Allen Schaben/Daily Nebraskan
Randy May works on his specialized IBM computer keyboard arranged conveniently in his Seileck room.
May succeeds despite physical handicap
Inanely May is not helpless.
The 27-year-old University of Ne
braska-Lincoln political science major
sits buckled to a blue-covered seat atop
a battery-powered cart, whirring
across the paved paths on a windy
campus. He presses two metal pedals
at the foot of the cart to manipulate his
direction.
At the center of the handlebars sits a
ram's head, a hood ornament placed
there by his grandfather.
Randy's verbal skills are limited. He
has cerebral palsy acetoid, which limits
speech and movement. But a pink and
silver sign hangs from the bars, greet
ing friends and strangers.
"Hi I'm Randy."
A smile and a hello from a stranger
get a toss of his head and a wide smile.
* + *******
The southern lilt of Loretta DeVore's
voice coos through the phone lines as
she talks from Silom Springs, Ark.
Randy is her baby.
The day of his birth remains forever
etched in her memory as any mother's
memories of her child would be.
She hesitates; her voice trembles
slightly.
"The doctor, the nurses, told me
they didn't expect him to live," she
says.
When Loretta went into labor, she
was administered a drug commonly
called "twilight sleep" which put her
into a semi-conscious state in order for
the doctor to deliver the baby.
Her body reacted adversely to the
drug. The contractions stopped.
After 12 hours of labor the doctor
finally pulled the child from her womb
with forceps.
He weighed 8 pounds, 3 ounces.
He didn't breathe for 32 minutes.
Randy suffered a severe concussion.
His head and shoulders were
scratched. Randy lived in an incubator
three weeks after his mother left the
hospital.
Loretta, her parents and members of
their church prayed.
"I always believed he would live,"
she says. "My mother did also."
But if it was in her power Loretta
says she would change that day.
"It was negligence on the doctor's
part," she says. No lawsuits have been
filed to this date.
"Every day I would worry about
him," she says. "I would think what
can I do for this child."
»»»*»»»»*
There's little now Randy doesn't do
for himself.
Birth injuries destroyed all move
ment of his lower body and much of his
upper torso. He often has difficulty
controlling the movement of his head,
and movement of his arms and hands
are limited.
Sydney Meidell, also a UNL student
and one of Randy's a ides, can easily lift
him from a car seat to his cart seat like
a child.
But Randy's dependence ends there.
He doesn't think twice about motor
ing more than 35 blocks on Vine Street
to K-Mart.
Or about entering a biology course
requiring hours of lab work.
Or jumping on a bus with Syd to
head for Minneapolis for a George
Michael concert.
He is quick to give credit to those
who surround him daily and to those
who are located miles away but have
contributed to his well-being in some
shape or form.
"People have been so good to help
me beyond the call of duty," he says.
Randy spells out his sentences by drag
ging his index and middle finger across
a black board painted with white letters
See RANDY on 4
' v