes after my hour was o

bottom of page