Every morning I make coffee for my fiancé and I. There aren't many things I can physically do to help him around the house (he does the cooking and the laundry) so waking up and making coffee is something I take pride in, because I love and appreciate him.
He often gives me our coffee cups after they've been washed. I keep them by our bed so that I can take them into the kitchen with me. I can't climb on the counter to reach dishes, because the curve of my spine has become so severe that I can no longer stand on my wheelchair or climb. I don't want to wait until morning, because the point of me making coffee is to let him relax before he has to spend the rest of the day helping me.
However, one day I forgot to get the cups out and the next morning, I was faced with the frustration that the cups were up in the cupboard where I couldn't reach them. I was considering waking my fiancé up, but knowing him once he got the cups, he'd insist on making the coffee - not because he doesn't think I can, but because he loves me that much.
So instead of waking him up, I decided it was time to use the problem solving skills taught to me by my dad and my brother. When I was young my father and brother were the two primarily responsible for teaching me how to do things independently. My brother taught me how to climb, my dad taught me what was safe for me to climb on. Both were also good at rigging gadgets for me to use. Since I couldn't climb, rigging some sort of gadget to retrieve a cup was the best solution.
I started looking around the kitchen. In the corner, by the trashcan, there was a long broken broom handle. The broom was aluminum and had rusted until it broke. I carried the handle over to the cupboard and reached up. It was long enough to reach the cups, but the broom handle was too wide to go through the cup handles.
However, the broom handle was hallow and this gave me an idea. I rummaged through the silverware drawer until I found a large serving fork. I stuck the end of the fork into the aluminum handle. Now I had an odd looking pitchfork. I reached up with my rigged device and slipped it through the handle of the first cup.
I'd like to brag that my tool was an awesome success, but alas it was not. The fork kept slipping out every time I tried to lift the cup. The cup was too heavy and the rusted end of the broom handle began to crack. Afraid that it would split open and the cup would break, I decided to look for a plan B.
I began digging through other drawers in the kitchen until I came across a long wooden spoon. I took it out and reached up toward the cupboard with it. The spoon reached the cup handles perfectly! I slid the handle of the spoon through the first cup handle and nervously pulled the cup toward the edge, praying I wouldn't break it. Like a zip-line, I let the cup slide down the long wooden spoon handle, catching it at the end.
Success!
I did the same with the second coffee cup and cheered when it too, landed safely in my hands. I made the coffee and took the cups to our room.
As we watched Netflix and drank our coffee, I recounted my dilemma.
"I totally Macgyvered the thing," I boasted about my weirdly made pitchfork, "but it didn't work so I found a wooden spoon with a long handle - a simple yet effective tool."
"That's what I love about you - you always find a way," my fiancé added, "but you know you can always ask me for help."
"I know, but only if I need it. I like to do as much as I can for myself - and for you," I gestured to his cup of coffee.
"You don't have to make me coffee every morning," he said.
"I never do anything I don't want to do. You know that," I replied.
"True," he smiled and drank his coffee.
"Damn true," I said, grabbing the remote.
"Hey, my turn," my fiancé argued.
"Nope, I'm still drinking coffee and you know the rule--" In a modified quote from one of our favorite shows 'Supernatural,' I said, "Coffee maker picks the show, drinker shuts his cake hole."
No one likes walking up a long flight of stairs, but have you ever tried pushing yourself up a steep ramp in a wheelchair? They're both really exhausting. Yet unlike stairs, once you reach the top of a ramp you get to turn around and fly right back down. These are randomly told stories about my life struggling up the ramp and the wonderful times of flying back down it.
Wednesday, November 4, 2015
Saturday, October 31, 2015
A Wheelchair For A Walker
In elementary school, because of my brittle bones and the need to sit out some days during physical education, during the twenty minutes my classmates were playing dodge ball or other rough sports, I attended special physical education. I'll admit that this was not my favorite class. Despite my physical limitations I was quick witted, hyper and admittedly eager to impress.
The kids in my class had a variety of conditions: a boy with down-syndorome, another with cerebral palsy and a little girl with Spina-bifida. The girl had a walker that she used to get around school.
"Why don't you use a wheelchair?" I asked her one day. "It would be a lot faster to move with."
"Yeah, I'll probably have to get a wheelchair someday," she confessed, "but I want to walk for as long as I can. My doctor says if you don't use your leg muscles, they will shrink and you won't be able to walk anymore."
"Is that true?" I asked our teacher.
"In a way," he responded.
"I want to do my leg exercises today," I said to him.
"Alright," he replied.
I spent the rest of the day thinking about how much time I spent in my wheelchair. I began to worry that the school was trying to take away my ability to walk by making me stay in it all day. Later at home I voiced this fear to my parents.
"Well, I was against getting you a wheelchair, but they wouldn't let you attend school without it, because the teachers are afraid we'd take them to court if you got hurt," my dad explained.
"What if I got a walker?" I asked my dad. "There is a girl in my class who has a walker that she uses and she has a crooked back." (This was before I developed scoliosis)
"You have one," my dad reminded me.
I'd forgotten about the little aluminum walker that came with my first wheelchair. My parents must have left it in the storage shed since I never used it. They brought it out that evening and showed me how to use it.
"The only problem is your backpack," my dad said as he adjusted the straps. I slipped my arms through them and my parents laughed.
"It's as big as you are kiddo," he chuckled.
Not only was it too big, but filled with my school supplies, the bag was too heavy. I felt frustrated as I tried to figure out a way to carry my backpack. I sat in front of my walker when I noticed the front handle bars. They reminded me of the push handle bars on my wheelchair so I took my backpack off of my shoulders and slid the straps onto my walker.
It was a perfect fit.
"Can I take this to school tomorrow instead of my wheelchair?" I asked my parents.
"Yes," they agreed.
The next morning I pushed my walker out to the bus.
"Where is your wheelchair?" The driver asked.
"I'm going to take this from now on!" I proclaimed.
"Okay, but let me carry that walker up for you," she said, and I let her.
It was a steep climb up the bus steps. I'd seen other kids climb up easily, but I didn't understand how. I had to hold on to the rail with one hand and use the other to pull myself up each step. I took a seat in the middle and the bus driver wedged the walker between the seats. It was a monumental moment for me, sitting in the wide seats. Without the restrictive belts that normally held my wheelchair down, I felt like I'd achieved freedom. I hummed happily to myself as we made the drive to school.
With the backpack secured to the front, I pushed my walker into the elementary building, being mindful of each step I took. My parents cautioned me before I left not to behave recklessly. I entered my second grade class feeling proud. I was now on level with my peers, because I could walk. A few of my friends came up to me.
"What happened to your chair?" she asked.
"I don't need it anymore," I proclaimed. "I can walk now." I said looking up.
For the first time it dawned on me how much shorter I was than kids my age. I barely came up to their elbows.
"What's that?" another asked.
"It's a walker," I answered dismissively.
"Can you walk without it?" he asked.
"No, she can't, don't be rude," the other friend snapped at him.
"I can so!" I protested.
"Then why do you have it?" she queried.
"Because of my backpack," I said, omitting that the school wouldn't let me walk without it.
This seemed to satisfy my friend's curiosities. The rest of the morning went okay - I walked to and from my cubby hole, leaving my walker at my desk. It remained forgotten during science lab, story time and art. I was extremely tired from walking around the classroom all morning, but my dream of being treated like every other student had finally come true, However, when recess came that dream was crushed.
"You have to sit at the picnic tables," my teacher told me.
"Why?" I asked. "I'm not in a wheelchair anymore."
"You still have brittle bones," my teacher reminded me.
It was then that I realized my wheelchair wasn't to blame for my banishment from the playground. Now I understood what my parents told me. The teacher was afraid of me breaking my bones.
"I know you are scared of me breaking my bones, but I'm not scared. I do stuff all the time at home - I climb trees, build forts and play outside with my brother and sister, but I am not scared," I said boldly.
"Exactly," my teacher replied, turning to watch my classmates.
I was dumbstruck by her words.
When I got home from school, exhausted from pushing my walker with the heavy backpack, I told my mom what the teacher said.
"Why is it bad to not be scared?" I asked.
"It's not," my mom assured me. "She doesn't think you know anything about having brittle bones, which is stupid because you know better than anyone. Heck, you learned to spell it when you were four--"
"O-S-T-E-O-G-E-N-E-S-I-S I-M-P-E-R-F-E-C-T-A!" I spelled triumphantly."
"Smart aleck!" she hugged me and we laughed.
"So are you gonna take your walker again tomorrow?" my mom asked.
"I think it's better to take my wheelchair, because I can't keep up with my friends, using the walker, and the other kids are really tall," I admitted. "I don't like it."
"That's never gonna change," my mom said.
"I know, but at least in my wheelchair I can run over them if they're mean!"
Friday, October 30, 2015
I'm Wheeling In The Rain
Sometimes it's hard to maneuver my wheelchair and hold on to things, but it can be especially tough when the elements are working against me.
I was getting ready for work one morning. The sky was dark with rain clouds, though the forecast promised it wouldn't start raining until the afternoon.
I was getting ready for work one morning. The sky was dark with rain clouds, though the forecast promised it wouldn't start raining until the afternoon.
"Do you have an extra umbrella?" I asked my parents.
"Here," my dad said, handing me one from their closet.
"Thanks," I put it in my backpack on the back of my wheelchair and headed out the door.
I didn't like driving in the rain and was really grateful it hadn't begun, but I'd left a few minutes early just in case. I arrived a half hour before my shift. I considered going into work, but since it didn't rain I used the extra time to stop at my favorite cafe for coffee and a blueberry muffin.
Big mistake.
As I sat at my usual spot by the window awaiting my order, it began to rain. The waitress arrived with a fresh pot of coffee and a hot blueberry muffin, which she placed in front of me.
"I hope you brought an umbrella," she said, as she poured the coffee.
"Oh yes, in my back pack," I assured her.
I reached inside my bag, beside the umbrella and pulled out a book. It was the perfect morning. I wished I could spend the rest of the day with my nose in a book, nibbling my blueberry muffin and sipping coffee to the steady rhythm of pouring rain.
After finishing my first cup of coffee, I looked at my watch. I had five minutes. It would take me that long to get there. The rain let up, but there was still a light drizzle. I debated waiting a bit longer, but decided not to. I got into my van barely dampened and drove down the street to work.
When I pulled into the parking lot, I was shocked to find there was nowhere to park. My job was at a call center and although we shared a building with two other businesses, we rarely had an issue with parking. I drove around to the other parking lot and saw the issue -- Road Work.
"Where do they expect me to park?" I fumed at no one.
I drove around the block and finally found a spot across the street.
"Well, at least it quit raining," I said out loud.
I should have kept my mouth shut.
A loud boom of thunder, then the rain came down in sheets. I sat frozen in disbelief for a moment. Then I looked at my watch. I was already ten minutes late. I would surely be reprimanded. I was not a tardy person, but the policies were strict - first time offense put you on automatic probation. I would have gone home, called in, but I was never good about making excuses. I just wasn't raised that way. So I got my umbrella out and exited my van.
Getting my wheelchair out of the van was easy. All I had to do was push a few buttons and the automatic door would open, a claw would swing the wheelchair out, lower it and that was it. All I had to do was unstrap it. Thanks to the gust of wind that accompanied the rain, the wheelchair was blown violently against the van.
"Oh come on!" I shouted in frustration.
I crawled over the backseat and leaned out to steady the wheelchair as it lowered to the ground. As soon as it was down I climbed back up front to turn off the van and retrieve the umbrella.
The lift and back door worked weather the van was on or off thanks to the back up battery, so once I climbed out of the back door and into the chair, I opened the umbrella and moved away from the van to close it up with the remote. I put the remote and keys in my purse, adjusted my wheelchair settings and waited at the curb for my chance to cross the street.
Suddenly, a gust of wind attempted to sweep the umbrella out of my grasp. I struggled with it as the signal to cross began flashing. I steered the wheelchair gear forward with my right hand, while the left was fighting a losing battle. I made it across the street and I thought I'd finally be able to beat the wind, but the rain fell harder and in combination with another gust of wind, turned my umbrella inside out!
"Fine!" I shouted, "Take it!" and I threw the broken umbrella on the sidewalk.
The rain continued its steady downpour as I rolled down the sidewalk, up the ramp and into the office building. I entered the room where our cubicles were, some of my coworkers eyeing me with sadness, amusement or shock. I wheeled up to my supervisor and she covered her mouth. She was probably concerned about showing the appropriate response. I probably looked pathetic - a tiny girl in a wheelchair, drenched, shivering, on the verge of tears.
"I know I'm late, but can I go to the bathroom to dry off?" I asked in a low voice.
"Yes," she said, "and don't worry about being late -- are you okay?" she said, concerned.
"The wind broke my umbrella," I answered.
"Okay, go get dried off," she said.
Later, when I came back to my desk there was a tall black umbrella leaning against it with a note that said:
This one is wind proof.
And it was.
Big mistake.
As I sat at my usual spot by the window awaiting my order, it began to rain. The waitress arrived with a fresh pot of coffee and a hot blueberry muffin, which she placed in front of me.
"I hope you brought an umbrella," she said, as she poured the coffee.
"Oh yes, in my back pack," I assured her.
I reached inside my bag, beside the umbrella and pulled out a book. It was the perfect morning. I wished I could spend the rest of the day with my nose in a book, nibbling my blueberry muffin and sipping coffee to the steady rhythm of pouring rain.
After finishing my first cup of coffee, I looked at my watch. I had five minutes. It would take me that long to get there. The rain let up, but there was still a light drizzle. I debated waiting a bit longer, but decided not to. I got into my van barely dampened and drove down the street to work.
When I pulled into the parking lot, I was shocked to find there was nowhere to park. My job was at a call center and although we shared a building with two other businesses, we rarely had an issue with parking. I drove around to the other parking lot and saw the issue -- Road Work.
"Where do they expect me to park?" I fumed at no one.
I drove around the block and finally found a spot across the street.
"Well, at least it quit raining," I said out loud.
I should have kept my mouth shut.
A loud boom of thunder, then the rain came down in sheets. I sat frozen in disbelief for a moment. Then I looked at my watch. I was already ten minutes late. I would surely be reprimanded. I was not a tardy person, but the policies were strict - first time offense put you on automatic probation. I would have gone home, called in, but I was never good about making excuses. I just wasn't raised that way. So I got my umbrella out and exited my van.
Getting my wheelchair out of the van was easy. All I had to do was push a few buttons and the automatic door would open, a claw would swing the wheelchair out, lower it and that was it. All I had to do was unstrap it. Thanks to the gust of wind that accompanied the rain, the wheelchair was blown violently against the van.
"Oh come on!" I shouted in frustration.
I crawled over the backseat and leaned out to steady the wheelchair as it lowered to the ground. As soon as it was down I climbed back up front to turn off the van and retrieve the umbrella.
The lift and back door worked weather the van was on or off thanks to the back up battery, so once I climbed out of the back door and into the chair, I opened the umbrella and moved away from the van to close it up with the remote. I put the remote and keys in my purse, adjusted my wheelchair settings and waited at the curb for my chance to cross the street.
Suddenly, a gust of wind attempted to sweep the umbrella out of my grasp. I struggled with it as the signal to cross began flashing. I steered the wheelchair gear forward with my right hand, while the left was fighting a losing battle. I made it across the street and I thought I'd finally be able to beat the wind, but the rain fell harder and in combination with another gust of wind, turned my umbrella inside out!
"Fine!" I shouted, "Take it!" and I threw the broken umbrella on the sidewalk.
The rain continued its steady downpour as I rolled down the sidewalk, up the ramp and into the office building. I entered the room where our cubicles were, some of my coworkers eyeing me with sadness, amusement or shock. I wheeled up to my supervisor and she covered her mouth. She was probably concerned about showing the appropriate response. I probably looked pathetic - a tiny girl in a wheelchair, drenched, shivering, on the verge of tears.
"I know I'm late, but can I go to the bathroom to dry off?" I asked in a low voice.
"Yes," she said, "and don't worry about being late -- are you okay?" she said, concerned.
"The wind broke my umbrella," I answered.
"Okay, go get dried off," she said.
Later, when I came back to my desk there was a tall black umbrella leaning against it with a note that said:
This one is wind proof.
And it was.
Tuesday, October 27, 2015
Wheelchair Pajama Party
When I was younger people who didn't know me often told me how lucky I was to be in a wheelchair, because no one would scold me or deny me anything out of fear of offending me. I wished. But one time I decided to test that theory.
"Why aren't you ready for school? Doesn't your bus get here in a few minutes?" my sister asked as we sat at the table eating breakfast.
"I'm going to school in my pajamas," I told her.
"Why?" she inquired.
"Why not? It's not like they're going to say anything -- I'm in a wheelchair."
I was wearing my Winnie the Pooh T-shirt, green polkadot fleece pants and Pooh Bear slippers. I draped my fleece blanket around my shoulders. My short blonde hair was swiftly brushed, but I still looked like I'd just rolled out of bed.
"I thought you didn't like to play that card," my sister accused.
"Yeah, well today is finals and I want to be comfortable," I confessed.
I've always had test anxiety and I am pretty sure it has to do with the exit test we had to take in public school. I decided this time I was going to feel as relaxed as possible and that meant wearing my fleece pants and Winnie the Pooh slippers.
"You're gonna get in trouble," my sister warned.
Our parents weren't home to reprimand me, having left for work a half hour ago. I was about to mention this to my sister when the interrupting 'beep, beep' signaled my bus' arrival.
"We'll see," I said, as I headed out the door.
"You're looking comfy today," the bus driver noted as I drove up onto the wheelchair lift.
"Test day," I said.
"You must have been up late studying," she assumed.
"Didn't have time to get ready," I joked. "Actually, I just wanted to be comfortable. Test stress me out."
"You got this, girl, you're a smart lady," my bus driver assured me.
I was glad I'd brought my fleece blanket with me. I wrapped it around me and bunched up the back of it under my head for a pillow. I managed to sleep through two pick ups and the five minute ride to school.
When we arrived, I entered the school feeling a little timid about my bold decision. What if my sister was right and I did get in trouble. My parents would be furious if they had to leave work just because I blatantly broke the dress code and thus failed my classes. I made my way to the cafeteria to meet a couple of friends before our first class.
"Are you attending a slumber party?"
It was the assistant principal! Well, I couldn't take my decision back now.
"Yep, after the test I'm going home and going to sleep!" I said cheerfully.
Surprisingly, she just laughed. "I wish I had my PJ's on!" she sighed. "I need some sleep. Good luck on your test." The assistant principal left the cafeteria with her coffee.
It worked! I found my friends sitting at our usual spot by the large windows.
"You guys are not gonna believe this..." I proceeded to tell them about my idea to wear pajamas and my encounter with the assistant principal.
"She didn't get mad or send me to the office for violating dress code. Maybe using wheelchair perks every now and then wouldn't be so bad..." It was then I noticed my friends were on the verge of laughing.
"What's so funny?" I asked confused.
"Of course you didn't get in trouble, don't you remember what the principal said over the announcements yesterday?"
"I was out yesterday because of a doctor appointment," I said.
"Oh," my friend said, "well today is pajama day for finals."
It was then I finally noticed all of my friends were in Pajama pants and T-shirts. One had brought a teddy bear while another, like me, had a fleece blanket in her lap.
"So much for wheelchair perks," I sighed.
"Not true. Today we all get wheelchair perks!" my friends cheered.
"Why aren't you ready for school? Doesn't your bus get here in a few minutes?" my sister asked as we sat at the table eating breakfast.
"I'm going to school in my pajamas," I told her.
"Why?" she inquired.
"Why not? It's not like they're going to say anything -- I'm in a wheelchair."
I was wearing my Winnie the Pooh T-shirt, green polkadot fleece pants and Pooh Bear slippers. I draped my fleece blanket around my shoulders. My short blonde hair was swiftly brushed, but I still looked like I'd just rolled out of bed.
"I thought you didn't like to play that card," my sister accused.
"Yeah, well today is finals and I want to be comfortable," I confessed.
I've always had test anxiety and I am pretty sure it has to do with the exit test we had to take in public school. I decided this time I was going to feel as relaxed as possible and that meant wearing my fleece pants and Winnie the Pooh slippers.
"You're gonna get in trouble," my sister warned.
Our parents weren't home to reprimand me, having left for work a half hour ago. I was about to mention this to my sister when the interrupting 'beep, beep' signaled my bus' arrival.
"We'll see," I said, as I headed out the door.
"You're looking comfy today," the bus driver noted as I drove up onto the wheelchair lift.
"Test day," I said.
"You must have been up late studying," she assumed.
"Didn't have time to get ready," I joked. "Actually, I just wanted to be comfortable. Test stress me out."
"You got this, girl, you're a smart lady," my bus driver assured me.
I was glad I'd brought my fleece blanket with me. I wrapped it around me and bunched up the back of it under my head for a pillow. I managed to sleep through two pick ups and the five minute ride to school.
When we arrived, I entered the school feeling a little timid about my bold decision. What if my sister was right and I did get in trouble. My parents would be furious if they had to leave work just because I blatantly broke the dress code and thus failed my classes. I made my way to the cafeteria to meet a couple of friends before our first class.
"Are you attending a slumber party?"
It was the assistant principal! Well, I couldn't take my decision back now.
"Yep, after the test I'm going home and going to sleep!" I said cheerfully.
Surprisingly, she just laughed. "I wish I had my PJ's on!" she sighed. "I need some sleep. Good luck on your test." The assistant principal left the cafeteria with her coffee.
It worked! I found my friends sitting at our usual spot by the large windows.
"You guys are not gonna believe this..." I proceeded to tell them about my idea to wear pajamas and my encounter with the assistant principal.
"She didn't get mad or send me to the office for violating dress code. Maybe using wheelchair perks every now and then wouldn't be so bad..." It was then I noticed my friends were on the verge of laughing.
"What's so funny?" I asked confused.
"Of course you didn't get in trouble, don't you remember what the principal said over the announcements yesterday?"
"I was out yesterday because of a doctor appointment," I said.
"Oh," my friend said, "well today is pajama day for finals."
It was then I finally noticed all of my friends were in Pajama pants and T-shirts. One had brought a teddy bear while another, like me, had a fleece blanket in her lap.
"So much for wheelchair perks," I sighed.
"Not true. Today we all get wheelchair perks!" my friends cheered.
Monday, October 26, 2015
Wheelchair Bound
When I was in Kindergarden, my teacher had a difficult time getting me to remain in my wheelchair all day. I was allowed to sit in the chairs at the desk, but I would take advantage of getting out of my wheelchair to run around the classroom.
"You know better than to leave your wheelchair in the hallway," my teacher scolded, after I finally admitted to once again pushing it out of the classroom in the hopes that she'd forget about it.
"I'm sorry, I won't do it again," I said, feigning shame. The next day, I hid my wheelchair in the coat closet.
My teacher shook her head,
"You've given me no choice. I'm going to have a talk with your parents this time."
That got my attention.
After school she talked to my mom, who talked to my dad, who surprisingly did not talk to me. It seemed that after a few days I'd escaped punishment, because my parents had taken my side.
Justice.
Little did I know that my parents had ordered a clip on tray for my wheelchair so that I would no longer have an excuse to give the teacher so much frustration.
"No, I won't use it!" I protested when my parents presented the plastic table top.
"Young lady, don't give me lip," my mom warned. "You have to stay in your wheelchair at school, and since you won't listen, this is the alternative."
"But I'll be good, I'll listen," I begged and pouted. "Please don't make me use that stupid tray, it bothers!"
I sat in my wheelchair while my parents adjusted the tray to fit me comfortably, but no matter what they did I protested that it bothered me - that I wouldn't be able to get out of my wheelchair anymore.
The next day at school was frustrating. I tried to slip out of my wheelchair, but my dad, knowing my Houdini-esque abilities, had made sure there wasn't any wiggle room for me to do so. I endured the rest of the day in my rolling prison - only released with the help of the teacher so that I could use the restroom. I didn't know how to remove the tray and I had pinched my fingers trying.
Later at home, my brother sat in my wheelchair.
"Can I put the tray on?" he asked, "I want to color and I don't want to sit at the kitchen table."
"Yeah, but it's hard to put on, dad might have to help you," I said.
My brother picked up the tray and after a couple of adjustments, snapped it in place.
"Wow, can you take it off?" I asked him.
"Yeah," he said, easily unhooking the clips and removing the tray.
"Show me how to do that!" I begged.
"Okay," my brother said, and proceeded to teach me how to undo the clips.
It was a little harder for me, because of my weak hands so I had to use two hands on each clip, undoing one at a time. After I had mastered taking the tray off, I gave my brother a big hug.
"Thank you!" I said, excitedly, while he clipped himself back into my wheelchair to color.
The next day at school, I was in a much better mood. The teacher handed out our Alphabet workbooks. I thought about getting out of my wheelchair and sitting at my desk, just to show her that I could, but then I realized that my tray was wider than the desk and I would have more room for my workbook. So I sat in my wheelchair and did my work.
When art time came, I discovered once again the benefits of using the tray. The same followed for lunch. Suddenly, I was happy to have the tray. I now had my own space to eat, read, draw and I didn't have to share my crayons, a major bonus for me.
"You seem to be in a better mood today," my teacher noted.
"I am," I said, "My brother showed me how to take the tray off, but you don't have to worry, I like it now."
"Well I am certainly glad," the teacher said. "You're a smart girl. I know that nothing can hold you back, even that tray."
"You know better than to leave your wheelchair in the hallway," my teacher scolded, after I finally admitted to once again pushing it out of the classroom in the hopes that she'd forget about it.
"I'm sorry, I won't do it again," I said, feigning shame. The next day, I hid my wheelchair in the coat closet.
My teacher shook her head,
"You've given me no choice. I'm going to have a talk with your parents this time."
That got my attention.
After school she talked to my mom, who talked to my dad, who surprisingly did not talk to me. It seemed that after a few days I'd escaped punishment, because my parents had taken my side.
Justice.
Little did I know that my parents had ordered a clip on tray for my wheelchair so that I would no longer have an excuse to give the teacher so much frustration.
"No, I won't use it!" I protested when my parents presented the plastic table top.
"Young lady, don't give me lip," my mom warned. "You have to stay in your wheelchair at school, and since you won't listen, this is the alternative."
"But I'll be good, I'll listen," I begged and pouted. "Please don't make me use that stupid tray, it bothers!"
I sat in my wheelchair while my parents adjusted the tray to fit me comfortably, but no matter what they did I protested that it bothered me - that I wouldn't be able to get out of my wheelchair anymore.
The next day at school was frustrating. I tried to slip out of my wheelchair, but my dad, knowing my Houdini-esque abilities, had made sure there wasn't any wiggle room for me to do so. I endured the rest of the day in my rolling prison - only released with the help of the teacher so that I could use the restroom. I didn't know how to remove the tray and I had pinched my fingers trying.
Later at home, my brother sat in my wheelchair.
"Can I put the tray on?" he asked, "I want to color and I don't want to sit at the kitchen table."
"Yeah, but it's hard to put on, dad might have to help you," I said.
My brother picked up the tray and after a couple of adjustments, snapped it in place.
"Wow, can you take it off?" I asked him.
"Yeah," he said, easily unhooking the clips and removing the tray.
"Show me how to do that!" I begged.
"Okay," my brother said, and proceeded to teach me how to undo the clips.
It was a little harder for me, because of my weak hands so I had to use two hands on each clip, undoing one at a time. After I had mastered taking the tray off, I gave my brother a big hug.
"Thank you!" I said, excitedly, while he clipped himself back into my wheelchair to color.
The next day at school, I was in a much better mood. The teacher handed out our Alphabet workbooks. I thought about getting out of my wheelchair and sitting at my desk, just to show her that I could, but then I realized that my tray was wider than the desk and I would have more room for my workbook. So I sat in my wheelchair and did my work.
When art time came, I discovered once again the benefits of using the tray. The same followed for lunch. Suddenly, I was happy to have the tray. I now had my own space to eat, read, draw and I didn't have to share my crayons, a major bonus for me.
"You seem to be in a better mood today," my teacher noted.
"I am," I said, "My brother showed me how to take the tray off, but you don't have to worry, I like it now."
"Well I am certainly glad," the teacher said. "You're a smart girl. I know that nothing can hold you back, even that tray."
Thursday, October 15, 2015
Rock 'N' Roll Wheelchair
My first rock 'n' roll show was the coolest ever, because of my wheelchair.
When I was a teenager, I didn't go to parties or concerts a lot like most of my friends. I liked being a homebody for the most part, but one night I was really bored so I started calling around and seeing what my friends were doing. Most of them were already busy, but one of them called me back,
"Hey, I was thinking about seeing The Buzzcocks play tonight, downtown. Do you want to go?" he asked.
"Sure," I agreed. I'd heard a few of their songs and thought they were pretty good.
Later, my friend picked me up and he and I went to the local warehouse. We'd arrived early to get a good spot, but when we went inside, the room was hardly crowded.
"I'm surprised the turn out was so weak," I said to my friend, "I thought this band was really popular."
"Oh, it's still early," he assured me. "Places like this can fill up fast."
We watched the opening band play. One of the members brought out a guitar that was so small, I could have held it. I was mesmerized watching him play, until he smashed the instrument in front of me. I could hardly believe it. I was so angry, I thought I might explode - I wished he'd given me the guitar if he really didn't want it.
"Are you okay?" My friend asked, seeing my expression.
"That was a punk ass thing to do," I said motioning to the splintered wood and strings littered across the stage.
"Yeah it was," he agreed, understanding my anger.
"I'm going to the bathroom. I'll be back," I said.
"Okay, I'm gonna get a beer," my friend gestured toward the bar at the back.
I went to the bathroom and splashed some water on my face to calm down. I wished I were old enough for a beer. I wasn't about to ask my friend to buy me one, though I doubt he would have - my dad wouldn't have let me hang out with him alone if he thought he would, and I didn't want to break my dad's trust.
I wheeled back out and was shocked to see the venue was suddenly packed. Eventually, I found my friend at the back, by the bar.
"I told you this place could fill up," he said, sipping his beer. "I'm sorry, I should have gone back to the front and reserved our place."
"It's okay, maybe we can push our way back up," I suggested. But it was no use.
"When the show starts, I will let you sit on my shoulders," my friend offered.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Come on," he said and bent down so I could climb on.
My brother let me sit on his shoulders numerous times, but I'd never trusted anyone else not to drop me. Still, I did want to see the band play - plus it didn't smell very pleasant the more crowded the room got. I stood up on my wheelchair and started to climb, when suddenly we were approached by the bouncer.
"You don't need to do that," he said to me. "Come on, we'll find you a place where you can see the band play."
A place where we could see the band play. I imagined we were about to be escorted back to our earlier places in the front. Instead, the bouncer led us out of the side door, around to a ramp in the back, through a room behind the stage, up another ramp and then right up on stage!
"How is this for a view?" The bouncer grinned at me. We were positioned behind the left speaker, just in the shadows. Still, we could see the whole band.
The Buzzcocks began to play and my friend and I were on cloud nine. It was so loud, I was sure I would be deaf, but I didn't care! I was amazed at their performance. Pete Shelley - the lead singer, who at the time was in his fifties - seemed to have the crazy energy of someone in his thirties. Every once in a while one of the members would look at us; smile, nod, wink or acknowledge our presence with some small gesture. After the show my friend and I got to meet the band who, despite their wild stage presence, were kindly spoken gentlemen.
"It was so wonderful to meet you my dear," Pete said, taking my hand with both of his as we said goodbye.
His british accent made me feel as though I were being bid farewell by an elder knight.
As my friend and I left in a daze my friend finally broke,
"Wow, that was so amazing!" he said.
"Yeah it was, thanks for bringing me!" I beamed.
"Thank you," he said. "It's because of you that we got to sit on stage. Do you always get to do stuff like that?"
"Not always," I answered.
"You should," he said.
"I'd feel guilty. I always say I want to be treated normal, but if I got special treatment all the time just because of my wheelchair, it would be kind of hypocritical," I reasoned.
"But you're short. Even if you weren't in a wheelchair, you would have had to move where you could see - that's normal," he countered.
"True," I agreed. "But wow, I wasn't expecting them to let us sit on stage!"
"I know, that was awesome!" My friend and I continued geeking out over our amazing night.
Being in a wheelchair has taught me many things, but most importantly it has given me a deep appreciation for the kindness of people. I am grateful for every chance I am given to sit where I can enjoy a movie, concert or show; for every person who offers to hold a door or let me cut in line; for anyone who helps me reach things up high. If you're one of these people - from my heart, Thank You.
When I was a teenager, I didn't go to parties or concerts a lot like most of my friends. I liked being a homebody for the most part, but one night I was really bored so I started calling around and seeing what my friends were doing. Most of them were already busy, but one of them called me back,
"Hey, I was thinking about seeing The Buzzcocks play tonight, downtown. Do you want to go?" he asked.
"Sure," I agreed. I'd heard a few of their songs and thought they were pretty good.
Later, my friend picked me up and he and I went to the local warehouse. We'd arrived early to get a good spot, but when we went inside, the room was hardly crowded.
"I'm surprised the turn out was so weak," I said to my friend, "I thought this band was really popular."
"Oh, it's still early," he assured me. "Places like this can fill up fast."
We watched the opening band play. One of the members brought out a guitar that was so small, I could have held it. I was mesmerized watching him play, until he smashed the instrument in front of me. I could hardly believe it. I was so angry, I thought I might explode - I wished he'd given me the guitar if he really didn't want it.
"Are you okay?" My friend asked, seeing my expression.
"That was a punk ass thing to do," I said motioning to the splintered wood and strings littered across the stage.
"Yeah it was," he agreed, understanding my anger.
"I'm going to the bathroom. I'll be back," I said.
"Okay, I'm gonna get a beer," my friend gestured toward the bar at the back.
I went to the bathroom and splashed some water on my face to calm down. I wished I were old enough for a beer. I wasn't about to ask my friend to buy me one, though I doubt he would have - my dad wouldn't have let me hang out with him alone if he thought he would, and I didn't want to break my dad's trust.
I wheeled back out and was shocked to see the venue was suddenly packed. Eventually, I found my friend at the back, by the bar.
"I told you this place could fill up," he said, sipping his beer. "I'm sorry, I should have gone back to the front and reserved our place."
"It's okay, maybe we can push our way back up," I suggested. But it was no use.
"When the show starts, I will let you sit on my shoulders," my friend offered.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Come on," he said and bent down so I could climb on.
My brother let me sit on his shoulders numerous times, but I'd never trusted anyone else not to drop me. Still, I did want to see the band play - plus it didn't smell very pleasant the more crowded the room got. I stood up on my wheelchair and started to climb, when suddenly we were approached by the bouncer.
"You don't need to do that," he said to me. "Come on, we'll find you a place where you can see the band play."
A place where we could see the band play. I imagined we were about to be escorted back to our earlier places in the front. Instead, the bouncer led us out of the side door, around to a ramp in the back, through a room behind the stage, up another ramp and then right up on stage!
"How is this for a view?" The bouncer grinned at me. We were positioned behind the left speaker, just in the shadows. Still, we could see the whole band.
The Buzzcocks began to play and my friend and I were on cloud nine. It was so loud, I was sure I would be deaf, but I didn't care! I was amazed at their performance. Pete Shelley - the lead singer, who at the time was in his fifties - seemed to have the crazy energy of someone in his thirties. Every once in a while one of the members would look at us; smile, nod, wink or acknowledge our presence with some small gesture. After the show my friend and I got to meet the band who, despite their wild stage presence, were kindly spoken gentlemen.
"It was so wonderful to meet you my dear," Pete said, taking my hand with both of his as we said goodbye.
His british accent made me feel as though I were being bid farewell by an elder knight.
As my friend and I left in a daze my friend finally broke,
"Wow, that was so amazing!" he said.
"Yeah it was, thanks for bringing me!" I beamed.
"Thank you," he said. "It's because of you that we got to sit on stage. Do you always get to do stuff like that?"
"Not always," I answered.
"You should," he said.
"I'd feel guilty. I always say I want to be treated normal, but if I got special treatment all the time just because of my wheelchair, it would be kind of hypocritical," I reasoned.
"But you're short. Even if you weren't in a wheelchair, you would have had to move where you could see - that's normal," he countered.
"True," I agreed. "But wow, I wasn't expecting them to let us sit on stage!"
"I know, that was awesome!" My friend and I continued geeking out over our amazing night.
~*~
Being in a wheelchair has taught me many things, but most importantly it has given me a deep appreciation for the kindness of people. I am grateful for every chance I am given to sit where I can enjoy a movie, concert or show; for every person who offers to hold a door or let me cut in line; for anyone who helps me reach things up high. If you're one of these people - from my heart, Thank You.
Friday, October 9, 2015
My Wheelchair Is Not A Lemon
One hot summer day, my sister and I decided to set up a lemonade stand.
"I'm going to make the lemonade, because you make it too sweet," my sister insisted.
"Fine, I get to bake the cookies," I said.
"Will you leave a few in there a little longer?" she asked. My sister had a taste for slightly burnt cookies.
"No, these are for the customers," I frowned. "Unless you don't want to make money."
"Okay. What are we going to use for the stand?" she asked.
There was a foldable card table in the utility room. I suggested that. We also got some paper and markers to make signs: Lemonade - 50 cents & Cookies 25 cents. We loaded our supplies in a box, set it in my wheelchair and toted everything outside.
My sister and I set to work making our table presentable. I set a little shoe box, with a change jar beside it, on my wheelchair. This served as our cash register. My sister walked down to the corner of our street and posted a 'Lemonade For Sale' sign, complete with an arrow facing our house, on the stop sign.
"Lemonade! Cookies! Quench your thirst and have a snack!" my sister and I shouted to passersby.
People walking their dogs, riding their bikes and even some drivers stopped and purchased our treats. Soon we had to restock on lemonade and I even let my sister handle the next batch of cookies. It was no surprise that some of them wound up burnt. I couldn't be too upset though, we sold most of our stock.
As we were getting ready to set up our final batch of cookies and lemonade, one of my sister's friends came walking up. She looked really upset.
"You knew I was having a lemonade stand today!" she accused my sister.
My sister's friend lived at the other end of our street and often she and my sister found themselves in competition. When my sister asked me to help her with the lemonade stand I'd agreed because it was something she and I enjoyed doing together. Now I could see that there was more to this than she'd let on.
"I can't believe you played the 'handicapped sister card!'" I said to my sister. I tried to sound disappointed, but she was young and I probably would have done the same at her age.
"You should give me your money," her friend insisted, to which my sister got defensive. Being the mediator between my siblings I stepped in.
"We're not giving up this money, because half of it's mine," I said, "However, I have an idea - let's combine our lemonade stands and we'll split the money three ways," I resolved.
"Okay," they agreed.
My sister helped her friend bring everything from her stand over to ours. Her friend made pink lemonade and cookies with M&M's. Much to my sister's delight, many of the cookies were burnt. Together, we sold most of our stock. After three hours we were tired of sitting outside and decided to call it an afternoon. We took the stand down. My sister put the remaining lemonade in our refrigerator.
The three of us sat outside together, counting our earnings. Aside from the sales, we'd been given tips. Our total collection came out to thirty-three dollars. We each took eleven.
"Let's do this again next weekend," my sister's friend said enthusiastically.
"Yeah, I bet we could really earn money if you sat in your wheelchair next time," my sister said.
There are very few times I feel I've taught my siblings anything of value. This was one moment I hope made a lasting impression.
"I bet we could," I said, "but would that be right?" I asked my sister. She started to say something and then saw the look on my face.
"No?" she guessed.
"No." I confirmed.
"I'm going to make the lemonade, because you make it too sweet," my sister insisted.
"Fine, I get to bake the cookies," I said.
"Will you leave a few in there a little longer?" she asked. My sister had a taste for slightly burnt cookies.
"No, these are for the customers," I frowned. "Unless you don't want to make money."
"Okay. What are we going to use for the stand?" she asked.
There was a foldable card table in the utility room. I suggested that. We also got some paper and markers to make signs: Lemonade - 50 cents & Cookies 25 cents. We loaded our supplies in a box, set it in my wheelchair and toted everything outside.
My sister and I set to work making our table presentable. I set a little shoe box, with a change jar beside it, on my wheelchair. This served as our cash register. My sister walked down to the corner of our street and posted a 'Lemonade For Sale' sign, complete with an arrow facing our house, on the stop sign.
"Lemonade! Cookies! Quench your thirst and have a snack!" my sister and I shouted to passersby.
People walking their dogs, riding their bikes and even some drivers stopped and purchased our treats. Soon we had to restock on lemonade and I even let my sister handle the next batch of cookies. It was no surprise that some of them wound up burnt. I couldn't be too upset though, we sold most of our stock.
As we were getting ready to set up our final batch of cookies and lemonade, one of my sister's friends came walking up. She looked really upset.
"You knew I was having a lemonade stand today!" she accused my sister.
My sister's friend lived at the other end of our street and often she and my sister found themselves in competition. When my sister asked me to help her with the lemonade stand I'd agreed because it was something she and I enjoyed doing together. Now I could see that there was more to this than she'd let on.
"I can't believe you played the 'handicapped sister card!'" I said to my sister. I tried to sound disappointed, but she was young and I probably would have done the same at her age.
"You should give me your money," her friend insisted, to which my sister got defensive. Being the mediator between my siblings I stepped in.
"We're not giving up this money, because half of it's mine," I said, "However, I have an idea - let's combine our lemonade stands and we'll split the money three ways," I resolved.
"Okay," they agreed.
My sister helped her friend bring everything from her stand over to ours. Her friend made pink lemonade and cookies with M&M's. Much to my sister's delight, many of the cookies were burnt. Together, we sold most of our stock. After three hours we were tired of sitting outside and decided to call it an afternoon. We took the stand down. My sister put the remaining lemonade in our refrigerator.
The three of us sat outside together, counting our earnings. Aside from the sales, we'd been given tips. Our total collection came out to thirty-three dollars. We each took eleven.
"Let's do this again next weekend," my sister's friend said enthusiastically.
"Yeah, I bet we could really earn money if you sat in your wheelchair next time," my sister said.
There are very few times I feel I've taught my siblings anything of value. This was one moment I hope made a lasting impression.
"I bet we could," I said, "but would that be right?" I asked my sister. She started to say something and then saw the look on my face.
"No?" she guessed.
"No." I confirmed.
Tuesday, October 6, 2015
Happy Hallo-Wheels
Wheelchairs (especially electric) are helpful when collecting large amounts of candy.
Halloween was my favorite event when I was a kid. It combined the two things I loved; playing dress up and eating chocolate. For awhile we didn't live in a neighborhood that was good for trick-or-treating. My parents weren't big on it anyway, so there were a few years when all we had was the local fall festivals at church (lots of costume restrictions and very little candy).
Finally, when I was 14 we moved into a neighborhood full of kids. When Halloween came around, my siblings and I were eager to don our costumes and collect candy.
"You kids are too old for us to take you trick or treating," Our parents told us, when we brought up the evening plans.
"But we haven't been in a long time!" My little sister whined. She was only ten, still a child. I could see how supremely unfair this was to her. I was struck with an idea.
"I'm fourteen now, old enough to watch them on the weekends when you guys go to work. Can't I take them trick-or-treating tonight?" I offered. "I have my electric Wheelchair, so it will be fine."
My parents considered this.
"Okay, but you kids need to be back by nine and don't leave the neighborhood." This was directed mostly at my thirteen year old brother, who was unafraid of walking anywhere on his own.
"Thanks sis!" my siblings said to me.
That night my sister and I put on our costumes. I was a ninja and my sister was a princess. As for my brother, he went rebel. We left the house at 7pm, as the daylight was fading.
"Would you be okay if I went with my friends?" My brother asked. "I promise I'll be back by curfew."
"They told us to stick together." I hesitated. I wanted to obey the rules, but my younger siblings had the tendency to squabble a lot and just watching my sister would be easier.
"I'll get you guys some extra candy," he offered. It was then that I noticed he was holding a giant garbage bag. Another one was sticking out from his overstuffed pocket.
"Do you really think you're going to get that much candy?" I laughed.
"Duh," he said.
I looked down at my small bucket.
"Forget this," I said. "Go back inside and get the pillowcases off of our beds," I directed at my sister. She took the buckets inside and came back out with four pillowcases.
"There's no way you girls are going to fill those," my brother taunted. "You won't even leave the neighborhood."
"Wanna make a wager?" I offered.
"Winner gets to go through loser's candy and claim their favorites - money and toys included," my brother said.
"Deal," we all agreed.
So we split up, my brother off with his friends and my sister and I with ours. My sister stood on the back of my wheelchair. I held the candy bags in my lap. We traversed through three streets before the weight of the candy started to become tiresome.
"It's a good thing you have your wheelchair, or this would be really hard to do," my sister said as I drove us to the door of another house.
"One of the pros of having my wheelchair," I agreed.
We collected more candy, but soon my arms began to ache.
"I wanna take this home, but it's close to curfew. I don't want to be told we can't go back out," I told my sister. It was 8:30.
We decided to take the chance. When we arrived home, the living room was dark, except for one lamp. Our parents had gone to bed fully expecting that we would follow the rules. My sister and I dropped the bags of candy off in the bedroom. It was still fifteen minutes till curfew.
"Can we go back out for ten minutes?" My sister asked.
"Okay, but let's stay close. Our neighbors might have some extra candy."
We took one pillow case and we back out. We managed to fill it a quarter of the way up when I saw my brother and one of his friends carrying two large garbage bags nearly full of candy.
"Where did you get all of that?" I asked in shock.
"I have my secrets," my brother grinned. He saw the single pillowcase in my hand.
"Slow night?" he asked.
"No, we have lots more in our room. Mom and dad are asleep by the way."
"Cool, can I go back out?"
"No, we have to go in," I said. "And your friend can take that other bag of candy, I've got a feeling dad is going to be pretty upset about this."
Turns out, I was right. The next morning my dad nearly blew a fuse when he saw the garbage bag and pillowcases full of candy.
"You three are officially too old for trick-or-treating," he said after collecting the candy from our rooms.
He poured some of it into a candy dish, he then placed the dish atop the refrigerator (not as an attempt to keep it out of reach, but to symbolically tell us that we were not to touch it without asking). The rest of our prized collection went promptly into the garbage.
Little did he know that the previous night I'd warned my siblings this might happen. We worked together all night to secure our favorite pieces of candy. The wager of who collected the most no longer an issue, we were united with salvaging what I correctly assumed would be our final Halloween trick-or-treating together.
Halloween was my favorite event when I was a kid. It combined the two things I loved; playing dress up and eating chocolate. For awhile we didn't live in a neighborhood that was good for trick-or-treating. My parents weren't big on it anyway, so there were a few years when all we had was the local fall festivals at church (lots of costume restrictions and very little candy).
Finally, when I was 14 we moved into a neighborhood full of kids. When Halloween came around, my siblings and I were eager to don our costumes and collect candy.
"You kids are too old for us to take you trick or treating," Our parents told us, when we brought up the evening plans.
"But we haven't been in a long time!" My little sister whined. She was only ten, still a child. I could see how supremely unfair this was to her. I was struck with an idea.
"I'm fourteen now, old enough to watch them on the weekends when you guys go to work. Can't I take them trick-or-treating tonight?" I offered. "I have my electric Wheelchair, so it will be fine."
My parents considered this.
"Okay, but you kids need to be back by nine and don't leave the neighborhood." This was directed mostly at my thirteen year old brother, who was unafraid of walking anywhere on his own.
"Thanks sis!" my siblings said to me.
That night my sister and I put on our costumes. I was a ninja and my sister was a princess. As for my brother, he went rebel. We left the house at 7pm, as the daylight was fading.
"Would you be okay if I went with my friends?" My brother asked. "I promise I'll be back by curfew."
"They told us to stick together." I hesitated. I wanted to obey the rules, but my younger siblings had the tendency to squabble a lot and just watching my sister would be easier.
"I'll get you guys some extra candy," he offered. It was then that I noticed he was holding a giant garbage bag. Another one was sticking out from his overstuffed pocket.
"Do you really think you're going to get that much candy?" I laughed.
"Duh," he said.
I looked down at my small bucket.
"Forget this," I said. "Go back inside and get the pillowcases off of our beds," I directed at my sister. She took the buckets inside and came back out with four pillowcases.
"There's no way you girls are going to fill those," my brother taunted. "You won't even leave the neighborhood."
"Wanna make a wager?" I offered.
"Winner gets to go through loser's candy and claim their favorites - money and toys included," my brother said.
"Deal," we all agreed.
So we split up, my brother off with his friends and my sister and I with ours. My sister stood on the back of my wheelchair. I held the candy bags in my lap. We traversed through three streets before the weight of the candy started to become tiresome.
"It's a good thing you have your wheelchair, or this would be really hard to do," my sister said as I drove us to the door of another house.
"One of the pros of having my wheelchair," I agreed.
We collected more candy, but soon my arms began to ache.
"I wanna take this home, but it's close to curfew. I don't want to be told we can't go back out," I told my sister. It was 8:30.
We decided to take the chance. When we arrived home, the living room was dark, except for one lamp. Our parents had gone to bed fully expecting that we would follow the rules. My sister and I dropped the bags of candy off in the bedroom. It was still fifteen minutes till curfew.
"Can we go back out for ten minutes?" My sister asked.
"Okay, but let's stay close. Our neighbors might have some extra candy."
We took one pillow case and we back out. We managed to fill it a quarter of the way up when I saw my brother and one of his friends carrying two large garbage bags nearly full of candy.
"Where did you get all of that?" I asked in shock.
"I have my secrets," my brother grinned. He saw the single pillowcase in my hand.
"Slow night?" he asked.
"No, we have lots more in our room. Mom and dad are asleep by the way."
"Cool, can I go back out?"
"No, we have to go in," I said. "And your friend can take that other bag of candy, I've got a feeling dad is going to be pretty upset about this."
Turns out, I was right. The next morning my dad nearly blew a fuse when he saw the garbage bag and pillowcases full of candy.
"You three are officially too old for trick-or-treating," he said after collecting the candy from our rooms.
He poured some of it into a candy dish, he then placed the dish atop the refrigerator (not as an attempt to keep it out of reach, but to symbolically tell us that we were not to touch it without asking). The rest of our prized collection went promptly into the garbage.
Little did he know that the previous night I'd warned my siblings this might happen. We worked together all night to secure our favorite pieces of candy. The wager of who collected the most no longer an issue, we were united with salvaging what I correctly assumed would be our final Halloween trick-or-treating together.
Monday, September 28, 2015
Wheelchair Roulette
When I was ten, I lost my marbles - and my wheelchair. I came home one evening after playing with my friends. I hoped my mom wouldn't remember that I'd taken my wheelchair out, as I often did when the walk was far, but it had been an unlucky day for me.
"Where is your wheelchair?" she asked.
"I lost it in a bet," I said, trying not to sound as scared as I felt.
"Excuse me?" my mom said.
"I was playing marbles," I lowered my gaze.
Recently, the kids in my area had become addicted to playing marbles. My brother taught me how to play, but I had a hard time beating him.
"Don't get frustrated," he told me after I'd lost some of my allowance to him. "I'm just a pro. You need to find people less experienced, that you can beat."
So I began playing my friends, even teaching some, and soon I had a beautiful collection of marbles I'd won in games.
As kids, we were taught that gambling was a sin. That included making bets.
"Betting is a pathway to gambling, and gambling is a sin," my mother chanted. "You start gambling with the small things and soon you lose everything God gave you."
I should have headed those words, but I had a weakness for the colorful, little glass orbs that rolled smoothly across a hardwood floor. The satisfaction of aiming one swift pawn marble at my target acquisition and hearing the little click that knocked it from the protective circle and into my silk pouch, where I kept at least a hundred other marbles, made me giddy with anticipation.
Tonight, I lost almost all of my favorites. I didn't want to bet anymore of them out of fear that I'd have nothing left. In a desperate attempt to get at least one or two back I pleaded with my friend,
"Can't we bet something other than my last marbles?"
"Okay," she said, "We can bet your wheelchair."
I thought about it. I knew my parents would be livid if I lost, but I really wanted my prized collection back.
"Fine," I sighed, "but you can't keep it. My mom won't let you. You can borrow it for a week."
"Deal," my friend agreed.
The game was short and when it was over I went home without my marbles or my wheels.
"Whose house did you leave it at?" My mom asked and I told her.
"You stay put. I'm gonna go get your wheelchair," Mom said and left.
It was sometime before my mom returned and when she wheeled my wheelchair into the bedroom she asked me for the silk pouch where I kept my remaining marbles.
"You're done playing with these for awhile," she said. "Do you want to know where I found your wheelchair?"
"Where?" I asked, confused.
"Apparently, your friend decided to bet your wheelchair in one of her games. I had to go two blocks away and the boys who had it, left it outside. You can consider yourself grounded for the next two weeks and if you do any betting again, I'll help you out and give away all of your toys." She stormed out of the room.
A little while later my brother came in my room.
"Wow, I heard what happened. Do you want me to give you some of my marbles?" he offered.
"No, mom said she'd give away all of my stuff if she caught me betting again. You should probably stop too. I know she only said that to me, but I'm pretty sure she means you also, and she will catch you," I warned. My brother grinned.
"Wanna bet?"
"Where is your wheelchair?" she asked.
"I lost it in a bet," I said, trying not to sound as scared as I felt.
"Excuse me?" my mom said.
"I was playing marbles," I lowered my gaze.
Recently, the kids in my area had become addicted to playing marbles. My brother taught me how to play, but I had a hard time beating him.
"Don't get frustrated," he told me after I'd lost some of my allowance to him. "I'm just a pro. You need to find people less experienced, that you can beat."
So I began playing my friends, even teaching some, and soon I had a beautiful collection of marbles I'd won in games.
As kids, we were taught that gambling was a sin. That included making bets.
"Betting is a pathway to gambling, and gambling is a sin," my mother chanted. "You start gambling with the small things and soon you lose everything God gave you."
I should have headed those words, but I had a weakness for the colorful, little glass orbs that rolled smoothly across a hardwood floor. The satisfaction of aiming one swift pawn marble at my target acquisition and hearing the little click that knocked it from the protective circle and into my silk pouch, where I kept at least a hundred other marbles, made me giddy with anticipation.
Tonight, I lost almost all of my favorites. I didn't want to bet anymore of them out of fear that I'd have nothing left. In a desperate attempt to get at least one or two back I pleaded with my friend,
"Can't we bet something other than my last marbles?"
"Okay," she said, "We can bet your wheelchair."
I thought about it. I knew my parents would be livid if I lost, but I really wanted my prized collection back.
"Fine," I sighed, "but you can't keep it. My mom won't let you. You can borrow it for a week."
"Deal," my friend agreed.
The game was short and when it was over I went home without my marbles or my wheels.
"Whose house did you leave it at?" My mom asked and I told her.
"You stay put. I'm gonna go get your wheelchair," Mom said and left.
It was sometime before my mom returned and when she wheeled my wheelchair into the bedroom she asked me for the silk pouch where I kept my remaining marbles.
"You're done playing with these for awhile," she said. "Do you want to know where I found your wheelchair?"
"Where?" I asked, confused.
"Apparently, your friend decided to bet your wheelchair in one of her games. I had to go two blocks away and the boys who had it, left it outside. You can consider yourself grounded for the next two weeks and if you do any betting again, I'll help you out and give away all of your toys." She stormed out of the room.
A little while later my brother came in my room.
"Wow, I heard what happened. Do you want me to give you some of my marbles?" he offered.
"No, mom said she'd give away all of my stuff if she caught me betting again. You should probably stop too. I know she only said that to me, but I'm pretty sure she means you also, and she will catch you," I warned. My brother grinned.
"Wanna bet?"
Friday, September 25, 2015
The Perks Of Having A Wheelchair
When I was younger, my manual wheelchair was a multi-purpose object. I used it for a step stool, a way to carry laundry to and from my room and sometimes I toted toys in and out of the house whenever I wanted to play outside.
One day my siblings and I decided to go around the block to a friend's house. As always, I pushed the supplies (a box full of video games, barbie dolls and snacks) in my wheelchair, while my brother and sister walked behind and beside me.
"Guys, I need to sit down," I said to my siblings.
The walks around the neighborhood often wore me out, so we parked my wheelchair on the curb and dug into the box to retrieve our sodas and cookies. After we finished them,
"Uh-oh," I said, "I have to use the bathroom."
"Do you think you can make it to our friend's house?" my brother asked.
"I don't know," I said, standing up. I could feel the pressure on my bladder and I knew that I'd have to go soon.
"Maybe you can knock on the neighbor's door," my sister pointed at the house in front of us.
I wasn't too keen on the idea, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I ran ahead of my siblings to the front door and knocked. My tiny hands were never good at making noise and I was too short to reach the doorbell. Luckily, my brother ran up behind me, leaving our sister in the driveway with my wheelchair. He rang the doorbell. Still, no answer.
"Let's try another house," my brother suggested.
We ran next door, our sister pushing the wheelchair behind us. Again we rang and knocked, but there was still no response.
"I don't think anyone is home anywhere," I said, noting the next three empty drive-ways. I felt a little ridiculous knocking on so many doors.
"Get in your wheelchair and I'll push you," my brother said.
"What about our stuff?" I asked.
"Can you carry it?" he asked our sister.
"No," she said.
"Wait here with it then," he told her.
"Don't leave me here!" my sister insisted.
"We can't leave her by herself," I told my brother. I thought for a moment. "Let's hide the box in the neighbor's bush then come back and get it."
Our friend lived just one street over from where we were. My brother took the box and hid it in the bushes in front of the neighbor's window. I got in my wheelchair and he pushed me as swiftly as he could, with our sister running behind us. We made it to our friend's house just in time.
"Where is your stuff?" our friend asked.
"We had to hide it so it wouldn't get stolen," my brother said. "You girls stay and we'll go get it. Can I borrow your wheelchair, sis?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said.
It took awhile, but when they returned, my brother and our friend were laughing hysterically.
"What happened?" I asked them eagerly.
"When we went to get the stuff, there was a car in the driveway," my brother said. "I thought we'd get in trouble sneaking up to their window."
"So I got in your wheelchair and your brother pushed me up to the front door," our friend said. "He rang the bell and told the lady who answered that someone took my toys and we thought they hid them in her yard. She obviously felt sorry for me, because of the wheelchair, so she let us 'look' and we 'found' them!"
The both started laughing again. My sister and I joined in.
"You're lucky," our friend said to me, when we'd calm down. "If I were in a wheelchair, I'd never get in trouble."
My siblings and I looked at each other, and started laughing even harder.
One day my siblings and I decided to go around the block to a friend's house. As always, I pushed the supplies (a box full of video games, barbie dolls and snacks) in my wheelchair, while my brother and sister walked behind and beside me.
"Guys, I need to sit down," I said to my siblings.
The walks around the neighborhood often wore me out, so we parked my wheelchair on the curb and dug into the box to retrieve our sodas and cookies. After we finished them,
"Uh-oh," I said, "I have to use the bathroom."
"Do you think you can make it to our friend's house?" my brother asked.
"I don't know," I said, standing up. I could feel the pressure on my bladder and I knew that I'd have to go soon.
"Maybe you can knock on the neighbor's door," my sister pointed at the house in front of us.
I wasn't too keen on the idea, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I ran ahead of my siblings to the front door and knocked. My tiny hands were never good at making noise and I was too short to reach the doorbell. Luckily, my brother ran up behind me, leaving our sister in the driveway with my wheelchair. He rang the doorbell. Still, no answer.
"Let's try another house," my brother suggested.
We ran next door, our sister pushing the wheelchair behind us. Again we rang and knocked, but there was still no response.
"I don't think anyone is home anywhere," I said, noting the next three empty drive-ways. I felt a little ridiculous knocking on so many doors.
"Get in your wheelchair and I'll push you," my brother said.
"What about our stuff?" I asked.
"Can you carry it?" he asked our sister.
"No," she said.
"Wait here with it then," he told her.
"Don't leave me here!" my sister insisted.
"We can't leave her by herself," I told my brother. I thought for a moment. "Let's hide the box in the neighbor's bush then come back and get it."
Our friend lived just one street over from where we were. My brother took the box and hid it in the bushes in front of the neighbor's window. I got in my wheelchair and he pushed me as swiftly as he could, with our sister running behind us. We made it to our friend's house just in time.
"Where is your stuff?" our friend asked.
"We had to hide it so it wouldn't get stolen," my brother said. "You girls stay and we'll go get it. Can I borrow your wheelchair, sis?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said.
It took awhile, but when they returned, my brother and our friend were laughing hysterically.
"What happened?" I asked them eagerly.
"When we went to get the stuff, there was a car in the driveway," my brother said. "I thought we'd get in trouble sneaking up to their window."
"So I got in your wheelchair and your brother pushed me up to the front door," our friend said. "He rang the bell and told the lady who answered that someone took my toys and we thought they hid them in her yard. She obviously felt sorry for me, because of the wheelchair, so she let us 'look' and we 'found' them!"
The both started laughing again. My sister and I joined in.
"You're lucky," our friend said to me, when we'd calm down. "If I were in a wheelchair, I'd never get in trouble."
My siblings and I looked at each other, and started laughing even harder.
Monday, September 21, 2015
Wheeling My Way To Disney World
I've only ever participated in one school fundraiser. When I was fifteen, my choir teacher announced that we were going to raise money to go to Disney World the next year. The teacher planned three community ticketed events, including a bake sale, but first she said we'd have a catalogue fundraiser. I was so excited, because I'd always wanted to go to Disney World. It was a dream come true for me and the other girls in my class.
"We are also having a contest and the one who raises enough money at the end of the year will win free passes to Six Flags," our teacher announced.
I took the fundraising packet home that evening and sat at the table looking through the catalogue. My sister looked with me.
"How are you going to raise enough money to go to Disney World?" she asked.
"If the class sells enough items to meet half of the cost, the school is going to pay the other half," I told her. "And, if I make enough sales on my own, I'll win free passes to Six Flags."
"Can I go?" my sister asked.
"I dunno about Disney World, but if you help me sell this stuff I'll definitely take you to San Antonio," I told her.
"Okay," she agreed.
The next morning, with my electric wheelchair fully charged, my sister and I set out to make the sales. My sister stood on the back of the wheelchair while I drove us around the neighborhood. Our first stop was at the home of an older woman who lived across the street a few houses adjacent to us.
We often saw her in the yard working on her flower bed and we always said hello. I figured that she would be open to buying some of the decorative trinkets in the catalogue. I'd never sold anything before and didn't know anything about having a good sales pitch. I was in for an interesting lesson.
"Good morning ma'am," I said when she answered the door.
"Hello girls," the lady beamed.
"I'm selling stuff to raise money at school," I said as polite as pudding, "would you like to buy anything?"
"Oh what are you raising money for?" she asked.
"She's going to Disney World with her class," my sister answered for me.
"How exciting," the lady replied. "I'm in the middle of baking. Will you come in and I'll look at the catalogue." she said.
I could smell the evidence of baking cookies wafting toward us, so I motioned to my sister and we entered. The woman had a beautiful home with plush furniture and shelves full of trinkets - mostly ceramic cats. We sat in the bright, sunlit dining room at a wooden table with a white lace table cloth.
"I was baking these for my grandkids. They'll be here later today, but you girls can have a couple," she offered.
"Thank you," we said, and she put a few on a small plate.
I pulled the catalogue from my backpack and sat it on the table. The woman sat down and began thumbing through the pages while my sister and I nibbled on the warm cookies.
"My granddaughter had one of these last year," the lady said to me. "I got some really nice scented candles," she motioned to the bar that had a few mason jars with candles in them.
We spent the next four hours at her house listening to stories of her grandkids, her life in Germany and her love of cats. Gratefully, she bought five items and invited us to stop by again. By the time we left, it was well into the afternoon.
"Wow," I said to my sister as we headed down the street, "she was a sweet lady, but we have to be careful. No more going into people's homes. We'll never get anything sold if we sit around listening to everyone's life story."
The rest of the day, my sister and I went around the neighborhood knocking on doors and hoping that nobody else would ask us to come in. Fortunately they didn't, but unfortunately not many people were as kind as the old woman had been. There were a few that said no almost as soon as we made our pitch and one even yelled at us in spanish before shutting the door in our faces.
"How many sales have we made today?" I asked my sister, as evening approached.
"Twelve," she replied, checking the list.
"Ready to do this again tomorrow?" I asked.
"If it wasn't for your wheelchair, I'd say no," she laughed.
"Honestly, if it wasn't for my wheelchair I'd say no too. I feel bad for my classmates who are doing this on foot."
By the end of the weekend, we sold 42 items. I was sure I'd won the trip to San Antonio. However, when I got to class on Monday, I was shocked to discover that many of my classmates had sold well over forty-two products. Some had as many as 100 on their list.
"How did you sell that many? I went around the neighborhood in my wheelchair and it wore me out," I asked.
"I got my mom to take the catalogue to work and her co-workers bought most of it," one friend bragged.
"My grandma loves this kind of stuff and the ladies in her church group do too," another boasted.
I felt like a goober. I never thought to enlist my parent's help. We all turned in our packets. The rest of the semester was fun. I sang in a talent show where we collected raffle tickets and sold snacks. We held a Disney themed concert and sang at the local community center, where we were given donations for our trip. At the end of the semester our teacher presented one of my friends with the tickets to Six Flags.
"And great news ladies," she said, "we've reached our intended goal so that means..."
"WE'RE GOING TO DISNEY WORLD!" we all screamed with excitement.
My spirit soared. So what if I wasn't going to San Antonio. Our class would be singing for Mickey and I would finally visit the most magical place on earth. Nothing could take that away...
And then my family moved.
"We are also having a contest and the one who raises enough money at the end of the year will win free passes to Six Flags," our teacher announced.
I took the fundraising packet home that evening and sat at the table looking through the catalogue. My sister looked with me.
"How are you going to raise enough money to go to Disney World?" she asked.
"If the class sells enough items to meet half of the cost, the school is going to pay the other half," I told her. "And, if I make enough sales on my own, I'll win free passes to Six Flags."
"Can I go?" my sister asked.
"I dunno about Disney World, but if you help me sell this stuff I'll definitely take you to San Antonio," I told her.
"Okay," she agreed.
The next morning, with my electric wheelchair fully charged, my sister and I set out to make the sales. My sister stood on the back of the wheelchair while I drove us around the neighborhood. Our first stop was at the home of an older woman who lived across the street a few houses adjacent to us.
We often saw her in the yard working on her flower bed and we always said hello. I figured that she would be open to buying some of the decorative trinkets in the catalogue. I'd never sold anything before and didn't know anything about having a good sales pitch. I was in for an interesting lesson.
"Good morning ma'am," I said when she answered the door.
"Hello girls," the lady beamed.
"I'm selling stuff to raise money at school," I said as polite as pudding, "would you like to buy anything?"
"Oh what are you raising money for?" she asked.
"She's going to Disney World with her class," my sister answered for me.
"How exciting," the lady replied. "I'm in the middle of baking. Will you come in and I'll look at the catalogue." she said.
I could smell the evidence of baking cookies wafting toward us, so I motioned to my sister and we entered. The woman had a beautiful home with plush furniture and shelves full of trinkets - mostly ceramic cats. We sat in the bright, sunlit dining room at a wooden table with a white lace table cloth.
"I was baking these for my grandkids. They'll be here later today, but you girls can have a couple," she offered.
"Thank you," we said, and she put a few on a small plate.
I pulled the catalogue from my backpack and sat it on the table. The woman sat down and began thumbing through the pages while my sister and I nibbled on the warm cookies.
"My granddaughter had one of these last year," the lady said to me. "I got some really nice scented candles," she motioned to the bar that had a few mason jars with candles in them.
We spent the next four hours at her house listening to stories of her grandkids, her life in Germany and her love of cats. Gratefully, she bought five items and invited us to stop by again. By the time we left, it was well into the afternoon.
"Wow," I said to my sister as we headed down the street, "she was a sweet lady, but we have to be careful. No more going into people's homes. We'll never get anything sold if we sit around listening to everyone's life story."
The rest of the day, my sister and I went around the neighborhood knocking on doors and hoping that nobody else would ask us to come in. Fortunately they didn't, but unfortunately not many people were as kind as the old woman had been. There were a few that said no almost as soon as we made our pitch and one even yelled at us in spanish before shutting the door in our faces.
"How many sales have we made today?" I asked my sister, as evening approached.
"Twelve," she replied, checking the list.
"Ready to do this again tomorrow?" I asked.
"If it wasn't for your wheelchair, I'd say no," she laughed.
"Honestly, if it wasn't for my wheelchair I'd say no too. I feel bad for my classmates who are doing this on foot."
By the end of the weekend, we sold 42 items. I was sure I'd won the trip to San Antonio. However, when I got to class on Monday, I was shocked to discover that many of my classmates had sold well over forty-two products. Some had as many as 100 on their list.
"How did you sell that many? I went around the neighborhood in my wheelchair and it wore me out," I asked.
"I got my mom to take the catalogue to work and her co-workers bought most of it," one friend bragged.
"My grandma loves this kind of stuff and the ladies in her church group do too," another boasted.
I felt like a goober. I never thought to enlist my parent's help. We all turned in our packets. The rest of the semester was fun. I sang in a talent show where we collected raffle tickets and sold snacks. We held a Disney themed concert and sang at the local community center, where we were given donations for our trip. At the end of the semester our teacher presented one of my friends with the tickets to Six Flags.
"And great news ladies," she said, "we've reached our intended goal so that means..."
"WE'RE GOING TO DISNEY WORLD!" we all screamed with excitement.
My spirit soared. So what if I wasn't going to San Antonio. Our class would be singing for Mickey and I would finally visit the most magical place on earth. Nothing could take that away...
And then my family moved.
Friday, September 18, 2015
A Day Without Wheels
One day, when I was in the sixth grade, I forgot to charge my electric wheelchair and the battery died an hour after I got to school. Unlike my manual wheelchair, the electric one was bulky and hard to push.
"You're going to have to call your parents and tell them to bring your manual wheelchair," my teacher directed. She helped me park my wheelchair at the back of the classroom and gave me a hall pass.
This was my first time traversing the halls of my school without my wheelchair and I was nervous, but very excited. I walked carefully so as not to slip or trip, being ever so clumsy at home. My teacher told me not to run, but I had the urge to take off my shoes and sock skate across the smooth floor.
I looked up at the lockers and felt very small and fragile without the frame of my wheelchair around me. I imagined the bell ringing at any moment and that I would be stampeded by my fellow classmates.
I arrived at the front office and handed the secretary my note. She directed me to the phones and I dialed my dad's work number. A few moments later my dad was on the line.
"Daddy, my battery died. I need my manual wheelchair," I said.
"I'm not going to be able to leave work right now, do you think you can get through the day without it?" he asked.
"I dunno if I'm allowed," I admitted. At that moment the bell rang and I heard the hallways fill up with students heading to their next classes. I thought about my wheelchair in homeroom.
"Ask if I can speak to the principal," my dad said, and I asked the secretary. Soon the principal was on the phone with my father.
When they hung up, the principal said to me, "You're going to have to go through the rest of the day without your wheelchair, do you think you can handle it?"
"Yes," I said, but admittedly I was a little uneasy. Fortunately, so was the principal.
"To make sure you're safe, I'm going to have you wait here until the bell rings and the halls are clear."
After the second bell the principal had an office aid escort me to my next class with a note for my teacher. I gave my teacher the note and sat at the front of the class so I could see the board.
"Where is your wheelchair?" my friend asked.
"The battery died and I can't get my manual one, so I have to go without it," I answered.
"Why are you in a wheelchair if you can walk?" my friend inquired.
"I have brittle bones and if I fall and get hurt at school, the teachers could be in trouble," I replied.
About ten minutes before class ended my teacher let me leave early so I wouldn't be stuck in a crowded hallway. She allowed one of my friends to walk with me, because my backpack was too heavy for me to carry.
"Wow, I never realized how far it was between some of the classes," I told my friend as we walked.
By the time we reached my art class, the first bell rang. My teacher wrote my friend a pass so she wouldn't be counted as tardy. The tables in the art room were high. Normally I would park my electric wheelchair close to a stool and climb up on it, but I was not strong enough to climb from the floor. I didn't want anyone to pick me up, so my teacher allowed me to work on the floor in a corner of the classroom. I actually preferred sitting on the ground with so much space to myself.
When lunchtime came I was allowed to enter the cafeteria first with my friend. Since I wasn't strong enough to carry my own tray one of the cafeteria workers helped me through the line and to a table. The tables were not too high, but the stools were low and I had to sit on my knees to eat my food.
The rest of the day presented similar challenges - chairs were too low, desk were too high, I couldn't reach the sinks in the bathrooms and all of the walking was taking a toll on me. By the time I struggled up the steps of my afternoon bus, I was completely exhausted. At dinner my dad asked,
"Did you enjoy not having your wheelchair today?"
"Yeah," I said, "but having it does make getting around school a lot easier. How am I going to get my wheelchair back?"
"Take your charger to school tomorrow and just let it charge while you're in class," my dad said. "Think you'll remember to charge it from now on?" he asked.
"Yep!"
Two weeks later, I forgot.
"You're going to have to call your parents and tell them to bring your manual wheelchair," my teacher directed. She helped me park my wheelchair at the back of the classroom and gave me a hall pass.
This was my first time traversing the halls of my school without my wheelchair and I was nervous, but very excited. I walked carefully so as not to slip or trip, being ever so clumsy at home. My teacher told me not to run, but I had the urge to take off my shoes and sock skate across the smooth floor.
I looked up at the lockers and felt very small and fragile without the frame of my wheelchair around me. I imagined the bell ringing at any moment and that I would be stampeded by my fellow classmates.
I arrived at the front office and handed the secretary my note. She directed me to the phones and I dialed my dad's work number. A few moments later my dad was on the line.
"Daddy, my battery died. I need my manual wheelchair," I said.
"I'm not going to be able to leave work right now, do you think you can get through the day without it?" he asked.
"I dunno if I'm allowed," I admitted. At that moment the bell rang and I heard the hallways fill up with students heading to their next classes. I thought about my wheelchair in homeroom.
"Ask if I can speak to the principal," my dad said, and I asked the secretary. Soon the principal was on the phone with my father.
When they hung up, the principal said to me, "You're going to have to go through the rest of the day without your wheelchair, do you think you can handle it?"
"Yes," I said, but admittedly I was a little uneasy. Fortunately, so was the principal.
"To make sure you're safe, I'm going to have you wait here until the bell rings and the halls are clear."
After the second bell the principal had an office aid escort me to my next class with a note for my teacher. I gave my teacher the note and sat at the front of the class so I could see the board.
"Where is your wheelchair?" my friend asked.
"The battery died and I can't get my manual one, so I have to go without it," I answered.
"Why are you in a wheelchair if you can walk?" my friend inquired.
"I have brittle bones and if I fall and get hurt at school, the teachers could be in trouble," I replied.
About ten minutes before class ended my teacher let me leave early so I wouldn't be stuck in a crowded hallway. She allowed one of my friends to walk with me, because my backpack was too heavy for me to carry.
"Wow, I never realized how far it was between some of the classes," I told my friend as we walked.
By the time we reached my art class, the first bell rang. My teacher wrote my friend a pass so she wouldn't be counted as tardy. The tables in the art room were high. Normally I would park my electric wheelchair close to a stool and climb up on it, but I was not strong enough to climb from the floor. I didn't want anyone to pick me up, so my teacher allowed me to work on the floor in a corner of the classroom. I actually preferred sitting on the ground with so much space to myself.
When lunchtime came I was allowed to enter the cafeteria first with my friend. Since I wasn't strong enough to carry my own tray one of the cafeteria workers helped me through the line and to a table. The tables were not too high, but the stools were low and I had to sit on my knees to eat my food.
The rest of the day presented similar challenges - chairs were too low, desk were too high, I couldn't reach the sinks in the bathrooms and all of the walking was taking a toll on me. By the time I struggled up the steps of my afternoon bus, I was completely exhausted. At dinner my dad asked,
"Did you enjoy not having your wheelchair today?"
"Yeah," I said, "but having it does make getting around school a lot easier. How am I going to get my wheelchair back?"
"Take your charger to school tomorrow and just let it charge while you're in class," my dad said. "Think you'll remember to charge it from now on?" he asked.
"Yep!"
Two weeks later, I forgot.
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Wheelchair Wars
Late one night my fiancé, a couple of our friends and I were hanging out. It was getting late. We ate dinner, but we weren't ready to call it a night.
"What do you guys wanna do?" My fiancé asked us.
We were in the Walmart parking lot and I was wheeling myself around out of hyper energy.
"I read this funny article online the other day about pranks to get yourself kicked out of Walmart," I said.
"Oh come on, I spend enough time there during work," one of our friends moaned.
"Not much else is open besides bars and clubs and I really don't feel like going there," I said.
"Alright," they acquiesced, and we walked across the parking lot into the store.
Walmart is almost always full of shoppers. You can find a diverse group of people - once I met a group of monks. There is a man that works at one location whom I call Hagrid, because he resembles the great grounds keeper from the 'Harry Potter' books.
The store was not so crowded. I led my friends to the toy isle.
"What are we doing here?" my friend asked.
"We are having an epic battle," I said pulling out a red light saber. "But not just any battle, a hide and seek one! Everyone chose your sabers!"
My fiancé and friends selected their colors: Blue, green and red. I had my own red one.
"Now, the rules are: We split up and hide in different parts of the store. Give it two minutes and then start searching. When you run into someone, engage them in battle. Heart strikes and neck strikes are death marks. When you die, you must return to this area and put up your sword. Last person seeking is the winner."
We split up. I wheeled away to the towel section and hid behind some laundry baskets. I waited ten minutes, counting the seconds silently in my head. I was barely through, when I saw one of my friends coming around the corner. Immediately, I moved behind some rugs and sped off down the isle, my saber at my back.
Not too far away, I could hear the sound of sabers engage as two of my friends had found each other and were dueling to the death. It seemed the fight didn't last long,
"Oh man, no! I died" my friend shouted.
"To the post with you." the other said.
I tried to avoid being seen and somehow managed to slip behind them and down another isle. I wheeled as fast as I could. My fiancé was chasing one friend down the shoe isle. Another friend appeared, following their sounds. He would sneak up on the two of them and engage whoever won. I headed toward the clothes. I knew I could hide easily amongst the racks of shirts.
Suddenly, I heard my fiancé's shout of defeat and laughter as our friend won their battle. Now it was just me and my friend. He would be searching for me so I decided to avoid hiding and just seek him out. I left the clothes and headed to where I heard my fiancé had been. Just as I was slipping around the corner of the kitchen wares isle, I noticed my friend at the other end, so I turned thinking that he was coming down the next isle and I would sneak up on him. I wheeled slowly, to avoid any metal from clinking on my wheelchair.
Just as I reached the end of the isle, my friend came around the corner next to me and we were suddenly face to face in combat mode. The battle began. It was short but epic. We pitched our plastic sabers against each other as hard as we could and I was so into it that I shouted my defiance.
"Die, sith scum!"
"You're the one with the red saber," my friend shot back at me.
"Your friend stole mine so I had to take this off the body of a dead Sith," I improvised.
"Admit it, you've embraced the dark side," my friend said.
"Never!" I shouted.
It was hard to maneuver my wheelchair while I fought, but fortunately I was able to use the tires to buffer a few of my friend's blows. Just as I thought I might win, my friend and I made the same motion and our light sabers struck each other in the neck at the same time!
"Wow, I can't believe we both did that." I laughed.
"So what, it's a tie?" my friend asked.
"I guess so," I smiled.
We went back to where our other friends and my fiancé waited.
"Looks like a draw," I said. "We killed one another at the same time, by striking each other in the neck," we all laughed.
"Well that was fun," I said, "but we didn't get kicked out."
"I don't think anyone really cared." my fiancé said looking around.
"No, I guess not," I said. "But it was a lot of fun and will make for a great story."
"We are having an epic battle," I said pulling out a red light saber. "But not just any battle, a hide and seek one! Everyone chose your sabers!"
My fiancé and friends selected their colors: Blue, green and red. I had my own red one.
"Now, the rules are: We split up and hide in different parts of the store. Give it two minutes and then start searching. When you run into someone, engage them in battle. Heart strikes and neck strikes are death marks. When you die, you must return to this area and put up your sword. Last person seeking is the winner."
We split up. I wheeled away to the towel section and hid behind some laundry baskets. I waited ten minutes, counting the seconds silently in my head. I was barely through, when I saw one of my friends coming around the corner. Immediately, I moved behind some rugs and sped off down the isle, my saber at my back.
Not too far away, I could hear the sound of sabers engage as two of my friends had found each other and were dueling to the death. It seemed the fight didn't last long,
"Oh man, no! I died" my friend shouted.
"To the post with you." the other said.
I tried to avoid being seen and somehow managed to slip behind them and down another isle. I wheeled as fast as I could. My fiancé was chasing one friend down the shoe isle. Another friend appeared, following their sounds. He would sneak up on the two of them and engage whoever won. I headed toward the clothes. I knew I could hide easily amongst the racks of shirts.
Suddenly, I heard my fiancé's shout of defeat and laughter as our friend won their battle. Now it was just me and my friend. He would be searching for me so I decided to avoid hiding and just seek him out. I left the clothes and headed to where I heard my fiancé had been. Just as I was slipping around the corner of the kitchen wares isle, I noticed my friend at the other end, so I turned thinking that he was coming down the next isle and I would sneak up on him. I wheeled slowly, to avoid any metal from clinking on my wheelchair.
Just as I reached the end of the isle, my friend came around the corner next to me and we were suddenly face to face in combat mode. The battle began. It was short but epic. We pitched our plastic sabers against each other as hard as we could and I was so into it that I shouted my defiance.
"Die, sith scum!"
"You're the one with the red saber," my friend shot back at me.
"Your friend stole mine so I had to take this off the body of a dead Sith," I improvised.
"Admit it, you've embraced the dark side," my friend said.
"Never!" I shouted.
It was hard to maneuver my wheelchair while I fought, but fortunately I was able to use the tires to buffer a few of my friend's blows. Just as I thought I might win, my friend and I made the same motion and our light sabers struck each other in the neck at the same time!
"Wow, I can't believe we both did that." I laughed.
"So what, it's a tie?" my friend asked.
"I guess so," I smiled.
We went back to where our other friends and my fiancé waited.
"Looks like a draw," I said. "We killed one another at the same time, by striking each other in the neck," we all laughed.
"Well that was fun," I said, "but we didn't get kicked out."
"I don't think anyone really cared." my fiancé said looking around.
"No, I guess not," I said. "But it was a lot of fun and will make for a great story."
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
Wheelchair Water World
When I was fourteen, my choir class took a trip to San Antonio for our spring concert. I had to take my manual wheelchair, because the electric one was too heavy for my teacher to handle and we couldn't get a handicapped bus in time. After the concert our teacher took us to an amusement park which was next to a water park. My friends and I roamed the park and I watched as they rode the rides. I was too short to ride anything, so I shopped for souviners instead.
"Okay girls, we have been given free passes to water world," my teacher announced, while we were eating lunch.
Everyone cheered, except me. I was tired from pushing myself around the amusement park and just about ready to call it a day. However, I didn't say anything, but I was fortunate enough to have a very thoughtful teacher.
"I know you've got to be tired," my teacher said to me as we finished up our lunch.
"It's okay," I said. "I may just find a wade pool and stay there."
I wanted to go on the water slides, but I didn't feel like pushing myself much further around the park. My teacher got up and went to the ticket booths. A few minutes later she called to me and three of my friends who had taken turns pushing me when I got tired.
"Girls, the director is sending over a couple of life guards to give you a ride around the park, that way you don't have to keep pushing your wheelchair all day," the teacher said to us.
"Awesome!" we cheered.
A few moments later, a trolly arrived and I could hear my friends take a collective gasp as two really gorgeous guys stepped down and stood in front of us.
"Hello ladies," The one with red shorts and shoulder length brown hair said.
"Looks like you get the royal treatment, hot escorts and all," one of my classmates said loud enough for the guys to hear. I pretended like I didn't.
"Let's get you girls loaded up, so you can all get wet," the other, a blonde with sun glasses that never came off, said with a smirk.
The guys were cute, but there was something about them that felt off to me. Politely, though, I accepted their assistance and they loaded my wheelchair onto the trolly. They drove us to two parts of the park. I rode on three water slides, one was the second largest in the park. As we rode with our guides to the other side of the park, I sat on the trolly seat so as not to get my wheelchair wet. My friends were shamelessly flirting with the guys, and even though they were obviously way too old for us, they flirted back.
"Wanna sit in my lap?" The blonde asked me. "I promise I won't let you fall off."
"Um, no, I don't - thanks," I said, trying not to sound rude, but feeling really uncomfortable.
My friends however, seemed totally at ease. I tried not to listen to their coy chatter, but then...
"We go on break in ten minutes if you girls just want to come hang out with us. There is a mexican joint at the end of the park that doesn't card -- not that you look young," the blonde guy grinned at me, "We could drink some margaritas -- we'll have you back in half an hour."
"NO," I shrieked at them, and everyone jumped in surprise.
"Oh, come on," one of my friends pleaded, "Let's have some fun."
I think that being in a wheelchair and not having control over a lot of aspects in my life has pushed me to be as stubborn and steadfast over the decisions I do get to make. Therefore peer pressure was never a big issue for me.
"We don't know these guys and haven't you watched enough Lifetime television to know how something like this plays out?" I scolded my friends, not caring if the guys heard me.
"But this isn't TV babe, and we work here. Come on, I promise we're not bad guys," blonde guy tried to make his tone sincere, but he was almost laughing. I glared at him and his friend grinned.
"I think that's a, 'no' dude," he chuckled.
"You don't have to come. We can let you stay and..." one of my friends started, but I cut her off.
"NONE of us are going with them and if any of you try to sneak off, I am telling," I shouted at my friends, then rounding on the two guys, "And I swear to God I'll fight you if you try to abduct us. In fact, we are getting off NOW." I insisted. I started to go into panic mode.
"Uh, we don't know how to get out of the park and it's gonna be a long walk," my friend whispered to me.
"Well I don't trust these guys to take us back, and I plan on reporting them when we return," I fumed.
"Look, we're sorry. We really were just trying to be friendly. It was inappropriate," blonde guy finally seemed to realize that I wasn't joking around, and both of them got serious. "We'll give you girls a ride back," they said.
I felt a sudden guilt about the situation. Had I misunderstood? I wasn't used to being flirted with, but I always trust my instincts, because so far they hadn't let me down. I accepted their offer for a ride back. When we got to the front, the guys let us off and helped me back into my chair.
"I really am sorry," the blonde guy said. "I didn't mean to scare you," he turned to my friends. "You've got a really good friend here. Listen to her," he said.
"Thanks for bringing us back," I said to him.
"Anytime, your highness," He reached his hand out and I shook it.
"Okay girls, we have been given free passes to water world," my teacher announced, while we were eating lunch.
Everyone cheered, except me. I was tired from pushing myself around the amusement park and just about ready to call it a day. However, I didn't say anything, but I was fortunate enough to have a very thoughtful teacher.
"I know you've got to be tired," my teacher said to me as we finished up our lunch.
"It's okay," I said. "I may just find a wade pool and stay there."
I wanted to go on the water slides, but I didn't feel like pushing myself much further around the park. My teacher got up and went to the ticket booths. A few minutes later she called to me and three of my friends who had taken turns pushing me when I got tired.
"Girls, the director is sending over a couple of life guards to give you a ride around the park, that way you don't have to keep pushing your wheelchair all day," the teacher said to us.
"Awesome!" we cheered.
A few moments later, a trolly arrived and I could hear my friends take a collective gasp as two really gorgeous guys stepped down and stood in front of us.
"Hello ladies," The one with red shorts and shoulder length brown hair said.
"Looks like you get the royal treatment, hot escorts and all," one of my classmates said loud enough for the guys to hear. I pretended like I didn't.
"Let's get you girls loaded up, so you can all get wet," the other, a blonde with sun glasses that never came off, said with a smirk.
The guys were cute, but there was something about them that felt off to me. Politely, though, I accepted their assistance and they loaded my wheelchair onto the trolly. They drove us to two parts of the park. I rode on three water slides, one was the second largest in the park. As we rode with our guides to the other side of the park, I sat on the trolly seat so as not to get my wheelchair wet. My friends were shamelessly flirting with the guys, and even though they were obviously way too old for us, they flirted back.
"Wanna sit in my lap?" The blonde asked me. "I promise I won't let you fall off."
"Um, no, I don't - thanks," I said, trying not to sound rude, but feeling really uncomfortable.
My friends however, seemed totally at ease. I tried not to listen to their coy chatter, but then...
"We go on break in ten minutes if you girls just want to come hang out with us. There is a mexican joint at the end of the park that doesn't card -- not that you look young," the blonde guy grinned at me, "We could drink some margaritas -- we'll have you back in half an hour."
"NO," I shrieked at them, and everyone jumped in surprise.
"Oh, come on," one of my friends pleaded, "Let's have some fun."
I think that being in a wheelchair and not having control over a lot of aspects in my life has pushed me to be as stubborn and steadfast over the decisions I do get to make. Therefore peer pressure was never a big issue for me.
"We don't know these guys and haven't you watched enough Lifetime television to know how something like this plays out?" I scolded my friends, not caring if the guys heard me.
"But this isn't TV babe, and we work here. Come on, I promise we're not bad guys," blonde guy tried to make his tone sincere, but he was almost laughing. I glared at him and his friend grinned.
"I think that's a, 'no' dude," he chuckled.
"You don't have to come. We can let you stay and..." one of my friends started, but I cut her off.
"NONE of us are going with them and if any of you try to sneak off, I am telling," I shouted at my friends, then rounding on the two guys, "And I swear to God I'll fight you if you try to abduct us. In fact, we are getting off NOW." I insisted. I started to go into panic mode.
"Uh, we don't know how to get out of the park and it's gonna be a long walk," my friend whispered to me.
"Well I don't trust these guys to take us back, and I plan on reporting them when we return," I fumed.
"Look, we're sorry. We really were just trying to be friendly. It was inappropriate," blonde guy finally seemed to realize that I wasn't joking around, and both of them got serious. "We'll give you girls a ride back," they said.
I felt a sudden guilt about the situation. Had I misunderstood? I wasn't used to being flirted with, but I always trust my instincts, because so far they hadn't let me down. I accepted their offer for a ride back. When we got to the front, the guys let us off and helped me back into my chair.
"I really am sorry," the blonde guy said. "I didn't mean to scare you," he turned to my friends. "You've got a really good friend here. Listen to her," he said.
"Thanks for bringing us back," I said to him.
"Anytime, your highness," He reached his hand out and I shook it.
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
Working At The Wheelchair Wash
Wheelchairs should have their own washing services.
I was eating breakfast one saturday morning and looking at a car magazine. At sixteen I was already dreaming about having my own vehicle. I knew it would have to be a van to accommodate my wheelchair.
"Dad, when am I getting a car?" I asked, flipping through the pages of the magazine.
"When you get your license," he answered, "but I'll tell you one thing, if you treat a car the way you treat your wheelchair you won't have it very long."
"What does that mean?" I frowned.
"It means you better be more cautious when you drive, don't let it run on empty and keep it clean. Just look at your wheelchair. I don't think you've ever washed it. You need to do that this afternoon," he said.
Later, I took my wheelchair outside. I got a bucket of soapy water, a sponge and set to work. I intended to make my purple wheelchair look as shiny as a new car. I scrubbed hard and for what felt like an hour, giving it a good twice over. However, for all of the effort, my wheelchair seemed just as dirty as when I started. My sister offered to help.
"Maybe you should use some kind of cleaner," she suggested after trying to scrub some of the dirt off.
I went to the kitchen and looked under the sink where the cleaning products were kept. There was wood furniture polish, glass cleaner, tile scrub, sink and toilet cleanser and oven cleaner.
"Do you think oven cleaner would work?" I asked my sister.
"Seems closer to the stuff the wheelchair's frame is made of," she replied.
"Yeah, I was thinking that too." I grabbed the oven cleaner, two rags and went back out to where my soapy wheelchair was drip drying.
I skimmed the directions on the back of the can.
"It says to let it sit for about thirty minutes before wiping off," I said. "Since this is a wheelchair, not an oven, I'm just gonna give it ten, then scrub and rinse."
I only sprayed the white foam on the wheelchair's frame. The tires, I'd cleaned successfully with the soapy water. After ten minutes, my sister and I began scrubbing the foam from the frame.
"Oh my god, stop-stop-stop!" I shouted.
"Uh-oh," my sister said at almost the same time.
"Quick, we gotta wash this off," I said, grabbing the hose. My sister turned it on and I sprayed the frame clean of foam.
"Well that was a bad idea," I sighed, examining my wheelchair.
The oven cleaner worked a little too well. It removed the dirt, but it also stripped much of the purple paint off, particularly where my sister and I scrubbed. I couldn't hope that my dad wouldn't notice so when he came home later I told him what I'd done. He shook his head and laughed in disbelief.
"It's a good thing for your future car that you can take it to a carwash."
Thursday, August 20, 2015
A Different Set Of Wheels
One day I was watching my brother work on his bike. He was changing the tires and as he took the old ones off I began to muse about my wheelchair's tires. The wheels of my chair never needed to be changed, because they weren't inflated. At the time I didn't know how they always stayed intact, but I'd never really thought about it before.
"Suppose those bike tires would work for my wheelchair?" I wondered aloud.
"Maybe," he answered, looking up. "Wanna try it?"
"Sure," I said.
My brother stopped what he as doing and came over to examine my wheelchair.
"Get up and let me see if I can put my tires on it," he instructed.
I got out of my wheelchair and sat on the grass. He set to work. First, he took the tires off of my wheelchair and examined them.
"Are you going to try and put them on your bike?" I asked.
"Can't," he answered. "It doesn't have an opening for a pin that will go all the way through." He showed me the covered clip.
"So then the bike tires won't work?" I queried.
"I might can get them to," my brother responded. In other words, challenged accepted.
My brother laid the wheelchair on it's side. He put a pin in and placed the tire on. After the pin was through, he secured each side with a lug nut. He lay the wheelchair on it's other side and repeated the process. When he was done he stood the wheelchair upright. It was a weird sight. The wheelchair looked taller, but somehow more impractical...
"Something is wrong, it's missing..."
"Hand rails." My brother finished my thought. "Yeah, you'd have to push these tires," he smirked.
I'd only recently learned how to use the handrails on my manual wheelchair. When I first got my wheelchair, my arms were too short and I couldn't reach the rails. Two years later my arms were finally long enough, but my parents had a difficult time getting me to stop pushing the wheelchair using my 'dirty' tires.
"Can I sit in it now?" I asked my brother.
"Let me test it first," he said, ever the protector.
My brother got into the wheelchair and immediately we both realized how unstable it was. He tried to push himself forward, but the lug nut and pin slipped on the right tire, which fell off. My brother jumped up before the wheelchair could take him down with it.
"Well that was a bust," he said, annoyed. He put my wheelchair tires back on and I got in it.
"Sorry it didn't work," he said. "At least you'll never have a flat." He set back to working on his bike.
"I wonder why that is." I mused.
"I'm not answering that question." My brother replied, not looking up from his work.
"Suppose those bike tires would work for my wheelchair?" I wondered aloud.
"Maybe," he answered, looking up. "Wanna try it?"
"Sure," I said.
My brother stopped what he as doing and came over to examine my wheelchair.
"Get up and let me see if I can put my tires on it," he instructed.
I got out of my wheelchair and sat on the grass. He set to work. First, he took the tires off of my wheelchair and examined them.
"Are you going to try and put them on your bike?" I asked.
"Can't," he answered. "It doesn't have an opening for a pin that will go all the way through." He showed me the covered clip.
"So then the bike tires won't work?" I queried.
"I might can get them to," my brother responded. In other words, challenged accepted.
My brother laid the wheelchair on it's side. He put a pin in and placed the tire on. After the pin was through, he secured each side with a lug nut. He lay the wheelchair on it's other side and repeated the process. When he was done he stood the wheelchair upright. It was a weird sight. The wheelchair looked taller, but somehow more impractical...
"Something is wrong, it's missing..."
"Hand rails." My brother finished my thought. "Yeah, you'd have to push these tires," he smirked.
I'd only recently learned how to use the handrails on my manual wheelchair. When I first got my wheelchair, my arms were too short and I couldn't reach the rails. Two years later my arms were finally long enough, but my parents had a difficult time getting me to stop pushing the wheelchair using my 'dirty' tires.
"Can I sit in it now?" I asked my brother.
"Let me test it first," he said, ever the protector.
My brother got into the wheelchair and immediately we both realized how unstable it was. He tried to push himself forward, but the lug nut and pin slipped on the right tire, which fell off. My brother jumped up before the wheelchair could take him down with it.
"Well that was a bust," he said, annoyed. He put my wheelchair tires back on and I got in it.
"Sorry it didn't work," he said. "At least you'll never have a flat." He set back to working on his bike.
"I wonder why that is." I mused.
"I'm not answering that question." My brother replied, not looking up from his work.
Saturday, August 15, 2015
Beached Wheelchair
The first time I went to the beach I learned that sand is the bane of a wheelchair person's attempts to have fun. When I was thirteen I went with my church on a teen girl's retreat. We went to our local beach and stayed in a condo for the weekend. The next morning my friends and I got up, put on our swimsuits and headed down to the beach. There was a ramp path that led down to the sand bar, but as soon as it ended...
"Uh-oh, I don't think your wheelchair is going to move through this sand," my friend said, as she attempted to push me.
"Try turning the wheelchair around and pulling it backwards," I suggested. No luck.
It was still quite a walk to get out to where the water was. I was barely able to walk at the time, but I got tired easily and my back hurt more as my scoliosis was still progressing.
"I have an idea," one of my friends said, and unfolded her towel. "Get on and I'll drag you to the water and that will make your wheelchair lighter to bring along."
I sat on the towel. We put our other supplies in the seat of my wheelchair and my friends drug me to the beach, with one of them pulling my wheelchair behind us. We got close to the water. I got off of the towel and we spread it out next to the wheelchair. I took our supplies out of my chair and set it on the towel. My friends went into the water.
"Need help?" one of them asked, upon seeing me pull my wheelchair closer to the water's edge.
"No thanks, I'm just gonna stay up here and get my feet wet," I smiled.
I never intended to get into the water. I knew from school, movies and just by seeing, that the current and waves were too strong for my fragile body to endure. I still wanted to feel the spray and the cold biting at my toes, so I parked myself where I thought the incoming tide was lowest and enjoyed watching my friends play as the water came rushing up and splashed against my feet, then receded back into the ocean.
It was so peaceful and exciting all at the same time. The day was bright and sunny; hot, but with the strong breeze and the salty waves splashing against my feet, the weather was perfect. I loved watching the waves roll in and catch my friends off guard. They'd all lamented about not having surfboards, but our youth leader was too concerned with safety. I listened to seagulls and saw a few of them flying high over us.
The sound of the ocean and the birds reminded me that I also wanted to collect seashells. I was particularly eager to find a conch-shell; I wondered if I really would be able to hear the ocean long after we'd left. I got out of my wheelchair and sat beside it. I began digging in the sand. I found lots of cockles and coquinas, a few ladder horn snails and what I thought was part of a sand dollar. I had a couple of moon snail shells and was working on getting what I hoped would be an oyster, when I heard one of my friends screaming at me.
"Get back! Get back!"
I looked up just in time to see a huge wave barrel toward me. I say huge, but it probably wasn't taller than if I'd been standing. Still, it could have been ten feet tall for all of the force that came with it. I tried to back up, but bumped into my wheelchair. The wave hit me first, knocking me back hard. I narrowly missed hitting my head on the wheelchair's frame.
Instead, I went under the wheelchair. I felt the pull of the tide and was helpless as it quickly drug me and the wheelchair back with it into the ocean. Another reason I had decided not to get into the water was my inability to swim. No matter how hard I'd tried to learn in a calm pool, I was as buoyant as a rock. Now I was being drug along the bottom of the tide. I could feel my arms and legs scrape against the sand and rocks. Small seashells and other plants tore into my skin as the current pulled me along. I had no sense of where I was or what was happening.
At one point, I saw my wheelchair tire and I tried desperately to grab it, but it was yanked out of my reach and I did the last thing I could think of and reached up. I thought the current responded somehow and pulled me toward the surface. I felt myself being drug out of the water against the will of the tide. My head was spinning. When I was able to focus, my friends were kneeling over me, my wheelchair beside them.
"Are you okay?" they asked, concerned. "You could have died."
Then one of them said, "Did your life flash before your eyes?"
"Were there choirs of angels?"
"Did you see God?" another asked.
They looked at me expectantly to which I replied,
"No, I only saw my wheelchair."
"Were there choirs of angels?"
"Did you see God?" another asked.
They looked at me expectantly to which I replied,
"No, I only saw my wheelchair."
Thursday, August 13, 2015
Wheelchair Physical Education 101
The most pointless required school subject for a girl like me, brittle and in a wheelchair, is gym class. I never understood why my high school would not allow me to substitute it with study hall or another elective.
For the first half of class, we engaged in warmup stretches, push-ups and (for those not in a wheelchair) jumping jacks. The rest of the time, the coach let us chose what activities to do. Some played basketball, volleyball or tennis while others, like me, tried to avoid participating altogether. It seemed like I was the one most targeted for my lack of enthusiastic involvement.
"Get off the floor and go change into your uniform!" the coach ordered me for the second time.
I was laying in the middle of the gym with my wheelchair parked beside me. We just completed our morning stretches. Everyone else had changed into their required uniforms: a grey t-shirt and black shorts. It was September and sixty-five degrees inside the gym. I was not inclined to change out of my jeans.
I pulled the hood of my jacket off of my face and got into my wheelchair. Maybe I could hide in the locker room for a bit. I turned the electric wheelchair on. I forgot to plug it in the night before and now it was at half charge. Hopefully it would last the rest of the day.
I went to the locker room and retrieved my uniform. I wanted to bail again. I'd skipped class twice last week and the coach threatened detention if it continued. I went to the principal and begged to be taken out of the class. He spoke to the superintendent, but rules are rules so I was stuck. I wanted to rebel, so instead of changing out of my clothes, I put the shorts and shirt, that were too large for me anyway, over my jeans and sweater.
When I re-entered the gym. The coach glared at me, but didn't comment. I smiled. I was about to park myself in a corner of the room and pull out my sketchbook, when she blew the whistle. I followed my other classmates toward her.
"I've noticed that the last half of class many of you are not participating in free period exercise (she looked directly at me), so we're going to spend every day for the last ten minutes running," she announced.
Everyone moaned, except me.
Of course I couldn't participate in running. Did she really think it was punishing me? As everyone lined up to run, I hung back.
"Please get in line," the coach ordered.
I looked at her in shock.
"I can't do this," I said.
"Yes, you can." She replied. "You can go around with everyone else and encourage them to keep moving. You can't just do nothing in this class and expect me to pass you."
I glared at her.
"My wheelchair battery is almost dead. You're going to make me run it down and then how am I going to get around?"
"Going around once or twice isn't going to kill your battery," the coach retorted.
I was livid. I felt that this was a personal attack so I did the only thing I could think of at the time...
Turned my wheelchair to full speed and left the class!
Three minutes later, I found myself crying in the counselor's office.
"The coach wants me to run my battery down, because I won't follow her stupid, pointless rules!" I cried.
The counselor was a really kind woman who often allowed me to spend time in her office whenever I was having a bad day (usually around gym class). The heightened tension between my gym coach and I was a point of concern for the counselor.
"Have you tried having a conversation with her after class, rather than giving her attitude?" the counselor asked. "Everything you've told me this week has started with your not displaying a proper attitude."
I thought about it for a moment. She was right, It wasn't the coach's fault that I had to take gym, but I did take it out on her. After class I went to the gym, to the coach's office.
"I'm sorry I left class again, but I don't understand why I have to take gym," I said in a shaky voice.
"You know, you can participate in this class. I have seen you get in and out of that wheelchair, you are not 100% incapable," she said.
"I know," I lowered my head, "but I am brittle and I can't play sports with the others and I can't run my battery down going around the gym ten times," I insisted.
"You don't have to play sports to participate. I'll bring you some small arm weights and you can lift those. As for walking around the gym - once or twice isn't going to kill your battery. You need to charge it up, but if it really is about to die, then tell me. Don't just run out of here. I will write you up if you do it again." she warned.
"Yes ma'am," I replied.
After that day things got better, although I did get scolded for allowing students to take turns riding on the back of my wheelchair during the ten minute runs. Gym isn't pointless for people in wheelchairs, you just have to find your own way of participating.
Tuesday, August 11, 2015
Little Wheeled Angel
My first grade christmas pageant was preformed by our choir class. Because the class only had 16 students, the teacher combined us with the second graders.
"Alright children, we are going to assign parts in the play. Who wants to be a reindeer?" Everyone raised their hand, including me. The teacher smiled.
"I'm glad you all want to volunteer. We only need eight deer, but don't worry, there are other roles," she said when a couple of kids started to fuss.
The teacher selected eight of my classmates. I put my hand down. She promised there would be other parts, so at first I wasn't disappointed.
"Now we need elves," the teacher called. I quickly raised my hand again. I was small, so surely I would get picked this time, but the teacher selected three other children.
I put my hand down, frowning. As the teacher announced other roles and other children were chosen, my anxiety grew. It seemed as though she overlooked me on purpose. But then...
"I need five volunteers to ride the christmas train," she said.
Everyone's hand shot up, including the children who had already received their roles. I stood on the seat of my wheelchair with my arm held high. We'd recently read, 'The Polar Express' in class, and the idea of leading the christmas train filled me with excitement. I could imagine my wheelchair being pushed in front of the procession of kids, while I blew the whistle to signal the train's arrival.
"Please don't stand on your wheelchair," the teacher reprimanded me, and I sat down.
Finally, the teacher chose the last of my classmates, leaving me in complete shock. Tears began pouring down my face. My friend sitting next to me raised her hand.
"She is crying," my friend tattled to the teacher.
"No I'm not," I said angrily, wiping my face.
"Is it because you didn't get a part in the play?" my friend asked, for the whole class to hear.
"Shut up!" I shouted at her.
"Please don't tell people to 'shut up,'" the teacher said, "and yes I do have a part for you, but you need to see me after class," the teacher instructed.
Immediately, I perked up. There was a part for me after all. I began to wonder what it could be. After class, I eagerly wheeled over to the teacher.
"How would you like to be the christmas angel?" The teacher asked.
The lead role! I could hardly believe it.
"What does she do?" I asked.
"She sings a song and afterward, places a star on top of the christmas tree. Of course we will have to get someone to lift you up for that. Would you be comfortable if the principal picked you up?"
"Yes!" I said. "What about my wheelchair?" I asked.
"What do you mean?" my teacher inquired.
"Angels don't have wheelchairs," I said quite serious.
At that moment a girl from the second grade class entered.
"Some angels do," my teacher said, "and they have other angels to help them," she introduced me to the little girl. "You two are going to be angels together, and she is going make sure you get on and off stage easily," the teacher said.
The day of the play came and I was excited for my role. I'd memorized the song and my few lines. I was still worried that nobody would believe I was an angel, because of my wheelchair. All week I'd begged to my parents and the teacher that I didn't need my wheelchair, but because of the large crowd of people in attendance I couldn't change their minds.
I watched from the side stage as my classmates preformed their parts. Lines were missed, props were knocked over and laughter was prominent as the kids did their best to make up for minor mistakes by entertaining the audience with their youthful energy. Then my turn came.
The girl and I took center stage. The microphone turned out to be too heavy for me to hold, so she held it up for me and I belted out the song. To this day, I still remember the lyrics:
"Alright children, we are going to assign parts in the play. Who wants to be a reindeer?" Everyone raised their hand, including me. The teacher smiled.
"I'm glad you all want to volunteer. We only need eight deer, but don't worry, there are other roles," she said when a couple of kids started to fuss.
The teacher selected eight of my classmates. I put my hand down. She promised there would be other parts, so at first I wasn't disappointed.
"Now we need elves," the teacher called. I quickly raised my hand again. I was small, so surely I would get picked this time, but the teacher selected three other children.
I put my hand down, frowning. As the teacher announced other roles and other children were chosen, my anxiety grew. It seemed as though she overlooked me on purpose. But then...
"I need five volunteers to ride the christmas train," she said.
Everyone's hand shot up, including the children who had already received their roles. I stood on the seat of my wheelchair with my arm held high. We'd recently read, 'The Polar Express' in class, and the idea of leading the christmas train filled me with excitement. I could imagine my wheelchair being pushed in front of the procession of kids, while I blew the whistle to signal the train's arrival.
"Please don't stand on your wheelchair," the teacher reprimanded me, and I sat down.
Finally, the teacher chose the last of my classmates, leaving me in complete shock. Tears began pouring down my face. My friend sitting next to me raised her hand.
"She is crying," my friend tattled to the teacher.
"No I'm not," I said angrily, wiping my face.
"Is it because you didn't get a part in the play?" my friend asked, for the whole class to hear.
"Shut up!" I shouted at her.
"Please don't tell people to 'shut up,'" the teacher said, "and yes I do have a part for you, but you need to see me after class," the teacher instructed.
Immediately, I perked up. There was a part for me after all. I began to wonder what it could be. After class, I eagerly wheeled over to the teacher.
"How would you like to be the christmas angel?" The teacher asked.
The lead role! I could hardly believe it.
"What does she do?" I asked.
"She sings a song and afterward, places a star on top of the christmas tree. Of course we will have to get someone to lift you up for that. Would you be comfortable if the principal picked you up?"
"Yes!" I said. "What about my wheelchair?" I asked.
"What do you mean?" my teacher inquired.
"Angels don't have wheelchairs," I said quite serious.
At that moment a girl from the second grade class entered.
"Some angels do," my teacher said, "and they have other angels to help them," she introduced me to the little girl. "You two are going to be angels together, and she is going make sure you get on and off stage easily," the teacher said.
The day of the play came and I was excited for my role. I'd memorized the song and my few lines. I was still worried that nobody would believe I was an angel, because of my wheelchair. All week I'd begged to my parents and the teacher that I didn't need my wheelchair, but because of the large crowd of people in attendance I couldn't change their minds.
I watched from the side stage as my classmates preformed their parts. Lines were missed, props were knocked over and laughter was prominent as the kids did their best to make up for minor mistakes by entertaining the audience with their youthful energy. Then my turn came.
The girl and I took center stage. The microphone turned out to be too heavy for me to hold, so she held it up for me and I belted out the song. To this day, I still remember the lyrics:
I have brought a christmas star, to you critters from afar.
God has blessed you on this night, now your tree shall shine so bright.
This gift of love you all will share, the star of peace will always be there!
When I was done, the principal came and handed me a silver star. She lifted me out of my wheelchair and up toward the tree. I placed the star on top and everybody cheered. She turned me so that I could wave to everyone and placed me back in my wheelchair.
My classmates came on stage and everyone clapped and cheered for us. It was such wonderful feeling. I remember thinking it didn't matter that I was in a wheelchair, I was special and I could do anything!
Saturday, August 8, 2015
Game Of Wheelchairs
When I was eight I declared myself a princess. My reign was short-lived; I was quickly usurped by my brother and cast out by our parents.
My seven year old brother and four year old sister were usually good about listening to me even though I am smaller than them. I did my best to be a good big sister, but sometimes the power went to my head.
We were watching cartoons one morning. My sister and I were wearing our Princess Jasmine nightgowns. Typically, whenever I became obsessed with a new disney princess my sister decided that it was also her favorite. Often we argued over who was the current coveted princess, with my sister eventually consenting to be the second favorite princess, but on this particular morning I made a new declaration.
"I have decided that from now on I am going to be the only princess and you two are going to be my royal servants," I announced to my brother and sister as we watched cartoons.
Immediately my siblings turned in protest.
"Nuh-uh!" They said.
"I get to be the second princess, cause I'm the baby sister, remember?" my sister said.
"And I am the prince or the knight, but I am not the servant," my brother declared.
"No, I need servants and I only have you guys, so I am the princess and you have to listen to what I say." I decreed.
"Why?!" my sister said.
"Because I am the oldest and you have to do everything I say," I reasoned.
"That's not fair!" my sister whined.
"Don't worry about it," our brother said, and then to me, "we just won't listen to you," and he turned back to the television. Our sister however, took it personally and ran to tell our mom.
Panicked, I gave my first command to my brother.
"I order you to stop her!" I shouted. My brother ignored me.
We had an old TubeTelevision that did not come with a remote, but was operated with a knob on the front. I rolled to the TV, turned it off and held my hand over the knob. He jumped up furious.
"Turn that back on!" He shouted.
"Say you'll be my royal servant." I yelled at him.
"No!" he roared back at me and then stormed toward me, yanking my hand away from the console.
I tried to bite him, but my brother was bigger and stronger. He picked me up out of my wheelchair and carried me to the couch. He set me down, went back to my wheelchair and sat in it. He turned the TV back on.
"Now I'm the prince and you have to sit in the dungeon!" He declared.
I howled in anger. At that moment dad and mom entered, mom carrying our little sister.
"How about all of you go to the dungeon while I watch TV," dad said.
"No," we all cried, but our parents shooed us off.
After changing into our play clothes, we went to my room and gathered toys to take outdoors. I pushed myself down the hall, my brother and sister in front of me, carrying our things.
"Don't ever take my throne again," I commanded my brother, still piqued at his usurping my seat of power.
"That's not a throne, it's a wheelchair," my brother said.
I was wearing my birthday crown and pointed to it.
"I'm a princess and my wheelchair is a throne with wheels."
My seven year old brother and four year old sister were usually good about listening to me even though I am smaller than them. I did my best to be a good big sister, but sometimes the power went to my head.
We were watching cartoons one morning. My sister and I were wearing our Princess Jasmine nightgowns. Typically, whenever I became obsessed with a new disney princess my sister decided that it was also her favorite. Often we argued over who was the current coveted princess, with my sister eventually consenting to be the second favorite princess, but on this particular morning I made a new declaration.
"I have decided that from now on I am going to be the only princess and you two are going to be my royal servants," I announced to my brother and sister as we watched cartoons.
Immediately my siblings turned in protest.
"Nuh-uh!" They said.
"I get to be the second princess, cause I'm the baby sister, remember?" my sister said.
"And I am the prince or the knight, but I am not the servant," my brother declared.
"No, I need servants and I only have you guys, so I am the princess and you have to listen to what I say." I decreed.
"Why?!" my sister said.
"Because I am the oldest and you have to do everything I say," I reasoned.
"That's not fair!" my sister whined.
"Don't worry about it," our brother said, and then to me, "we just won't listen to you," and he turned back to the television. Our sister however, took it personally and ran to tell our mom.
Panicked, I gave my first command to my brother.
"I order you to stop her!" I shouted. My brother ignored me.
We had an old TubeTelevision that did not come with a remote, but was operated with a knob on the front. I rolled to the TV, turned it off and held my hand over the knob. He jumped up furious.
"Turn that back on!" He shouted.
"Say you'll be my royal servant." I yelled at him.
"No!" he roared back at me and then stormed toward me, yanking my hand away from the console.
I tried to bite him, but my brother was bigger and stronger. He picked me up out of my wheelchair and carried me to the couch. He set me down, went back to my wheelchair and sat in it. He turned the TV back on.
"Now I'm the prince and you have to sit in the dungeon!" He declared.
I howled in anger. At that moment dad and mom entered, mom carrying our little sister.
"How about all of you go to the dungeon while I watch TV," dad said.
"No," we all cried, but our parents shooed us off.
After changing into our play clothes, we went to my room and gathered toys to take outdoors. I pushed myself down the hall, my brother and sister in front of me, carrying our things.
"Don't ever take my throne again," I commanded my brother, still piqued at his usurping my seat of power.
"That's not a throne, it's a wheelchair," my brother said.
I was wearing my birthday crown and pointed to it.
"I'm a princess and my wheelchair is a throne with wheels."
Tuesday, August 4, 2015
Wheelchair Sniper Simulation Training
When I was sixteen, my brother and I went with our church youth group to play Laser Tag. Although it was my first time playing, I knew I wouldn't be able to escape anyone in my wheelchair and that I would most likely lose, but the appeal of watching other players run around me as though it were an actual war zone while flashing lights on their body armor indicated fatal hits, filled me with excitement.
"I'm gonna play the first game alone so I can see what kind of course we are dealing with," my brother instructed.
I waited outside, getting my gear on and checking my gun. As soon as the first round was over my brother came toward me with a look of frustration.
"What's wrong?" I asked, feeling as though my fun were about to be ruined.
"There are a lot of platforms and I don't think I can get your wheelchair up them quick enough for us not to get shot," he said.
Of course it would be difficult.
"That's okay," I said, trying not to let my disappointment show. "Go ahead and play without me. I'll see if I can find something else to do," I gestured toward the arcade.
"Wait, I have an idea," my brother mused, "if you don't mind staying in one place."
He quickly pushed me inside ahead of a few people and found a spot.
"Hurry, get out of your chair and sit in the corner," he whispered.
I did as he directed. My brother was wearing his friend's black leather jacket. He took it off and gave it to me. I am really small, and the jacket covered me almost completely.
"Perfect," he grinned. "Okay, I lure, you shoot," He commanded.
"Got it." I said. "Behind you!"
I saw a kid come around the wall just in time. My brother turned and shot him fast as a blink. The light on his armor lit up.
"You're dead kid," my brother told him.
"Awwww," the kid said, following directions to exit the course.
My brother saluted me, then disappeared behind the wall. I stayed crouched in the corner behind my wheelchair. Fortunately, the course was dimly lit by ultra violet lights. My black wheelchair hid me well enough. Ever so often my brother would emerge and signal me to be ready. Almost immediately after, our victims would follow and I'd shoot them with an almost sniper like grace.
I began to think we might win this round, but no sooner had the thought emerged than did a group of three shooters.
"Someone is picking us off," one of them said, "I think they're hiding over here."
At the same time, one of them spotted me.
"Oh man, it's a chick in a wheelchair!" he laughed. They all laughed in disbelief as they readied their guns.
I sat frozen, preparing to be massacred. Suddenly, one of the kid's critical hit lights flashed and my brother burst into the area shooting like a madman. He took them all out.
"Our game is up, time to leave the course!" He shouted at me.
Quickly, I got back in my wheelchair and handed him the jacket. I prepared my gun. Two more shooters came in and I fired. I missed them. My brother shot one, but the other went around us. I was trying to turn my wheelchair around, but it was hard to hold the gun and turn with one hand. My brother dove behind me and I heard the beeping which indicated he had been shot.
"Why?!" I asked him, in disbelief. "You could have easily won this!"
"So that you could have fun sis," he said. "Now, let's have fun!"
He ran me through the lower level covering my back so that no one could snipe me. It was an epic battle. I must have killed seven enemies that night before I, too, was eliminated. As my brother and I exited the course, I felt proud, because my brother has always fought for me, but for a moment (even though it was a game) I was able to fight for him.
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