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. 

Really I am alive

Hello Blog Readers,

            I wanted to let you all know that I am alive and haven’t forgotten about you.  I moved from Central New York to back college in Nashville, TN two weeks ago to start my fall semester.  I was required to be back at college a month before classes officially start for pre-student teaching business.  Since I have been back free time has been going at a premium but I finally feel settled enough to tap away on the blog for awhile.

            I thought that I was struggling with a serious case of writer’s block.  Even though I’ve spent hours trying to figure out what this next entry in the WD should be about I felt uninspired.  I tend to get lost in my own head at times.  See, I’ve been under the delusion that every entry has to revolve around something to do with my handicap, after all the blog is titled The Wheel Deal.  It took a verbal reality slap upside the head from my friend to realize that The WD isn’t about how my disability effects my life, it’s about how I go through life normally even though I am physically challenged.   

            Now that I’m finally settled in here at school I hope to find my writing groove again.  I’m a creature of habit, without routine I’m lost.  It takes awhile to adjust to a new place, even though I’ve lived in this same dorm room three years prior.  I feel like a grown up living here myself (no one else has moved in so it hardly feels like a real dorm), going to work every morning (student teaching), and making all my own meals and such.  It’s a good feeling but each day is still a learning experience.  Since I’m going to be a teacher though I’m pretty down with the whole learning thing.  Learning is good.  Life is good.  My life is great.

-          Emily

Navigating in the Starship Mobilize

Hope you enjoy a little Starwars parody :)  Simple text format of this is available at the bottom.
A not so long time ago, in a bathroom not so far far away was an exceedingly tight corner that was simply not fit for a wheelchair.  Anaka Skyroller tried as much as she could to navigate the narrow turn.  Unfortunately she was unable to keep the corner of the Starship Mobilize from colliding with the great Swinging Door of Doom.  The screech of the beloved Mobilize slowly dragging across the Door of Doom was heard throughout the whole galaxy.  Skyroller surveyed the damage to the ship first as she passed the confines of the door.  Her jubilance over there being no damage to the ship was sort lived as she glanced back and saw a deep, 8 inch long wound on the Swinging Door of Doom.  Small, sea foam green particles of industrial strength paint littered the floor of the not so spacious doorway.  This is just another casualty in Skyroller’s quest to navigate this world in the Starship Mobilize.

           This dramatic tale may seem a bit farfetched, something from another planet, however it was very much my reality last Saturday.  My wheelchair (which I’m now thinking about referring to as the Starship Mobilize) has footrests that extend straight out in front to accommodate my unbending legs.  The ends of said footrests about approximately 14 inches off the ground and have been known to cause some damage.  The list of things I have dented, scraped, punched through, and taken the paint off of is endless.  I used to feel quite guilty for ruining walls, doors, and furniture that blocked my path.  However I’ve since learned that I only need to feel partially guilty.  See there comes a point where my carful navigation can only get me so far.  Sometimes I simply won’t fit.  However when it comes to being able to get into a restroom – I need to fit and should fit, especially when it’s the restroom.   

            My extra long chair takes some finesse to maneuver, especially in retail stores.  I tend to forget that I’m in a chair since it’s simply the way I’ve always been.  However when you’re happily driving along and suddenly hit something, you stop abruptly, your head snaps back, and realize “oh no, I’ve taken out this entire store display!”  I would nearly throw myself out of my chair to pick up the merchandise as quickly as possible, hoping that nobody would notice. 

One day when I had taken out some sort of display I realized that this wasn’t entirely my fault.  Public spaces are supposed to be assessable for all people, and if this display was moved over 2 inches it would still be standing.  Instead of killing myself trying to pick everything up I found the nearest sales associate and told them what had happened.  They came over to the scene of the crime against accessibility and agreeably picked up the display.  I explained that this could have been prevented if they took into account the space needed for a wheelchair to turn, adding that stores are supposed to be accessible.  This experience helped me realize that navigating is not just the job of the driver, but the maker of the roads as well.  Highway organizations take into account where it is safe for cars to drive, and drivers use traffic laws to govern how they drive. 

            Navigating my extra long chair is a challenge everyday, especially in my 150+ year old house.  I love this old house, so I try to work around it but there is this one corner that I hit on a daily basis.  In the second part of this navigation trilogy I’ll reveal some cleaver ways I’ve thought of to patch the marks I’ve left.  

Simple Text Format from above: A not so long time ago, in a bathroom not so far far away was an exceedingly tight corner that was simply not fit for a wheelchair.  Anaka Skyroller tried as much as she could to navigate the narrow turn.  Unfortunately she was unable to keep the corner of the Starship Mobilize from colliding with the great Swinging Door of Doom.  The screech of the beloved Mobilize slowly dragging across the Door of Doom was heard throughout the whole galaxy.  Skyroller surveyed the damage to the ship first as she passed the confines of the door.  Her jubilance over there being no damage to the ship was short lived as she glanced back and saw a deep, 8 inch long wound on the Swinging Door of Doom.  Small, sea foam green particles of industrial strength paint littered the floor of the not so spacious doorway.  This is just another casualty in Skyroller’s quest to navigate this world in the Starship Mobilize.

Surrendering to Charlie

I hated Charlie six months before I met him.  Even simply thinking about Charlie, and having to rely on him daily felt like a sucker punch to my gut.  To me, Charlie marked me as a failure.  Before I go on I should let you in on a little secret: Charlie is what I affectionately call my electric power wheelchair. 

            You’ve heard me say before that I treasure my independence and that I have the tendency to want to do things that I may not be physically able to.  These traits made themselves painfully obvious during my college orientation.  My college campus is spread out on a hill of rather steep grade in Nashville, Tennessee.  The one time I visited prior I thought I’d totally be able to handle maneuvering around the campus in my manual wheelchair.  The hills didn’t seem too insurmountable, and the weather was cool (after all it was November). 

When I showed up for freshman orientation in June there was no ignoring the hills and heat.  My mother thought it’d be a good idea for me to do most of the pushing to get used to what would become my daily routine.  That evening the incoming freshman class was scheduled to go on a dinner cruise down the Cumberland River.  I remember the hour before leaving for the cruise so vividly that if I close my eyes I can recount every detail in the dorm room my mom and I were staying in, for that hour marks one of Emily’s Top 5 Emotional Breakdowns. 

As soon as the door of the room shut all the emotions and fears I had been holding in throughout the day were unleashed as if there was a crack in the Hoover Dam.  I knew there was no way I could conquer those hills everyday and go to classes too.  Then I launched into the “this college is really, really far from home” argument.  In five minutes flat I had myself convinced I would be going to the local community college 10 minutes from my house.  I’m not sure if my mom lightly slapped me or if she just yelled, but all of the sudden my entire being was transfixed on the words coming out of her mouth.  “Emily pull yourself together.  You can do this.  We’ll figure it out.  You’ll just have to get a power chair, that’s it.  Stop crying.  Suck it up.  Get ready for the dinner cruise; we’ll talk about this later.”  Part of me was annoyed that she wasn’t being very emotionally supportive, but she knew that I needed to get on that boat and not get hung up on the issues at hand.

I went on the cruise (being stuck on a boat for three hours when you’re emotionally doggie paddling is not my idea of fun).  I hung out with the band while most of my peers went up the cramped boat stairs to the rooftop deck.  I couldn’t wait to get back to that tiny dorm room, white cinderblock walls never appealed to me so much.  When my mom asked me how the night went I burst into tears again.  This time however she didn’t have to be the strong pillar she was earlier, she could just be mom. 

I had avoided getting a power chair all my life.  I hated the thought of having to depend on a machine for mobility.  My attitude was “if I can’t power it myself that means I fail”.  As my mom talked down my emotional high, she soon had me to a point where I could think power chair and not get mad at myself.  Also at the epicenter of the earthquake that was this particular breakdown was the underlying issue of homesickness.  Ironically enough that turned out to never really be an issue until the second semester of my junior year. 

The summer before I went off to college was filled with red tape as we waited for insurance denials, and resubmission denials, and finally Medicaid approval.  My power chair wouldn’t be ready until December, which left me without one for the first semester of college.  Luckily there was a couple at my church who had recently purchased one for a family member who had passed away before they got to use it.  The loaner chair wasn’t perfect, but with a few bungee cords, some duck tape, and two new batteries (that’s a whole other story), I made it work. 

When I came home for Christmas break and met Charlie for the first time it was a little bit like love at first sight.  That previous semester I got used to the power chair concept, but the loaner chair and I never bonded.  Wheelchair users bond with their chairs, it’s just a weird thing we (at least I) do (heck I refer to mine by name).  Charlie sat there in my kitchen shinny and red, he had the perfect support for my permanently straightened legs, and even had a battery gage!  I had learned that power chairs don’t hinder your independence, they enhance it.  With the tap of a joystick I could go anywhere on campus I wanted to, and not be tired from the trek there.  I love being able to take myself places; whether I use manpower or battery power, it no longer matters to me.  It was a hard lesson to learn, but oh man it was so worth the struggle.  Charlie and I have had our adventures (like tipping over, getting stuck in the snow, even sliding down a muddy hill in the rain), but I never regret surrendering to the idea of him.  

My Life as a Shopping Cart

            Those who are in wheelchairs, or really have anything physically wrong with them knows the “look”.  The look that a passerby gives you that says, “Oh you poor thing.  Something is wrong with you, you must have such a sorry existence.”  To those people I’d like to say, “Thank you Captain Obvious! Yes my legs don’t work, but the rest of me is just fine.  I live the kind of life they make happy little Hallmark movies about.”  I’m not bitter about those looks though (really I’m not), I actually feel bad for those people that believe that since I’m in a wheelchair I have absolutely no life.

            Do you want to know the place I receive the “look” most often?  Walmart.  Most kids like going grocery shopping with their mom’s to see what sort of tasty snack they can con their mom into buying for them.  However I like to tag along on those shopping trips so I can see how much we can fit in the cart.  What I mean by that is to see how many awkwardly shaped items we can fit on my lap.  Typically my mom goes to the store with a list (as if only those items will get bought – HA!) and she always asks, “Emily do we need a cart or can you handle this?”.  I usually say I can handle it because I’m lazy and would rather have her push, and I love the challenge of it.

            As we go through the store we pile on the usual things; canned goods that sit on my footrest, a couple of boxed items that get stacked on my lap, maybe some frozen veggies which fill in the gaps, etc.  When we get to the larger items (like the pack of 30 rolls of toilet paper) things get interesting.  Filling the cart becomes a full on race to the finish instead of a nice little puzzle.  As more and more items get stacked upon my lap I lose the ability to see in front of me, I can no longer do anything with my hands because they’re keeping the multipack of Kleenex from sliding and denting the two loaves of bread, and I can’t feel my arm anymore do to the four bags of frozen peas I’m holding.

            Don’t you dare think about giving me the “look” even though it looks like I might be experiencing some sort of obscure torture treatment.  I love being the cart even if it looks like I’m miserable.  See here’s the thing about us disabled folks – we have the same desire to help out.  I can’t hop in the car and drive to the store for my mom and pick up what she needs, but I can carry everything on her list (and then some) around the store and into the house.  Also I have to admit it’s pretty entertaining trying to fit everything on my lap or my chair (two gallons of milk can be nicely hung on my handle bars).  It’s funny to think carrying a bunch of stuff around the store could bring joy, but it does – at least to me.