wild_with_wheels

wild_with_wheels Accessible Interactive Nature Experiences and walks

ET was a disabled boy..
01/01/2026

ET was a disabled boy..

He was 12 years old, born without legs, and could walk on his hands faster than most kids could run. Hollywood needed someone who could make a rubber alien stumble drunkenly through a kitchen. They found him in a hospital. He helped create the most beloved character in film history. Almost nobody knows his name.
In 1981, Steven Spielberg had a problem.
He was filming E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial—a movie about a lost alien befriended by a lonely boy—and the alien had to feel real. Not mechanical. Not like a puppet jerking on strings. Real.
Carlo Rambaldi, an Academy Award-winning special effects artist, had spent six months and $1.5 million creating three E.T. models: a mechanical version operated by cables, an electronic one for facial expressions, and a wearable costume for walking scenes.
But making the costume move convincingly—with the awkward, endearing waddle that would make audiences fall in love—required something puppets and animatronics couldn't provide: a human being.
Not just any human. Someone who could fit inside a four-foot rubber suit, whose head would go in the chest cavity, who could create fluid, organic movement while essentially walking upside-down.
Someone found Matthew De Meritt.
Matthew was born on April 21, 1970, in Los Angeles County, California, without legs. Where most children learned to walk on their feet, Matthew learned to walk on his hands. Not as a gimmick or a trick—as his primary mode of movement.
By age 12, he could skateboard on his hands, race around on a board, maneuver with balance and agility that seemed almost impossible. His upper body strength was extraordinary. His coordination was flawless.
In 1981, Matthew was undergoing physical therapy at UCLA Medical Center when someone from Universal Studios approached his doctors. They were looking for someone unique—someone whose physical abilities could bring an alien to life in ways nobody had attempted before.
"There was a fitting and they took all my measurements and they filmed me walking on my hands," Matthew recalled years later in a 2002 interview with The Mirror. "I'm not sure what they were thinking when they got me down there. I'd never demonstrated to anybody that I could walk on my hands, and I don't see how they could think I could comfortably fit inside a costume and walk around and make a convincing alien."
He paused, then added with characteristic understatement: "But it kind of worked."
The E.T. costume was not comfortable.
It was a massive, four-foot rubber suit that weighed heavily on whoever wore it. The performers' heads went through a chest slit, positioned where E.T.'s torso would be. Their hands became E.T.'s feet, creating the alien's distinctive waddle. Arm movements were handled by professional mime Caprice Rothe, who hid underneath platforms with long gloves, reaching up to make E.T.'s four-fingered hands pick seeds out of watermelon or gesture expressively.
The suit was suffocating. "It was like a steam bath," said Pat Bilon, one of two actors with dwarfism (along with Tamara De Treaux) who also performed E.T.'s movements in various scenes. Between takes, crew members removed the E.T. head and blasted the performers with blow dryers to cool them down. "They got me aspirins for my back pain," Bilon told People magazine in 1982. "I couldn't stand up a long time."
For Matthew, the challenges were different but just as intense. He had to create believable movement while essentially moving on his hands inside a heavy rubber suit with limited visibility and brutal heat.
His moment came in one of the film's most memorable sequences: the scene where E.T. gets drunk.
While Elliott (played by Henry Thomas) is at school, E.T. stays home alone and discovers beer in the refrigerator. He drinks it and gets hilariously, endearingly drunk—stumbling around the kitchen, falling, wobbling with that perfect combination of comedy and vulnerability that made E.T. so lovable.
That's Matthew De Meritt inside the suit.
Spielberg needed those falls to look both funny and genuine. He needed E.T. to stumble with awkward charm, to fall "smack on his face" in a way that made audiences laugh while still caring about the character. Matthew's balance, agility, and body control—honed from a lifetime of walking on his hands—gave E.T. exactly that quality.
The scene is less than two minutes long. But it's one of the most iconic moments in the film. E.T., drunk and alone, stumbling around the house while Elliott telepathically experiences the effects at school—it's comedy gold that required perfect physical performance.
Matthew delivered it. At 12 years old. Inside a suffocating rubber suit. Creating movement that felt organic and alive.
Between takes, Matthew would zip around the set on his skateboard, charming cast and crew with his speed and energy. The production team was amazed by his skill and his spirit.
But when E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial premiered on June 11, 1982, and became an instant cultural phenomenon—grossing over $792 million worldwide, becoming the highest-grossing film of all time until Jurassic Park in 1993—Matthew De Meritt's name didn't appear in the credits under his role.
He was listed only as part of "E.T. Movement" or "Special E.T. Movement"—uncredited as an individual performer. The world fell in love with E.T. without knowing who was inside the suit making the alien stumble and fall and move with such heartbreaking authenticity.
Pat Bilon and Tamara De Treaux, the two actors with dwarfism who also performed E.T.'s movements, were similarly uncredited or listed vaguely. (Tamara De Treaux died tragically young in 1990 at age 30; Pat Bilon passed away in 2020.)
For decades, Matthew lived outside the spotlight. E.T. would be his only major film appearance. While the movie became a beloved classic—inspiring sequels, theme park attractions, and generations of filmmakers—Matthew moved on with his life, largely unknown to the millions who adored the character he'd helped create.
It wasn't until 2022, on the 40th anniversary of E.T.'s release, that Matthew De Meritt made a rare public appearance.
He walked the red carpet at a special screening at the TCL Chinese Theatre in Hollywood, posing for photographers alongside Steven Spielberg, Dee Wallace, and others associated with the film. At 52 years old, Matthew received the recognition that had been denied him for four decades.
Fans who'd grown up loving E.T. learned for the first time about the boy born without legs who'd walked on his hands inside a rubber suit to bring their favorite alien to life.
Today, Matthew appears occasionally at comic conventions—Pensacon, Omega Con, Pasadena Comic Convention—where he discusses his iconic role and shares behind-the-scenes stories with fans who finally know his name.
His story is a powerful reminder of how creativity and physical diversity shape art in ways we rarely acknowledge.
Matthew De Meritt didn't just perform E.T.'s movements—he gave the character humanity. His unique abilities, his strength, his agility born from a lifetime of moving differently than everyone else—that's what made E.T. feel real.
Every time E.T. waddles across the screen, every time the alien stumbles drunkenly through that kitchen, every time audiences laugh and cry watching this strange creature who just wants to go home—they're watching Matthew De Meritt's artistry.
He was 12 years old. He was born without legs. He could walk on his hands with grace that most people couldn't achieve with their feet.
And he helped create the most beloved alien in cinema history.
The world fell in love with E.T. without knowing Matthew's name.
But now you do.

Remarkable!
31/12/2025

Remarkable!

They denied her surgery training because she was a woman. So she studied dead children instead—and discovered a disease that was killing thousands.
New York, 1935.
The basement morgue of Babies Hospital was cold, smelling of formaldehyde and stale to***co. Dr. Dorothy Andersen stood over the small body of a three-year-old girl.
The chart said "Celiac Disease"—a common diagnosis for children who couldn't digest food, wasted away, and died. Doctors prescribed banana diets and hoped. Most children died anyway.
But Andersen wasn't satisfied.
She'd seen too many "Celiac" cases that didn't make sense. These children starved to death despite ravenous appetites. They ate constantly but withered away, their bellies distended, their bodies skeletal.
And their lungs—always the lungs—were clogged with thick, sticky mucus. Celiac disease never did that.
Andersen picked up her scalpel, lit another cigarette, and made the first cut.
She wasn't looking for what the textbooks told her to find. She was looking for the truth that had killed this child.
Dorothy Andersen was an outsider from the start.
Brilliant and ambitious, she had applied for surgical residency after medical school. She was denied—not because she lacked skill, but because she was a woman. Surgery was for men. Women could study the dead.
So Andersen became a pathologist.
She wore hiking boots instead of heels. She built her own furniture. She hosted rowdy parties in her lab. She chain-smoked through autopsies and didn't apologize for taking up space in a profession that didn't want her.
Now, relegated to a basement full of dead children, she was determined to save the living.
She opened the three-year-old's abdomen and found the pancreas.
It shouldn't have looked like this.
Instead of soft, healthy tissue, the organ was riddled with cysts and scar tissue. Hard. Fibrous. Completely destroyed. The ducts that should have released digestive enzymes into the intestine were blocked solid.
This child hadn't died of Celiac disease.
She had died of starvation because her body couldn't absorb a single nutrient—no matter how much she ate. Her pancreas couldn't deliver the enzymes needed to digest food.
Andersen stared at the ruined organ and realized: This wasn't rare. This was everywhere.
She pulled the files of nearly 50 children who had died with "Celiac disease" diagnoses. She spent nights in the archives, cross-referencing autopsy reports, looking for the pattern she suspected was there.
And there it was.
The scarred pancreas. The thick mucus in the lungs. The same constellation of destruction in child after child after child.
This wasn't Celiac disease. This was something completely different—a distinct, unmapped disease that had been hiding in plain sight, killing children while doctors blamed the wrong culprit.
She called it "Cystic Fibrosis of the Pancreas."
But identifying the enemy was only the first step.
These children were dying on pediatric wards across the country, misdiagnosed and mistreated. Andersen needed a way to diagnose them before they ended up on her autopsy table.
She needed a test.
She developed a method to extract duodenal fluid—liquid from the small intestine—to measure pancreatic enzymes. It was grueling and invasive, requiring a tube threaded down a child's throat into their digestive system.
But it worked.
For the first time, doctors could distinguish between Celiac disease and Cystic Fibrosis. They could identify CF patients while they were still alive. They could start treatment.
But Andersen wasn't finished.
In the brutal heatwave of summer 1948, she noticed something strange: her CF patients were collapsing from heat exhaustion at alarming rates.
She and her colleague, Dr. Paul di Sant'Agnese, investigated. They discovered these children were losing dangerous amounts of salt in their sweat—far more than healthy children.
This observation led to the "sweat test"—a simple, non-invasive diagnostic tool where a small patch of skin is stimulated to sweat, and the salt content is measured.
It's still the gold standard for diagnosing Cystic Fibrosis today, 75+ years later.
In 1938, Andersen published her landmark paper: "Cystic Fibrosis of the Pancreas and Its Relation to Celiac Disease: A Clinical and Pathologic Study."
It forever changed pediatric medicine.
She didn't just find a disease. She:

Mapped its pathology
Created diagnostic criteria
Developed testing methods
Helped create enzyme therapies so CF patients could digest food

Children who would have starved in silence—blamed for "failure to thrive" or misdiagnosed with Celiac—finally had a name for their suffering and a chance at survival.
Dorothy Andersen remained a rugged individualist until her death in 1963.
She never married. She climbed mountains. She taught cardiac surgeons how to operate on hearts she had studied in the morgue. She refused to soften her edges for a medical establishment that had tried to keep her out.
When she died, one colleague wrote: "She was one of the most remarkable women I have ever known. Her intellect was of a very high order, her devotion to medicine was complete."
But perhaps her greatest legacy is simpler: she refused to accept a "wastebasket diagnosis."
When doctors saw children dying and shrugged, writing "Celiac disease" on death certificates without proof, Andersen said: No. Find the real answer.
When the medical establishment told her women belonged nowhere near surgery, she said: Fine. I'll save lives from the morgue.
When textbooks said one thing and her autopsies said another, she trusted what she saw with her own eyes.
Today, children with Cystic Fibrosis live into their 40s, 50s, and beyond. In the 1930s, most died before age 3.
That transformation began in a cold basement morgue with a chain-smoking pathologist who refused to accept that "some children just die" was good enough.
She was denied the career she wanted because of her gender.
So she created a different one—and discovered a disease in the process.
Thousands of children who would have once starved in silence are alive because Dorothy Andersen looked at dead bodies and asked better questions.
Dr. Dorothy Hansine Andersen (May 15, 1901 – March 3, 1963):
The woman who was told she couldn't be a surgeon because of her gender.
The pathologist who studied dead children and discovered how to save the living.
The chain-smoking, boot-wearing, furniture-building rebel who mapped an invisible killer and gave thousands of children a chance at life.
She was relegated to the basement. She changed medicine from there.
That's not just a career. That's a revolution

12/12/2025

A flashback to this time last year when Wild with Wheels explored Dover Town and the start /finish point of the North Downs Way.

📸image credit .sekmet_369



03/12/2025

Today is International Day of Persons with Disabilities or – a global celebration of inclusion and empowerment.
Did you know, disabled employees compared with non-disabled employees are:
• more likely to be in low pay
• less likely to have their desired contract
• more likely to be on a zero-hour contract
• less likely to have career progression opportunities
• less likely to report good employee involvement
Source: The employment of disabled people 2024 - GOV.UK
Through Connect to Work, we want to improve employee and employer relationships for those with disabilities. Having a job you enjoy, that suits your needs and meets your expectations, shouldn’t be out of reach.
We provide personalised support for businesses to improve their accessibility and inclusivity, and job-match our participants to the right job, and right employer, for them to succeed.
To register your interest, see our website: kent.gov.uk/connecttowork

There's still one Lived Experience in Folkestone with spaces available in February, 2026. If you would like to attend, p...
03/12/2025

There's still one Lived Experience in Folkestone with spaces available in February, 2026. If you would like to attend, please email caroline.williams@kentdowns.org

03/12/2025

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