Wednesday, November 3, 2010

The Eulogy of the Little Pink Wheelchair


You may have noticed that I’ve been M.I.A. for the past several months, that’s because I am but an overworked and overwhelmed college student.  As much as I love writing about my adventures and sharing them with you, I’m paying a decent amount of money to go to school, so that comes before blogging.  However I do feel a little guilty for leaving you all with nothing new to read for months on end so I dug up a little nugget of Wheel Deal entertainment.  A few years back I was given the assignment to write a special occasion speech, I chose to eulogize my first wheelchair.  I’m sure anyone that can remember their first taste of freedom whether it be a wheelchair, a car, or even recovering after a surgery can relate to the sentiments expressed below.  Hope you enjoy!

                        ­- Emily

"The Eulogy of the Little Pink Wheelchair"

I was three years old when you were brought into this world.  I got to chose everything about you; what color you were, the seat you would have, even what stickers would be stuck on you.  For the first time I had choices to make, important ones.   Pink or purple?  Teddy bear stickers or kites? 
Months after we ordered you, you were brought to my house and we became fast friends.  You were hot pink, two shades lighter than 1992 Barbie pink.  In my dinning I made you my own placing three teddy bear stickers on your back, and six kite stickers on your wheels.  I’m sorry they came off in the snow as soon as we went outside for that first time. 
You gave me freedom.  I didn’t have to ask my sister to pick me up and put in a chair at the table, for I was already comfortably seated in you and could move myself to the table.  There would no more crawling from room to room, no more rug burned knees, no more stepped on fingers, for in you I could go anywhere.
Remember we were in the Harold Warp Pioneer Village in Nebraska and we tipped over for the first time?  My mom thought my dad had the handle, and he thought the opposite.  Andrew and Beth were arguing by the carousel and you and I were atop the ramp of the school house.  In an instant you and I were barreling down the ramp.  Unable to stop myself as a 4 year old we hit the bottom and tipped.  You kept me safe within the tight protective arms of your seat belt.  Within seconds we were on our four wheels again but both of us would need a little time to recover from such an experience. 
When I was five and had surgery that permanently straightened my legs I feared that I’d no longer be able to use you, for now I would need a chair to support my legs.  But no, you changed.  New foot rests were installed and slowly you and I got used to being seven inches longer.  Yes, turns took a little more work, and your paint did get scratched but it just added character to you.  You gave me a permanent lap – a table I would always carry with me.
 You were there my first day of school.  Together we went up the lift on bus 69 that first day, and together you and I continued that routine till seventh grade.
We went to the Grand Canyon, the Painted Desert, Disney World multiple times, to Canada, Colorado, Yellow Stone, and through the flat plans of Nebraska.  You were thrown into trunks, bumped up and down steps, casually tossed in the belly of airplanes.  Taken apart and put back together countless times.  You were a real trouper.  Never once did collapse on me.  Never did roll away as I went to sit in you.  You were always there for me, day, night, sunshine or snow. 
Those last few years we had together were hard.  It broke my heart to see age.  To realize that the seat I sat in as a three year old would not accommodate me as a 13 year old was something I denied for years.  I still remember the first time your handle came out when we were being pushed down the ramp by a friend at church.  First I was so mad that you cause me to crash into the railing, but when I realized it wasn’t your fault, I was so sad for you.  I know you didn’t mean it and you couldn’t help that the screw finally broke.  You were old and it was becoming increasingly unsafe for us to be together.  I didn’t want to let you go.  Even when I ordered a new chair, I kept you in my garage just so I could still have you in my life.  As I turned 17 I knew it was time for us to say our final good byes.  You could be refurbished and become a friend to another little girl who would love a hot pink wheelchair as much as I did.  I knew that you wouldn’t want to just decay in my garage; you would want to continue helping little girls whose legs don’t work.  As my dad loaded you in the van, and I saw those teddy bear stickers for the last time a tear fell from my eye.  It was the end of an era for us.  You were my first taste of freedom.  You allowed me to go anywhere and do anything I’d ever want to do.  All those years we had, all those memories we share – I’ll cherish those forever.