Monday, November 25, 2013

Confession

I have a confession – I should be doing other things.  After two dead end job interviews in a 24 hours period and a day of crankiness (and binge gaming Sim City 3000 style) I should be applying for jobs.  Yet here I sit writing a post for The WD, not cover letters.  Perhaps my year’s absence from blogging is now catching up with me and now I’m playing catch up with my writing.  Or it could be that I just can’t shake thoughts about being physically disabled.  Anytime I consciously think about being in a wheelchair I always think of how I can turn those thoughts into a post for The Wheel Deal.  It’s no secret that I have been trying to keep up with it.  At first I was thinking that my motivations were stemming from the philosophy that if I blog more I will become a better writer (which is true – practice makes perfect, right?).  However I’m starting to wonder if I had a subconscious need I to pick blogging back up again.
      The last couple of months it seems that I have been increasingly faced with the fact that I am physically disabled.  What’s ironic is I’ve always been disabled; it’s not like this is a new thing – maybe that’s why I haven’t thought about it much.  It seems the more I become an adult the more my physical handicap impacts things.  It’s not that I am having a difficult time “accepting” my disability, or that I am feeling depressed by it.  In fact I am as proud as ever about all I have been able to accomplish in spite of the challenges I have faced.  Perhaps it’s that “pride” that is now catching up with me. 
It’s like I was at the top of a hill and saw something in the off distance that I wanted to get to.  I let my wheels go and I zoomed down, confident that my chair would have enough speed and momentum to get to my destination without having to lay a hand on my wheels.  Instead of gracefully rolling to my goal I hit a patch of gravel and was jarred to a stop.  Anyone who has tried to roll or push a wheelchair through gravel knows it’s no picnic.  You constantly have to back up and to get momentum to attempt to push through again.  You might try and pop a wheelie yourself only to fall back down into the evil gravel.  Sometimes you struggle so much that you begrudgingly cry out for help, even with the help of others it is far from easy.  Now I’m in this patch of gravel (which by the way seems to have come out of nowhere).  My loved ones are trying to help me through it, they really are but sometimes they get stuck too.  I know that the gravel can’t go on forever.  I believe there are smooth surfaces ahead even if I can’t see them right now.  Somehow, some way I will get to the pavement to continue my journey to reach the goal before me – even if I have to move the tiny stones out of the path of my wheels one by one.
      As I roll through the gravel at a pace so slow it is barely considered moving at all I’ve had time to look around.  I was “looking around” the other day and found an AMC (Arthrogryposis Multiplex Congenita – what I have) group on facebook.  I joined initially because I thought it was an appropriate place to share The WD, however I think that was merely an excuse for me to join.  I’m not sure why, but it seems like I have a difficult time admitting that I have AMC and that there are others like me.  Perhaps it is because I have never met anyone else with AMC.  As ironic as this is maybe I feel like I don’t know how to act.  If I really dig deep into my psyche – maybe I just don’t like admitting that I’m not “normal” and I can’t fix myself to become normal.  Being weird is something I have been very ok with, but I am not ok with my weirdness impacting what others think I can and can’t do.
      Anyways when I joined this AMC group I became fascinated by the welcome I received.  I posted a semi generic message about what parts of my body are affected by AMC and shared the link to my blog.  There were people that commented and said how AMC affected their bodies.  It was a bizarre experience to hear other people have issues very similar to me.  I’ve never been “like” anyone else when it comes to my physical impairments.  Consequently it was also a reality check for me to hear how good I have it in terms of my AMC.  I had no idea that some have AMC in all four of their limbs, where as I only have it in my legs.  I’ve been sitting here frustrated because it seems like I can’t get a job due to my wheelchair while some are struggling with AMC in all four of their limbs.  No I can’t walk well but I can feed, dress, and take care of myself.  I can get around by myself.  Although I’ve been whining for days about a muscle ache in my back that is nothing compared to the constant pain some are in.  Talk about feeling grateful.  Suddenly I’m not feeling so handicapped.
A reality check wasn’t the only welcome gift I received.  A few of the group members asked if I would chat with them about my AMC experience because they have a child with AMC.  It blew my mind that somehow my story would help me.  I know, I know – that’s the point of The Wheel Deal (to share my story) but maybe I had just forgotten that.  I was able to share my unique perspective with these people who I imagine feel helpless as they watch their loved on struggle doing everyday tasks.  My life has been so full, and there hasn’t been much that I haven’t been able to do because of my physical limitations.  Being able to some of my story with others gave my AMC purpose.  How can I let something with purpose frustrate me?  It’s like the aspects of our life (experiences, skills, imperfections, character traits, etc.) are tools in a tool belt we can’t take off.  AMC is something in my tool belt.  Some days it feels heavy and bulky - a real pain to carry around, but other days I barely notice it.  Every once and awhile I come across a person or situation that could be helped with my very special tool.

Getting connected to those who have a similar tool in their tool belt has been an interesting experience.  I have Arthrogryposis Muliplex Congenita, and there are other people in the world who have it too.  All my life I’ve been different, even from the other people in wheelchairs I have known – why not admit that there are others like me out there? I am looking forward to getting to know some people “like” me, ones that I can relate to me in a way others may not be able to.  Thank you to everyone from the AMC community that has welcomed me.  Now I should probably get back to the things I should be doing.

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

Bar-B-Que Tongs, Sadistic Jenga and Bin Shelves

I’m not sure I’ve returned from my trip down memory lane last week when I wrote a brief summary of all the places I have lived in my relatively short life.  Unsure if it were “appropriate” to post a 3000 word rambling about my childhood home  I limited myself to about half that in last week’s post.  However I’m not doing a very good job at winning my internal battle over the length of my trip to the past.  Consider this a white flag of surrender.
      The dwellings we grow up in have a profound impact on who we become I believe, but that’s not an entirely new idea.  My big old yellow how certainly shaped me and I helped shape it, much to my parents’ dismay at times.  My wheelchair has an extended front end to support my unbending legs.  Since my chair has about the same maneuverability as a Mac truck tight turns can be troublesome.  Try as I might sometimes I just couldn’t help but ding a wall and put a gouge in the sheetrock.  From a young age I knew how to work drywall compound with a trowel to smooth out my dents on the wall.  When I was a young teen I was driving particularly carelessly and did more than put a small dig in the wall – it was a hole.  At that time in my life I had a little Duct Tape Accessories business going called “Just Ducky”.  Duct Tape wallets, purses, lunch bags, and messenger bags were big sellers in middle school, and I made enough profit to keep me stocked in rolls of tape of the latest colors.  To “fix” the hole I put in the wall I used some white Duct Tape and meticulously vacuumed up the sheetrock dust.  In my opinion it looked pretty legit and to this day I’m not exactly sure how long I was able to conceal that hole from my parents.  All I know is I didn’t fill it in with compound until we hosted the rehearsal dinner for my brother’s wedding my senior year of high school.
      Kitchens are always a tricky area for people in chairs.  It seems like everything is out of our reach.  The fact that my front end stuck out so much really made reaching things challenging, especially when it came to the refrigerator.  When I was a young child I’m told that I would literally climb into the refrigerator to reach things.  My mom retells the story of when she caught me sitting in the refrigerator eating chocolate cake.  When she asked me what I was doing in there I simply responded “I couldn’t reach the cake” as if it were an obvious choice to sit in the refrigerator instead of asking someone for help.  Something tells me that if I didn’t ask for help it means I probably didn’t have permission to help myself to the cake.  Guess I wanted to have my cake and eat it too. 
The freezer had all the same challenges as the refrigerator with the added bonus of things being over my head.  Anyone who has used one of those Gopher Grabbers, the kind with the little suction cups on the end knows that they pretty much worthless.  My father brought one home for me and about a week later I had it in the trash can broken.  Liking my independence, and a challenge I would often look for other household objects that could help elongate my reach.  When it came to the kitchen my favorite tool was the bar-b-que tongs.  They were metal which made them sturdy, and I could manipulate them with one hand which meant I could use my free hand to catch whatever happened to fall.  I say catch but what I mean is block myself from getting hit with miscellaneous canned goods and boxed brownie mixes.  My parents knew I relished my independence and would often leave me home alone.  Not in an unhealthy, “call social services” sort of way, but in a “she’s more than capable of taking care of herself and we have lives” way.  That being said I cooked a lot of frozen foods since I had a difficult time reaching the stove (I was great with an oven and microwave though).  On rare occasions our freezer was organized and I could with some ease reach the food I wanted with the aid of the bar-b-que tongs.  However let’s be real, freezers are usually a Pandora’s Box with odd shaped bags and boxes stacked like a sadistic Jenga game.  I can remember (which is pretty shocking) several times trying to get a frozen meal out and having frozen chicken breasts rained down on my head.  Have you ever been hit in the head with frozen meat?  Frozen meat is hard – luckily you can use it as an ice pack to numb the pain away, and then cook it up for dinner once you can see straight.  When I went off to college my folks got a side by side fridge and freezer thinking that it would be better for me.  Was I able to reach things better?  Yes, marginally, but there is much less storage space in those models.  It was nice being able to get ice and water from the door with ease.  I think my parents were just happy I could reach their ice cream sandwiches so I could fetch them during commercial breaks of American Pickers.
When I was 14 years old I desperately wanted to redo my bedroom, then again what teenage girl doesn’t?  However there were some specific things I wanted done.  I had abandoned using a traditional dresser a few years earlier and started using shelves.  Dresser drawers were very difficult for me to use with my chair.  My folks picked up some cabinets from a big box store but they weren’t very sturdy.  Also my desk was always covered in stuff because I only used it as a drop zone because I didn’t have enough room to pull under it and sit.  Having a very keen interest in architecture and floor plans I drew, to scale a floor plan I believed would work.  I also designed some simple furniture that I was sure my dad could build.  I gave my dad the plans, and knew that it would most likely be several years until my vision was carried out.  However much to my surprise my family decided to do an Extreme Home sort of thing one weekend while I was away with our church youth group.  They called and if it would be ok with me if they did the work while I was away.  Knowing that I had very specific plans drawn and even had paint colors picked I said yes.  When I got home I was amazed with my new room.  I still use my “bin shelf” (wooden three shelf unit with canvas bins) as my dresser.  If I had known that the work would get done so quick I would have drawn the plans years before – haha.

Although my environment wasn’t always the most accessible it forced me from a young age to learn to adapt, a skill that I’m sure will continue to take me far in life.  Perhaps that is why I’m not as easily frustrated by certain things.  I am able to see a new and exciting challenge where others just see a brick wall.  The safe and comfortable environment of my childhood home gave me an opportunity to establish “creative” ways of making inaccessible or out of reach things work.  It instilled a “make it work” mindset long before Tim Gunn made it a catch phrase.  I also learned that if you need help you have to ask, which at times I think I’m still learning.  If your family can’t read your mind strangers certainly aren’t going to be able to.  A lot can be learned simply by doing life.  Time for me to stop rambling and do some life.

Friday, November 15, 2013

Homes

In effort to build my writing muscle, and more importantly bring some much needed consistency to The Wheel Deal I have given myself the goal to post once a week. However nothing has really “happened” that would actually be interesting to read about.  The majority of my daily activities this week have pertained to the task of deep cleaning our apartment so we pass our bi-annual apartment inspection.  So as I sit here scouring my daily activities I realize that the illusive topic is glaring me in the face: Casa de David and Emily.  Humdrum as it may sound our living accommodations are actually very apropos to The Wheel Deal, for it is the most accessible place I have ever lived.  The places I have called “home” have all been very different.   Let’s start from the beginning…
The home my parents brought me to as a newborn was a relic from Lincoln’s administration, and where I would live until I left for college.  That’s right; I’m talking a house 150 years old and still not finished.  My parents purchased it a few years before I appeared.  My dad claimed that it would be a 20 year project, it’s going on 25+ and I heard last night that work is being done in the kitchen.  To say that our old house wasn’t made for a kid in a wheelchair is an understatement, but I loved it and my parents modified it as much as they could to give me my independence.  I shared an upstairs room with my older sister till I had major surgery when I was five years old.  That year was also the Great New York State Remodel. My service coordinator was able to secure us funding for work to be done to make a downstairs bedroom and bathroom for me.  However when the proposal writer came to draft up the work that needed to be done they saw other things that just had to be “fixed for my independence”.  Essentially a small scale remodel turned into a giant kafuffle.  As some may know state agencies take the lowest bid, which usually means the shoddiest work, as was the case with the “Hardly Working” construction company.  This contractor was horrible, taking short-cuts left and right (my mother could, and has, gone on for hours about his guy’s craziness).  Luckily my dad is a real Jack of All Trades; a contractor, electrician, plumber, and anything else you can think of – he can do it all.  Despite working a full time engineering job, a part time maintenance job, and being a husband and father of three he would come home from whatever job he was doing, rip out the shoddy work and make it right.
After a long year of house renovations (all of which I believe were a divine distraction for my parents so they didn’t have time to dwell on the huge metal device screwed into my leg) the New York State funded remodel was complete.  I had a bedroom I could wheel into and an attached bathroom.  Also part of that plan was a ramp to our back door.  Eventually my dad added onto the ramp and extended it to our pool deck.  He customized a two tier design so I could park my chair on the lower level and then transfer to the upper level that allowed me to get into our above ground pool independently.  Our kitchen had two under the counter cut-outs so I could wheel under the sink and part of the counter.  On paper (in the eyes of the state) that seems very accommodating however the kitchen really needed to work for the able bodied people I lived with, so the counters were forehead level with me. Never the less I appreciated the thought.  When I became a teenager my dad rearranged some cabinets to make room for a six foot long piece of counter that was a good working height for me.  By that point in my life it was appropriate for me to be able to reach some part of the kitchen – after all I needed access to the microwave, George Foreman grill, and most importantly the coffee maker.  Also in my teenage years we had a handicap button installed for our door so it was easier for me to get in and out.
It was a pretty sweet deal for me.  I had access to the parts of the house I needed to, but it was a little weird not going upstairs or downstairs in the basement much.  I’m not exactly sure when the last time I went upstairs was actually.  When I visited the college I went to for the first time as a high school senior they didn’t have an accessible female dorm room.  However before I officially  decided to go there they had already started ripping apart a room to make it accessible. Throughout my four years I shared a newly remodeled suite (two dorm rooms with a shared bathroom) with the floor’s resident advisor.  Due to the fact that I had two wheelchairs (my manual and power) I needed some extra room, so I never had a roommate. Honestly dorm life (both socially and physically) was pretty great for me.  I loved my room, it was huge compared to my room at home and I arranged it in a way that left me with enough space to donuts in both my chairs.
Like a lot of post-grads I moved back in with my parents after college, where I stayed until I got married.  David had moved from Nashville to his hometown in Ohio several months before we got married and was trying to find us a place.  Unfortunately his search came up empty.  Finding a wheelchair accessible place in our price range was impossible.  He was able to get us on a waiting list at a building that is classified as senior living, but we qualified because I am physically disabled.  After the wedding we crashed with my in-laws.  Their house was incredibly wheelchair friendly (it’s like it was designed for me) once you got inside.  There are two decent sized steps to get in which with any impairment is sort of a pain. Thankfully for two and a half months David and my new family were able to help me and my chair up and down. Always looking for the silver lining I was able to find several benefits of living with my in-laws right after we got married.  Aside from it simply being a roof over our heads it gave me an incredible chance to bond with my new family.  You’d be hard pressed to find an opportunity to bond with your 14 year old brother-in-law, but casually playing video games Saturday morning before everyone wakes up doesn’t seem “weird” or forced at all.  Also having been used to living with parents I feel like it made the transition to Ohio easier for me. 
However sharing a twin sized bed gets old after awhile, even if you are newlyweds and don’t mind being snuggly haha.  We knew it was temporary and were very motivated to find our own place.  In the end of June we got a call saying our name was the top of the waiting list and there was a wheelchair accessible apartment available.  Our ideal situation was actually happening.  We were able to move in the second weekend in July.  Although it is sometimes strange going from a house to a one bedroom apartment we are so happy to have our own place, especially one that works so well for me.  Our lease was even changed a bit to accommodate my van.  Technically there are no reserved spots, yet I have one – there’s even a sign!  The counters in the kitchen are slightly lower than average which means I can sort of reach them, and I can pull under the sink to do dishes.  The open floor plan allows me space to set up a low work table between the kitchen and living room.  I practically live on this table: it’s my prep kitchen, office, craft room, and breakfast area.  It has been great to be able to make this our own with our stuff, furniture that works for me.  Well accept our 70’s couch that I sink into.  David actually has had to lift me out of it.
Along with my parking spot we got 25+ surrogate grandparents.  We are the youngest residents of the building by a solid 40 years.  It’s an extremely community oriented environment, with nightly activities and
even field trips sometimes.  There are few buildings where you have building wide carry-in dinners as often as we do.  It has been a hoot getting to know the characters we live with.  Lots of fodder for a collection of short stories I think.  At times it can be a little frustrating living with dozens of retirees, or living in a building that receives government funding.  However our apartments are nice, and when you considered the reasonable rent we really can’t complain. I needed to remind myself of that truth this week as I deep cleaned our apartment.  We are subject to bi-annual apartment checks where they check for cleanliness, maintenance issues, and possible liability problems.  If there’s something I’m not keen on its strangers coming into your home and picking it apart, but I understand why they need to do it.  Sometimes I forget that we are not the average resident here; we’re young and well educated.  At the end of the day I am extremely grateful to live here in my fully accessible apartment.  It’s a great feeling to be able to go in and out with relative ease and for the first time I can “keep house” independently. Although as I believe most wives think, the sight of my husband doing the dishes is pretty great.
     


Monday, November 4, 2013

Gonna Fly Now

Last week was one of those weeks when the cold, wet, gloomy outside weather mirrors your mood.  What a sharp contrast from how I felt the week before.  Perhaps I should back up and start with the Friday before… wait, let’s back up all the way to Thursday.

            It was a typical day.  I was in my spot in the hallway of our apartment building applying for jobs online.  *Side note: Personal internet is a luxury that we can’t afford right now, which is ok since we can get on our apartment office’s network – unfortunately the signal ends at our doorstep, thus forcing us to go out in the hall.  It’s barely a hall; there’s a table and chairs, a sofa, and homey little decorations.  Plus the bonus of seeing all the other residence checking their mail and chatting with them.*  I saw a posting for a full time pre-school teacher and a part time after school teacher at a nearby child care center.  I thought to myself “could I handle three and four year olds?  That’s what age Jeremiah is, and I do enjoy him.  It’s not my favorite age to teach but I can’t be choosey about jobs right now”.  So I e-mailed them my resume and cover letter because that’s what you do nowadays.  Low and behold they call me and set up an interview for the next morning.  I gleefully accepted the interview, called my parents to share the good news, and high fived my husband.

I wake up with a spring in my step (so to speak) the next morning.  Our programmable coffee maker is automatically brewing a pot of delicious smelling coffee, my interview outfit is laid out, and I’m having a surprisingly good hair day – things are going my way.  I punch the address into my GPS and it takes me to my destination using the most beautiful back roads.  I arrive 15 minutes early and notice there are absolutely no handicap stops in their parking lot.  It’s not that all the spots are taken; they simply do not have any.  I double park so I have enough room to deploy my ramp.  A woman parks in the spot next to me and gives me a puzzled look as to why I’m hogging to spots – once she sees the ramp she understands.  We walk towards the door together and she asks if I’ll be able to get up the curb.  By the time the words are out of her mouth I am half way to the other side of the building where the curb cut is.  She waits and holds the door. 

Once inside we discover that she is the interviewer and I am the interviewee.  After rearranging the office furniture to accommodate my wheelchair (and the three other chairs in the office the size of a shoe box) she squeezes between my feet and the front of the desk to get to the chair behind the desk.  The interview itself went well.  I exceeded their qualifications and proved that I was certainly competent enough.  However when I asked the specifics of the two positions it was clear that I wouldn’t be able to physically do either.  The pre-school position was actually with 18 month to 24 month olds, and the after school position required me to pick up the students from their school in a mini bus. Although both important jobs they weren’t going to work for me.  I had to explain that as tactfully as I could – that felt awkward.

It wasn’t till the following Monday when the discouragement hit.  I didn’t even recognize that it was affecting me, but I did notice that for the first time in weeks I didn’t apply to any jobs that day.  Did I know that my handicap affect my employability? Yes, but this was the first time that it really hit me.  This interview was one of the first that I had gone on where I didn’t disclose my disability in my cover letter (part of a little social experiment I’m doing).  I can’t help but wonder if I had disclosed my disability would they have called?  On other interviews I’ve been on how much has my chair impacted the outcome?  I was talking with my husband Monday night about the job thing, one thing led to another and before I knew it I was having a full on emotional breakdown.  Emotion (ok, crying) and I just don’t mix.  I don’t like it, especially when others see it, even if that other person is my loving husband. 

It was as if this really obvious fact that I have consciously trained myself to put in the back of my mind slowly seeped into my subconscious, and now it was suddenly launching an attack.  Part of what was making me emotional was the thought that if I allow my handicap to impact my thoughts concerning employment would that give it the foothold to start to impact all of my other thoughts?  I am very aware of how my thought processes works, and consciously work to lead my thoughts in good directions.  The last thing I would ever want to happen is for all my thoughts to center around the fact that I am physically disabled, that I am in a wheelchair, and because of that I can’t do everything other people can do.  That terrifies me.  To me that is the most dark, unhappy, hopeless way to live – certainly not what I want my life to be about. 

It’s amazing what a good night’s sleep, chatting with an old friend, listening to some good music, and housecleaning can do to help re-calibrate yourself.  There should be studies done (maybe there already have been) about how physical cleaning can help one to do some mental cleaning –I bet there’s a correlation there.  It’s like I have picked myself up and dusted off my shoulders, but now I have to figure out how to get back in the race.  I live in the real world, where unlike public school where accommodations are made for you because you live in that district so you have to go to that school, employers don’t “have” to hire you.  Or unlike circumstances in my past where I have been given an opportunity to do a job because the person knows that I will figure out a way to make it work because they know me, employers don’t know me.  They see a wheelchair and based upon whatever experiences they have had with people in wheelchairs they judge my ability level.  I understand that it’s human nature to judge.  To an extent employers have to use their own personal pre-judgments to discern who they should take a chance on and hire, that just makes sense.  Is it frustrating?  You betchya but it’s just one of those things in life that isn’t fair.


So after all of this rambling where does this leave me?  Nowhere really.  I think what I can take away from this experience are fresh eyes.  Recently David and I watched the entire Rocky saga (I know.  What’s weird is I think I enjoyed it more than my husband).  I feel like it’s a later round and Rocky has been beaten on by the engineered Russian fighting machine.  He’s in the corner getting a pep talk screamed in his ear by the guys in his corner, the bell rings and he’s back out standing toe to toe with an opponent that has been sent in with a mission to kill.  The job market may have gut punched me and made me stumble back to my corner, but it hasn't knocked me out.  I know where I am weak, but I also know where I am strong.  Time to play up my strengths and get back out in the ring – Gonna Fly Now.

Thursday, October 24, 2013

Great Dress-pectations

If I had a dollar for every time I thought about blogging my day job wouldn’t be looking for a job, for my hourly rate would be pretty significant.  Ok so that might be a little embellished – but I have felt the pangs of guilt for being such an inconsistent blogger quite often.  Nearly every aspect of my life has changed since I last posted.  I married my best friend and love of my life David on April 20th and subsequently moved to Ohio.  There are so many times when I thought “this experience would make a great entry in The Wheel Deal” but time has really gotten away from me.  I hope to “catch you up” in the next few weeks.  How about for today I start from the very beginning – the wedding dress.
            Little girls dream of their wedding.  It’s a fact.  If you’re a female and you’re reading this you probably did. As much as I may try and deny it I did.  I know I did because I have doodles of what my dress would look like.  (Side Note: Long before Project Runway I must have had an interest in fashion because I drew lots and lots of clothes.  Judging by my tendency to wear whatever is most comfortable I guess I grew out of my fashion design aspiration).  I have watched enough “Say Yes to the Dress” and other wedding shows to know that the dress is a big deal.  A few months after I got engaged I started to have the nagging feeling that I should start figuring out some things like; what type of dress do I want, and what kind of dress will work for me and my chair.
            One of my bridesmaids who lives out of state came for a visit so I needed to seize the opportunity to pick bridesmaid dresses while she was in town.  My maid of honor (my sister Beth) and my bridesmaid Tracy and I went to the big box store of bridal wear.  I was pretty decisive when it came to what I liked and what I didn’t, so picking a bridesmaid dress was fairly easy.  We picked the dress and I thought we were done for that trip – mission accomplished.  However the consultant that was working with us insisted (to the point where I wanted to deck her) that I try on bridal gowns.  Realizing that she wasn’t going to give up I told her some styles I liked.  She brought us to a dressing room the size of a shoebox and went to go “find the dress of my dreams”.  Yea right.
            Let me state something that anyone who has ever been clothes shopping with me knows: I HATE to try on clothes.  If I can avoid it I will.  If I can take off a sweatshirt to try a dress on over my t-shirt and jeans I will… sometimes right there by the rack.  I have no shame when it comes to my hatred of trying on clothes.  That being said I was not looking forward to trying on bridal gowns, especially since I we didn’t have adequate space.  The consultant brought a few dresses over, none of them my size and none of them looked anything like something I would wear.  Insistent that I would see their beauty once I tried them on, Beth and I started what could be described as half wrestling match half choreographed tango in the dressing room as she helped me in and out of the dresses.  At one point Beth had to scale the wall of the dressing room to get over to the other side of my chair that was lodged in there.  Now I can see the humor in it, but at that moment it wasn’t funny at all.
            I was miserable.  This was not like those happy experiences on “Say Yes to the Dress” where they have tons of room to get into their dress, where the consultant takes time to listen to their needs and wants, where the bride’s mom cries when she sees her little girl in a dress.  This was a pressure filled experience when a stranger is forcing you to get excited about trying on too small, too hideous, too puffy dresses.  I literately got lost in these dresses – there was so much fabric!  I couldn’t breathe, let along wheel.  The consultant must have finally got the hint that she was not going to make a sale and backed off.  My steadfast sister and super encouraging bridesmaid helped me laugh it off on the way home. 
            Even though I didn’t want to have another bridal gown trying experience I needed a dress.  I started to research other bridal salons in the area, difficult to find one in my budget but I did.  I started to look more on Pinterest at wedding dresses I liked and printed several pictures.   On a whim one evening my mom and I drove to the decided on store to check and see what they had.  Although the bridal section of the shop was up a few stairs I was still encouraged by their kind staff.  I milled around the bridesmaid section for awhile and found several dresses that I actually liked – simple, light, not poofy.  I asked the consultant if any of the dresses I liked came in ivory and she said several did.  It was as if I had some sort of “AHA” moment – why does a wedding dress have to be a “bridal gown”?  The first dress I tried on fit like a glove.  It was night and day from my first experience.   I went back a few weeks later to make a decision and picked a beautiful dress.  It was the perfect dress for me and my needs.  The consultant I worked with was thrilled to help me, even though it wasn’t as big of a sale as a full on bridal gown.  Actually it was a great choice for my budget too… it allowed me to get a pair of customized sneakers to wear over my braces : )

            Any time someone asked me about “the dress” I felt more empowered each time I told them the story.  I didn’t settle for something that would “work” but didn’t actually like.  I didn’t allow one experience to completely crush my dress-pectations.  I got a dress that I loved, one that fit me perfectly, and I’ll say it – made me feel like a bride. 

When I got engaged I didn’t think that being in a wheelchair would have much of an impact on the wedding itself - oh how naive I was.  It became almost a game to figure some aspects of the wedding out, I loved the challenge.  I look forward to sharing some of the unique solutions that we thought of with you.