The month of October marks many different kinds of celebrations in the U.S., from the changing of the leaves to the masquerades and parties associated with Halloween. A more recent tradition is the month’s designation as Disability Awareness Month. At Ithaca College, a group of hard-working individuals, including administrators, faculty, staff and students, have planned programs covering a wide range of disabilities and corresponding issues.

Disability activists consistently make the point that the one way they do not wish to define themselves — or to be defined by others — is as people with “deficits.” More than anything, the disabled people that I have had the privilege of knowing insist that their lives have meaning and value like anyone else’s ­— something I suspect even the most existential among us hope to have, even if it is made up of something we invent and make for ourselves.

We point to people like Stephen Hawking, Helen Keller, Ray Charles and other “heroes” to illustrate the value and meaningfulness of the lives of those with disabilities — an easy attribution given the achievements of such individuals.

It is much more important, however, to look to the lives of people we encounter in our mundane, everyday lives to see the true value within the lives of disabled people. The city of Ithaca city lost one of its most beloved citizens last week, a person whose name you probably never heard, though you may have seen him many times as he rode his adult tricycle through the streets of Ithaca.

Edward Coil, known as “Eddie,” died in an automobile accident, in which he was a bystander on the street. He was killed immediately after one vehicle caused another to roll on top of him. Eddie, a disabled man, worked hard and with industry at his many jobs. I met Eddie only a few times, when he worked at the former KFC in town. Always friendly, he would strike up conversation, talk about his life and occupations — and did so with a friendliness and mutuality often missing from other encounters that many of us have from day to day.

He took pride in the work he did, whether it was keeping the dining area clean at KFC or, more recently, washing dishes at the local Holiday Inn. He combined self-reliance with an interdependence on others that the disability rights movement has taught us is an important part of the human condition — the message that none of us, to quote John Donne, is “an island,” nor should we want to be.

Eddie also continued studying and learning all of his life, determined to improve his skills as a reader as long as he was able — at an age long after most of us have left school for the last time.

I make no claims that I knew Eddie beyond the few brief encounters I had with him, but I do know how quickly the news of his death spread and rapidly noted everywhere from McDonald’s to postings on Craigslist. I do not wish to sentimentalize him to the point of hagiography.

No doubt, like all of us, Eddie had his moments of sadness, frustration and anger — but that Eddie was like “all of us” is exactly the point. What is not doubted is that his life, both for Eddie and for those who met him, was one that was filled with meaning, one filled with value.

Bruce Henderson is a professor of speech communication. E-mail him at henderso@ithaca.edu.