Bring Your Own Wheelchair

Before my dad, Rich Dittrich, had a massive stroke in 2021 he was an adventurer, deep sea fishing and riding jet skis at 40 miles per hour. He practiced as an obstetrician-gynecologist at Thomas Jefferson University Hospital, located in Philadelphia, a pioneer of hormone replacement therapy. He was seeing patients, teaching medical students, and regularly swimming until his cerebral hemorrhage. 

In the wake of his catastrophic stroke, he was given a less than 25 percent chance of surviving. He now relies on a wheelchair for mobility, and his severe aphasia, a language processing disorder that leaves him unable to engage in meaningful conversations. It’s an incredibly difficult reality for a man whose greatest currency was once charisma and conversation. 

Post-stroke, dad moved to an assisted living facility in Brooklyn, New York to receive therapy and be closer to my husband, Bryan, and me. Two years later we relocated to the Bay Area, nearer my sister, Danielle, a Menlo Park resident, along with her spouse, Aaron, and their two children, Dylan and Chloe. After viewing a couple hundred homes to find one that could be altered for ground-floor accessibility, we bought a duplex, renovated it to be wheelchair manageable and relocated to Potrero Hill. 

We told dad’s private aide in New York, Issabelle, presently 70-years-old, that we’d be moving to San Francisco, and invited her to come with us. She quickly replied, “okay,” with a smile. It was the beginning of a dynamic, multigenerational home, which now includes my nine-month-old, Brooklyn. 

At 78-years-old, dad does his best to socialize, participating in an aphasia conversation group at San Francisco State University and stroke survivors support gathering through Kaiser.  He’d like to resume teaching, a formidable challenge given his aphasia. For a man once full of adventure, his wheelchair and lack of body control have made him reluctant to go on outings. More often than not, when someone asks how he feels about the move he responds “family,” with positive inflection, before replying “hills,” with reluctant disappointment. 

Last year’s Bring Your Own Big Wheel was the first neighborhood activity we participated in after moving to San Francisco in 2024. My family loved it. Danielle plotted this year’s costume theme for months. The race is just a few blocks from our 20th and Rhode Island home. We walked – dad wheeled – there with a big crew: my sister-in-law and brother-in-law, Alyssa and Nick, in from Arizona with their two children, Annie and AJ; my mom, Phyllis; my dad’s second aide, Utulei, who joined his care team a couple of months ago; Danielle, Aaron, Dylan and Chloe; Bryan and our daughter. We sported a collective “Old McDonald Had a Farm” costume theme, planning an Easter egg hunt afterwards.  

As we watched the race, Danielle suddenly caught my dad on video halfway down the hill. No one knew he and Issabelle had entered. In fact, neither he nor Issabelle intended to participate. As they’d prepared to leave, participants warmly encouraged them to traverse San Francisco’s curviest street. Down they went, wheeling the longest and steepest hill they’ve taken in the year and half since we’ve moved to the community. 

Issabelle said that before they got on the “race track” she’d asked a spectator if it was long. They said “no.” She was shocked to discover that it has two “S”’s, as she described the route. 

My husband met them at the bottom of the hill to help them navigate back home, traveling down Kansas to 23rd, up 23rd, then back to Rhode Island. As they came up the block, the whole family met my dad chanting “Poppa! Poppa!” It’s the most alive I’ve seen him in the almost five years since his stroke. 

Issabelle and dad are already plotting their costumes for next year.