There are many benefits to having an Electric Wheelchair over a manual. One: they go really fast, Two: the stationary lock meant not needing to set the brakes every time I stopped, Three: Electric Wheelchairs are strong. One day I was driving my chair too fast in the house (something I was told countless times not to do). I lost control and hit the side of the couch, causing it to slide across the floor. Seeing the awesome strength displayed by my Electric Wheelchair led me to wonder what other heavy objects the mightiest of wheelchairs was capable of moving. After conducting test on all of the largest household appliances: Washer, Dryer, Refrigerator -- My brother and I decided to go in search of other ways to test the strength and durability of the Electric Wheelchair.
"Let's see how much your chair can pull," my brother suggested.
He borrowed a red wagon from a friend down the street and went to fill it with bricks from a construction area near our neighborhood. He tied the wagon full of bricks to the back of my chair. I turned the speed to the highest setting and slammed the lever forward. Instead of the usual rocketing sensation I felt when taking off at high speed, the chair struggled forth. I could hear the strain in the gears as the weight of the large bricks hindered the immediate progression of the chair.
It was difficult to get a strong start so I had the brilliant idea of using the downward slope of our driveway to gain momentum. I parked my Electric Wheelchair at the top of the driveway. My brother helped me position the brick laden wagon behind it and tied both ends of the rope securely. I took off down the driveway, the wagon following closely. As I turned onto the street the rope grew tight and the wagon tipped, spilling bricks all over the road. I halted and the wagon jerked upright and slammed into the back of my Electric Wheelchair. I had to duck so the wagon's handle wouldn't clobber me in the back of the head. The impact left prominent scratch marks on the chair's teal painted frame.
"We need to get these bricks out of the road," I said, and maneuvered my chair to the side of the street.
I got out and untied the wagon from the Electric Wheelchair and took it to my brother to load the bricks in. He pulled the wagon to the end of our driveway.
"It doesn't pull very good," He said. "What's the heaviest thing it can hold?"
"The sticker on the bottom says maximum of 235 pounds," I said. "Do you think those bricks are enough?"
"I'm gonna take these back and get a few bigger ones. They probably weigh 50 or 60 pounds -- these are just too broken."
After awhile, my brother returned with four large cinder blocks in the wagon. I imagined he must be exhausted dragging the wagon down our street. But as he got closer the only look on his face was one of determination -- the same look he always wore whenever he undertook a project.
It took a few minutes for my brother to arrange the blocks specifically so they would balance. He had to stand beside the chair, the stack nearly taller than him, hold on to the top of the pile with one hand and navigate the Electric Wheelchair with the other. The test was not very telling, because the blocks kept trying to slip off. The only confirmation was the Electric Wheelchair's ability to move, however slowly, despite the excessive weight.
"Well, I guess it can hold heavier objects than it says, it just moves slower," I concluded.
"For speed the driver has to be your size," my brother replied.
"Okay, so pulling heavy objects is hard, but doable. Carrying heavy people is doable, but you don't get maximum speed from it. We've pushed furniture around. Too bad we can't test pushing something heavier--"
"Like a car?" My brother asked, and my eyes landed on it at the same moment.
Our neighbor across the street had a black car he was working on. I don't recall what kind of car, so I am going to make it a Chevy Impala. It was parked on the side of the street. He was working on his car when we first started our test, but went in the house sometime after. The hood sat open and the windows were rolled down, which meant that he probably had a view of the car from one of the front windows.
"Should we ask if we can use his car?" I asked.
"Nah," my brother replied. "He's probably busy. We're just gonna try real quick and if it works, you can just push it back from the other end.
I got directly behind the car. I didn't just want to run into the vehicle and even slightly damage it. I pushed the lever forward. At first nothing happened, but then I felt the car's front tires start to roll and the car moved! My brother stood directly in front of the car a few feet back, to help me stop it.
"Oh my god, I can't believe it worked!" I screamed excitedly.
"Yeah it did, but watch," my brother said. I moved to the side and he pushed the car back into it's original spot.
"How did you do that?" I asked in amazement.
"His car is in neutral. You couldn't get it to move at first, because the blocks in front of the tires were keeping it in place. Here, stay in front of the car and don't let it roll forward so I can put the blocks back." My brother said, and I propped my Electric Wheelchair against the front fender while my brother made sure the wooden blocks were securely in place.
After we made sure the car wasn't going anywhere, my brother and I left the cinder blocks in the back yard for later and took the wagon back to our neighbors.
"As cool as this chair is, it would be really useless in a lot of survival situations - toting supplies, carrying lots of people, pushing through rough terrain. It would suck to get stuck in the mud -- you'd have to abandon it," my brother pointed out. "I hope you can walk better someday," He said.
"I do too, but at least I can walk some," I said. "This chair does serve it's primary purpose of helping me when I can't walk."
"And when I don't feel like walking," my brother added, grabbing onto the back handle bars.
I let him hop on the back of my Electric Wheelchair, and drove us back home.
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.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Monday, April 27, 2015
Goats Don't Like Wheelchairs
Goats don't like wheelchairs . . .
My first grade field trip to the local farm was going great. I got to ride a pony, hand-feed chickens and play in the giant haystack with my classmates. My mother came along to help the teacher with me so I would be allowed to participate in the activities, and to prevent me from doing crazy things like climb a giant rope swing so I could toss myself into the haystack. I begged and cried for my mom to let me climb, but she had to threaten to take me home, causing me to miss the highlight of our trip, the petting zoo.
Not wanting to miss hugging all of the baby animals, I reigned in my tantrum and resolved myself to playing at the bottom of the giant pile of hay. I watched with longing as my classmates climbed the rope, swung into the hay and rolled to the bottom. A few of my friends decided to include me by making me judge their climbing contest. My frustration dissolved as we laughed and argued about who climbed the highest and who fell instead of jumped.
Soon it was time to see the baby animals. I was so tired with all of the running around so my mom suggested I sit in my chair and she pushed me to the petting zoo. When we got to the pen, the baby animals were not so little compared to me, and the teacher told my mom I'd have to stay in my chair (at that moment I was too tired to argue). My mom pushed me inside and parked me next to the gate while she went to retrieve some animal feed for me. I looked around at all of the animals. There were piglets, lambs, ducklings, rabbits and goats.
I was overwhelmed with excitement as I saw my friends petting and feeding the animals. Suddenly, I wanted to get out of my chair and play with them, but my mom told me to stay put so I began to call,
"Here baby animals! Come here baby animals!"
One of my classmates responded, "I don't think that works. They're not dogs. Only dogs come here when you say, 'come here.'"
I grew annoyed. "Mommy, I want to go pet the animals. Can I get out now, pleeeeeaaase?"
"No, just sit tight. I'll be over there in a minute to help." My mom called. She was assisting the teacher in handing out bags of feed.
I felt extremely impatient and frustrated, because my wheelchair was preventing me from enjoying the petting zoo. As I sat there fuming, I hadn't noticed the baby goat trotting up to me. He bleated once and I looked to the side.
"Hi baby goat!" I said, excitedly. "Mommy, it's a baby goat!" I called to my mother.
"Oh great, honey. I'll be there in a second."
The little goat was barely as tall as my big wheels. He was black and white with two tiny horns starting to protrude from his head. My mom handed me a small feed bag and showed me how to feed him. Once I had the hang of it, she went back to assist the teacher.
The goat was soon joined by two more goats. I was giddy with excitement as they nuzzled my hands and accepted the feed I gave them. Pretty soon I was out of food and the goats began sniffing around my chair.
"Mommy they want more food!" I shouted at my mom. Then to the goats, "My mommy is going to get you food, it's okay." I reached over to pet a little brown goat, but he backed away and then head-butted the wheel of my chair
"Hey, that was mean!" I scolded.
As if on cue, the other two goats began attacking my chair, head-butting the tires, stamping their hooves against the frame and ramming into the side so hard that it nearly toppled over. I let out a terrified scream. My mother and the petting zoo attendant came running and shoed off the goats. Mom pushed me outside of the gate and after I'd calmed down, she handed me a bag of feed and wheeled me around the fence so that I could feed the animals through the gate. We came to another goat, but I refused to put my hand in. I thought goats didn't like me so I decided not to like goats.
Three years later, I attempted going to a petting zoo again, and again my wheelchair was assaulted by goats. However, I realized something about the 'attack' that my six year old mind did not. They were not attacking my chair out of spite. They were trying to hone their newly developed horns.
Goats don't like wheelchairs . . . They love them.
My first grade field trip to the local farm was going great. I got to ride a pony, hand-feed chickens and play in the giant haystack with my classmates. My mother came along to help the teacher with me so I would be allowed to participate in the activities, and to prevent me from doing crazy things like climb a giant rope swing so I could toss myself into the haystack. I begged and cried for my mom to let me climb, but she had to threaten to take me home, causing me to miss the highlight of our trip, the petting zoo.
Not wanting to miss hugging all of the baby animals, I reigned in my tantrum and resolved myself to playing at the bottom of the giant pile of hay. I watched with longing as my classmates climbed the rope, swung into the hay and rolled to the bottom. A few of my friends decided to include me by making me judge their climbing contest. My frustration dissolved as we laughed and argued about who climbed the highest and who fell instead of jumped.
Soon it was time to see the baby animals. I was so tired with all of the running around so my mom suggested I sit in my chair and she pushed me to the petting zoo. When we got to the pen, the baby animals were not so little compared to me, and the teacher told my mom I'd have to stay in my chair (at that moment I was too tired to argue). My mom pushed me inside and parked me next to the gate while she went to retrieve some animal feed for me. I looked around at all of the animals. There were piglets, lambs, ducklings, rabbits and goats.
I was overwhelmed with excitement as I saw my friends petting and feeding the animals. Suddenly, I wanted to get out of my chair and play with them, but my mom told me to stay put so I began to call,
"Here baby animals! Come here baby animals!"
One of my classmates responded, "I don't think that works. They're not dogs. Only dogs come here when you say, 'come here.'"
I grew annoyed. "Mommy, I want to go pet the animals. Can I get out now, pleeeeeaaase?"
"No, just sit tight. I'll be over there in a minute to help." My mom called. She was assisting the teacher in handing out bags of feed.
I felt extremely impatient and frustrated, because my wheelchair was preventing me from enjoying the petting zoo. As I sat there fuming, I hadn't noticed the baby goat trotting up to me. He bleated once and I looked to the side.
"Hi baby goat!" I said, excitedly. "Mommy, it's a baby goat!" I called to my mother.
"Oh great, honey. I'll be there in a second."
The little goat was barely as tall as my big wheels. He was black and white with two tiny horns starting to protrude from his head. My mom handed me a small feed bag and showed me how to feed him. Once I had the hang of it, she went back to assist the teacher.
The goat was soon joined by two more goats. I was giddy with excitement as they nuzzled my hands and accepted the feed I gave them. Pretty soon I was out of food and the goats began sniffing around my chair.
"Mommy they want more food!" I shouted at my mom. Then to the goats, "My mommy is going to get you food, it's okay." I reached over to pet a little brown goat, but he backed away and then head-butted the wheel of my chair
"Hey, that was mean!" I scolded.
As if on cue, the other two goats began attacking my chair, head-butting the tires, stamping their hooves against the frame and ramming into the side so hard that it nearly toppled over. I let out a terrified scream. My mother and the petting zoo attendant came running and shoed off the goats. Mom pushed me outside of the gate and after I'd calmed down, she handed me a bag of feed and wheeled me around the fence so that I could feed the animals through the gate. We came to another goat, but I refused to put my hand in. I thought goats didn't like me so I decided not to like goats.
Three years later, I attempted going to a petting zoo again, and again my wheelchair was assaulted by goats. However, I realized something about the 'attack' that my six year old mind did not. They were not attacking my chair out of spite. They were trying to hone their newly developed horns.
Goats don't like wheelchairs . . . They love them.
Sunday, April 26, 2015
Muddy Wheelchair And The Quest For Chocolate Pudding
One afternoon, while my mother was taking a nap I decided it would be a good idea to push myself to the store in my wheelchair.
My dad was at work and after a long day of taking three children with her as she completed the back to school ritual of class supplies shopping, shoe shopping and a little grocery shopping, my mother was exhausted of listening to three kids squabble in the car, in the store and in the car again. So when we arrived home she sat us in front of the TV, chose a show for us to watch, because naturally we would fight about that and told us not to bug her for an hour so she could have a quick nap.
An hour goes by faster now that I'm older, but at nine years old, an hour felt like four, and I didn't have a lot of patience -- my younger siblings had even less.
"I want a squeezy juice and a pbj," my little sister declared after a few minutes of watching cartoons.
"Mom said not to wake her up for an hour," I reminded her.
"How long is a hour?" she asked.
"When this cartoon is off." I said.
After a few more minutes of watching the cartoon . . .
"I'm hungry," my sister whined.
She got up, intending to wake our mother, so I hopped into my wheelchair and wheeled toward her.
"Okay, I'll help you get food."
"I want some pickles," my brother chimed.
"Fine," I said, "Can you help me get them? Because I think they're at the top."
My brother followed us into the kitchen. The pantry had two tiers of shelves. In the bottom tier my mother stored the cereal, instant oatmeal and peanut butter so that I could access them easily. The loaf of bread sat on the table and the jelly was in the second shelf of the refrigerator door. I made my sister a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while my brother retrieved the jar of pickles from the top tier of the pantry.
"Can you get me a chocolate pudding cup?" I asked my brother, as he set the jar of pickles on the table.
He climbed back up into the pantry and looked on the top shelf. My mom stored the pudding cups in the top tier, because I would have eaten them all in a day had they'd been in my reach. Every now and then I had my brother sneak me one.
"There isn't any." my brother announced and hopped down from the shelf. "Mom forgot to buy some."
Oh for the love of chocolate!
"Really, Did you look in the back?" I asked, hopping it was a joke.
"The shelf is empty, I'm not lying." My brother argued.
We all went back into the living room, me sulking at not having a pudding cup and frustrated that there wouldn't be one in my lunch box the next day. The cartoon was still playing, but I knew that even when mom woke up, she probably wouldn't want to go to the store again. She was already cross with us for squabbling today. There was nothing for it, I'd have to go to the corner store and buy the pudding cups myself.
I went into my room and grabbed my piggy bank. I recently earned a five dollar bill for straight A's on my report card. I put the money in my betty-boop purse, instructed my brother to watch our sister and pushed myself out the door.
The distance to the corner store was not half a mile (if I recall correctly), but pushing myself in the hot late afternoon sun, in my wheelchair, made it a trip across perilous, gravel filled terrain. Once I got to the end of my driveway the gravel gave way to a side road of grass, rocks and mud. For half of the journey I did good to avoid the sticky spots of wet dirt which were slightly smaller than my front tires. Fortunately there were few houses on my street and no traffic at the moment so I didn't worry about stranger danger.
Despite the ache in my arms from pushing, I felt a sense of pride in being able to take myself to the store to buy pudding with the money I earned. I considered telling my dad about my accomplishment. I knew my parents would probably be upset. Just last year, I got in trouble for taking my little sister out in the middle of the night to 'run away from home,' but this time was different. I was leaving during the day, intending to return, I wasn't putting my siblings in danger and I stayed on the side of the road instead of walking in the ditch where broken bottles (and probably snakes) were. However, I was sure they would be impressed and proud of me once I made it home. Why would they want to punish me for being so grown-up?
I was so busy patting myself on the back and feeling independent -- I didn't see the mud hole in time for my wheelchair to sink into it. I tried to push myself out, but after three attempts I gave up. I got out of the chair, moved behind it and gave it a shove, but the chair wouldn't budge. I moved to the front and pulled on the foot rest. The wheelchair rolled forward, but as I pulled it out, the tires were caked with mud. I got back in the chair and attempted to push myself again, but the muddy tires were slick on the stretch of dirt that covered the side road. If I wanted to get to the store, I would have to push my wheelchair the rest of the way.
I got out of the chair, put my purse in the seat, wiped my muddy hands on my pink overalls and began pushing my chair the rest of the way to the corner store. Just as the store was within sight, I heard my brother and sister shouting,
"Sis! hey, wait!" my brother shouted. I turned to see him and our sister running toward me.
"What are you doing here?" I demanded, "I told you to wait at home. I'll be back in a minute."
"But tha' cartoon is OVER." my sister emphasized.
"We came to tell you so you wouldn't get in trouble when mom wakes up," my brother explained.
"I still have to buy pudding," I whined, "but then I got stuck in the mud."
"Okay, get in your chair, I'll push you there fast and we can hurry up and go back before mom gets up."
I got in my chair and my brother pushed me as fast as he could across the parking lot, with our little sister running behind him. The store was owned by a kind elderly man who my parents were friendly with. It was this same person who alerted authorities the night my sister and I showed up by the gas pumps at midnight. After that night, my mom gave him our phone number in case one or more of her children should be seen wondering around alone.
My siblings and I browsed the isles (them begging me to buy candy and beef jerky) until I found the pudding. I grabbed a four pack of chocolate, took it to the counter and handed him my five dollars.
"Where are your mom and dad?" he asked.
"Outside," I lied.
When he realized that neither of our parents were with us, he made us wait by the counter. He picked up the phone and dialed the number to my house. A few minutes later my mom entered the store, sweaty and out of breath.
"Where is the car?" I asked.
"We are walking, because I want to have a long serious talk with the three of you," my mom said sternly.
Mom purchased a few juice bottles for us and put my pudding back,
"You get more of those for just as much at the grocery store -- which I'll do tomorrow," she said.
We started our walk back home, with her pushing my wheelchair. The lecture she promised us started off as a stern rebuke, but the cooler temperatures of the oncoming evening seemed to abate her anger at us. I think she was just glad that we were all safe. We ended up walking to the end of the street and back, my siblings and I trying to catch fireflies that began to appear in the twilight. Finally it was time to return home so mom could make dinner. As we entered our driveway I made a mental note in my head: Next time, leave the wheelchair at home.
My dad was at work and after a long day of taking three children with her as she completed the back to school ritual of class supplies shopping, shoe shopping and a little grocery shopping, my mother was exhausted of listening to three kids squabble in the car, in the store and in the car again. So when we arrived home she sat us in front of the TV, chose a show for us to watch, because naturally we would fight about that and told us not to bug her for an hour so she could have a quick nap.
An hour goes by faster now that I'm older, but at nine years old, an hour felt like four, and I didn't have a lot of patience -- my younger siblings had even less.
"I want a squeezy juice and a pbj," my little sister declared after a few minutes of watching cartoons.
"Mom said not to wake her up for an hour," I reminded her.
"How long is a hour?" she asked.
"When this cartoon is off." I said.
After a few more minutes of watching the cartoon . . .
"I'm hungry," my sister whined.
She got up, intending to wake our mother, so I hopped into my wheelchair and wheeled toward her.
"Okay, I'll help you get food."
"I want some pickles," my brother chimed.
"Fine," I said, "Can you help me get them? Because I think they're at the top."
My brother followed us into the kitchen. The pantry had two tiers of shelves. In the bottom tier my mother stored the cereal, instant oatmeal and peanut butter so that I could access them easily. The loaf of bread sat on the table and the jelly was in the second shelf of the refrigerator door. I made my sister a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while my brother retrieved the jar of pickles from the top tier of the pantry.
"Can you get me a chocolate pudding cup?" I asked my brother, as he set the jar of pickles on the table.
He climbed back up into the pantry and looked on the top shelf. My mom stored the pudding cups in the top tier, because I would have eaten them all in a day had they'd been in my reach. Every now and then I had my brother sneak me one.
"There isn't any." my brother announced and hopped down from the shelf. "Mom forgot to buy some."
Oh for the love of chocolate!
"Really, Did you look in the back?" I asked, hopping it was a joke.
"The shelf is empty, I'm not lying." My brother argued.
We all went back into the living room, me sulking at not having a pudding cup and frustrated that there wouldn't be one in my lunch box the next day. The cartoon was still playing, but I knew that even when mom woke up, she probably wouldn't want to go to the store again. She was already cross with us for squabbling today. There was nothing for it, I'd have to go to the corner store and buy the pudding cups myself.
I went into my room and grabbed my piggy bank. I recently earned a five dollar bill for straight A's on my report card. I put the money in my betty-boop purse, instructed my brother to watch our sister and pushed myself out the door.
The distance to the corner store was not half a mile (if I recall correctly), but pushing myself in the hot late afternoon sun, in my wheelchair, made it a trip across perilous, gravel filled terrain. Once I got to the end of my driveway the gravel gave way to a side road of grass, rocks and mud. For half of the journey I did good to avoid the sticky spots of wet dirt which were slightly smaller than my front tires. Fortunately there were few houses on my street and no traffic at the moment so I didn't worry about stranger danger.
Despite the ache in my arms from pushing, I felt a sense of pride in being able to take myself to the store to buy pudding with the money I earned. I considered telling my dad about my accomplishment. I knew my parents would probably be upset. Just last year, I got in trouble for taking my little sister out in the middle of the night to 'run away from home,' but this time was different. I was leaving during the day, intending to return, I wasn't putting my siblings in danger and I stayed on the side of the road instead of walking in the ditch where broken bottles (and probably snakes) were. However, I was sure they would be impressed and proud of me once I made it home. Why would they want to punish me for being so grown-up?
I was so busy patting myself on the back and feeling independent -- I didn't see the mud hole in time for my wheelchair to sink into it. I tried to push myself out, but after three attempts I gave up. I got out of the chair, moved behind it and gave it a shove, but the chair wouldn't budge. I moved to the front and pulled on the foot rest. The wheelchair rolled forward, but as I pulled it out, the tires were caked with mud. I got back in the chair and attempted to push myself again, but the muddy tires were slick on the stretch of dirt that covered the side road. If I wanted to get to the store, I would have to push my wheelchair the rest of the way.
I got out of the chair, put my purse in the seat, wiped my muddy hands on my pink overalls and began pushing my chair the rest of the way to the corner store. Just as the store was within sight, I heard my brother and sister shouting,
"Sis! hey, wait!" my brother shouted. I turned to see him and our sister running toward me.
"What are you doing here?" I demanded, "I told you to wait at home. I'll be back in a minute."
"But tha' cartoon is OVER." my sister emphasized.
"We came to tell you so you wouldn't get in trouble when mom wakes up," my brother explained.
"I still have to buy pudding," I whined, "but then I got stuck in the mud."
"Okay, get in your chair, I'll push you there fast and we can hurry up and go back before mom gets up."
I got in my chair and my brother pushed me as fast as he could across the parking lot, with our little sister running behind him. The store was owned by a kind elderly man who my parents were friendly with. It was this same person who alerted authorities the night my sister and I showed up by the gas pumps at midnight. After that night, my mom gave him our phone number in case one or more of her children should be seen wondering around alone.
My siblings and I browsed the isles (them begging me to buy candy and beef jerky) until I found the pudding. I grabbed a four pack of chocolate, took it to the counter and handed him my five dollars.
"Where are your mom and dad?" he asked.
"Outside," I lied.
When he realized that neither of our parents were with us, he made us wait by the counter. He picked up the phone and dialed the number to my house. A few minutes later my mom entered the store, sweaty and out of breath.
"Where is the car?" I asked.
"We are walking, because I want to have a long serious talk with the three of you," my mom said sternly.
Mom purchased a few juice bottles for us and put my pudding back,
"You get more of those for just as much at the grocery store -- which I'll do tomorrow," she said.
We started our walk back home, with her pushing my wheelchair. The lecture she promised us started off as a stern rebuke, but the cooler temperatures of the oncoming evening seemed to abate her anger at us. I think she was just glad that we were all safe. We ended up walking to the end of the street and back, my siblings and I trying to catch fireflies that began to appear in the twilight. Finally it was time to return home so mom could make dinner. As we entered our driveway I made a mental note in my head: Next time, leave the wheelchair at home.
Thursday, April 23, 2015
Wheelchairs And Ladders
In addition to having brittle bones I am also a dwarf. At the age of eight I stood only 2ft small and very proud of it. I never felt bad about my height, because I was fortunate enough to have a brother who taught me how to climb and would help me retrieve things I couldn't reach. Eventually I discovered that parking my wheelchair in front of the kitchen counter and setting the brakes was easier than dragging one of the heavy chairs all the way from the dinning room.
A wheelchair is useful for transportation, for toting laundry from your bedroom and even for sitting and watching TV -- But if you use it as a step stool always remember to make sure the brakes are securely set.
One sunny Saturday morning, I woke up while everyone was still asleep. My morning ritual was a usual for most 90's kids -- Watch Saturday morning cartoons and eat a bowl of cereal. Since everyone was still in bed, I decided to make my own breakfast so that I would have the TV all to myself.
I opened the fridge. My mom kept a small container of milk in the door just for me (I couldn't lift even a half gallon with my fragile arms). After setting the milk on the table, I parked my wheelchair in front of the cabinet, set the brakes and climbed up on the countertop. Now here is where I should make a confession. The brakes on my wheelchair were not easy for me to set. Out of haste I would push down until I felt the tire stop moving, but I never locked them in place. What followed could have been terribly worse, but instead...
Perched on the countertop with my cereal bowl in hand, I watched in horror as my wheelchair rolled away toward the end of the counter and hit the corner cabinets with a soft thud.
Darn it
I considered calling for my parents to come and help me, but I really wanted the TV to myself so that I could watch my favorite cartoons. There was nothing for it, I'd have to crawl across the counter, through the sink and under the top cupboards in order to reach my chair.
I put my cereal bowl down on the counter. I started to get on my hands and knees, but my long nightgown got tangled around my legs. I would never be able to crawl in it. Praying that no one would wake up, I removed the gown, tossed it on the floor and began the slow, careful crawl across the counter in my disney princess underwear. I got to the sink. Thankfully my mother was never one to leave a dirty dish and I climbed into and out of the ceramic basin holding onto the spout so I wouldn't slip. I felt a little shaky, and sat down on the edge of the sink. Again, I considered calling for help. I was really scared of falling, even more now my adrenaline had me trembling. But I was halfway there and I never liked to quit.
The second part of this adventure was the most difficult. The cabinets made an 'L' shape and my wheelchair was perfectly nestled in the corner, but the cupboards above it hung too low for me to crawl on my hands and knees. I would have to scoot on my stomach to the corner, turn facing the wall and slide myself over the edge, into my chair. I got to the edge of the counter and turned to face the wall. As I attempted to lower myself into the chair I had a 'high ledge' moment. Have you ever been on something that wasn't very high, but you were unable to see, so it felt like a huge drop? I imagined myself dangling from the ledge of a giant cliff. One mistake could have me plummeting to my doom. I kept trying to lower myself, but I couldn't find the wheelchair with my foot. I began to really tremble and tears welled in my eyes. I didn't want to be seen in such an embarrassing situation, but I wanted off the stupid counter.
Just as I was about to give up and cry for help, my toes touched the handlebar of the wheelchair. After moving my feet around a little, I found the seat and let myself drop into the chair. I hurried over to the other end of the counter, collected my nightgown and slipped it on just in time for my mom to enter the kitchen, escorting my little sister. So much for having the TV to myself.
A wheelchair is useful for transportation, for toting laundry from your bedroom and even for sitting and watching TV -- But if you use it as a step stool always remember to make sure the brakes are securely set.
One sunny Saturday morning, I woke up while everyone was still asleep. My morning ritual was a usual for most 90's kids -- Watch Saturday morning cartoons and eat a bowl of cereal. Since everyone was still in bed, I decided to make my own breakfast so that I would have the TV all to myself.
I opened the fridge. My mom kept a small container of milk in the door just for me (I couldn't lift even a half gallon with my fragile arms). After setting the milk on the table, I parked my wheelchair in front of the cabinet, set the brakes and climbed up on the countertop. Now here is where I should make a confession. The brakes on my wheelchair were not easy for me to set. Out of haste I would push down until I felt the tire stop moving, but I never locked them in place. What followed could have been terribly worse, but instead...
Perched on the countertop with my cereal bowl in hand, I watched in horror as my wheelchair rolled away toward the end of the counter and hit the corner cabinets with a soft thud.
Darn it
I considered calling for my parents to come and help me, but I really wanted the TV to myself so that I could watch my favorite cartoons. There was nothing for it, I'd have to crawl across the counter, through the sink and under the top cupboards in order to reach my chair.
I put my cereal bowl down on the counter. I started to get on my hands and knees, but my long nightgown got tangled around my legs. I would never be able to crawl in it. Praying that no one would wake up, I removed the gown, tossed it on the floor and began the slow, careful crawl across the counter in my disney princess underwear. I got to the sink. Thankfully my mother was never one to leave a dirty dish and I climbed into and out of the ceramic basin holding onto the spout so I wouldn't slip. I felt a little shaky, and sat down on the edge of the sink. Again, I considered calling for help. I was really scared of falling, even more now my adrenaline had me trembling. But I was halfway there and I never liked to quit.
The second part of this adventure was the most difficult. The cabinets made an 'L' shape and my wheelchair was perfectly nestled in the corner, but the cupboards above it hung too low for me to crawl on my hands and knees. I would have to scoot on my stomach to the corner, turn facing the wall and slide myself over the edge, into my chair. I got to the edge of the counter and turned to face the wall. As I attempted to lower myself into the chair I had a 'high ledge' moment. Have you ever been on something that wasn't very high, but you were unable to see, so it felt like a huge drop? I imagined myself dangling from the ledge of a giant cliff. One mistake could have me plummeting to my doom. I kept trying to lower myself, but I couldn't find the wheelchair with my foot. I began to really tremble and tears welled in my eyes. I didn't want to be seen in such an embarrassing situation, but I wanted off the stupid counter.
Just as I was about to give up and cry for help, my toes touched the handlebar of the wheelchair. After moving my feet around a little, I found the seat and let myself drop into the chair. I hurried over to the other end of the counter, collected my nightgown and slipped it on just in time for my mom to enter the kitchen, escorting my little sister. So much for having the TV to myself.
Monday, April 20, 2015
Spinning Wheels
When I was a kid I went through a spinning phase. I would spin in circles until I got dizzy. I loved the Merry-Go-Round. I don't see them in parks anymore. Maybe too many kids got hurt (spinning has its hazards) and concerned parents called for the Merry-Go-Round's retirement. Even so, there are other objects that spin. My dad had a swivel recliner that my siblings and I used to drag into the middle of the living room when he was at work, and spin each other around in, until it fell over (sorry dad).
My wheelchair has served many purposes other than helping me get to and from classes. It has been everything from a step-stool to a pet stroller. However, one glorious time it was a Merry-Go-Round. Anytime my parents caught me spinning circles in my chair, they'd scold me. I didn't see the harm in it however, and just kept on spinning.
One day in gym class, during free time, I decided to let my friends take turns spinning me in my chair. I put my seat belt on, adjusted the glasses that always slid down my nose and announced in my adorable seven year old voice,
"Whoever can spin me tha' fastest-est can have my other 'Wessess' peanut butter cup."
The first girl spun me and she didn't spin me very hard at all.
"Faster!" I shouted.
The second girl took her turn and she tried to spin me twice.
"You can't-- that's cheating!" The other two shouted.
"But, it's hard!" She argued. "I think we should have, um, three tries, three spins, okay?" she asked hopefully.
I was having fun, so I agreed.
"Let's start over," I said, and allowed the first girl to re-spin me.
Her first spin was better and we all laughed as she made her second spin. I could feel the chair almost float with me as she made her final spin. I heard the laughter turn to screams and I realized it wasn't dizziness that had me feeling like I was falling. I really was falling. In the instant realization struck, I was already on the ground.
Hands rushed to lift me and the wheelchair up. I felt a searing pain in my head, just above my eye, which already began to swell. I started crying and I heard the sounds of my three friend's wails behind the nurse who was examining my face. I heard the teacher yelling at the girls and through my own tears I said,
"Please don't be mad at them, I told them to spin me fast."
My teacher replied, "You should all know better. You know you can get hurt easy."
"Yes, but I was having fun." I said.
"This isn't fun, it's dangerous. Don't ever do anything like this again." She commanded.
"Yes ma'am." I said defeated.
My glasses broke, the glass cutting into the corner of my left eyebrow. It left a scar that I still have today and every time I look at it I'm reminded of the lesson I learned: My parents didn't tell me not to spin because they wanted to stop me from having fun, they told me not to, because once upon a time they were kids and they liked to spin too.
Sunday, April 19, 2015
Wheel Of Fortune
When I was fourteen I had an electric wheelchair in addition to the manual. The electric chair made it easier to navigate my large high school. I found out that there are major benefits to having a power chair, and being able to get out of it every now and then. Whenever I got up one of my friends always wanted to get in it. That got me thinking, I could probably charge money for this. So one hot summer day while some friends and I were playing out in the street, one of them made a request to ride in my chair.
"Sure," I said, "but you have to give me a dollar."
"Seriously?" They replied.
"Yep," I said, putting on a sincere poker face, "you're draining my battery, I need compensation." I didn't really expect anyone would want to pay to ride in my chair, but...
"How far can I go on a dollar?" They asked, and my other friends looked at me with interest.
Holy crap, it worked!
I thought for a moment. Our house was the middle one on our street. "To one end of this street and back. Any farther than that and it's five dollars. If you're not back in five minutes it's ten dollars and if you run down my battery, you're pushing me home and paying me fifteen."
"Deal."
I stuffed the dollar my friend gave me in my pocket, got out of my chair and sat on the curb while my new business venture took off down the street. After an hour, I had five dollars and two friends arguing over who would go again. When the last rider returned I announced that it was time for me to clock out and hopped back in my chair.
The next day I had too many request and not enough patience to sit around waiting for my chair to return, so I decided to end my short lived business venture.
Saturday, April 18, 2015
My First Set Of Wheels
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| My first wheelchair (Age 5) |
When Autumn came and it was time to enroll in kindergarten, the school told my parents that due to my fragile condition, I would need to have a wheelchair. In the administration's eyes, being in a wheelchair would protect me and them from any liable accidents. I remember getting into the wheelchair for the first time. Like most little children, I thought it was an amusing toy, like a tricycle, and I pushed myself around in it until I got bored and then left it in the living room while I ran outside to play with my little brother. Not too long after that an accident occurred and I broke my leg.
My first six weeks of Kindergarten was spent in a body cast. The wheelchair was great to have, because it gave me the ability to move around the room, despite my cast. However, when the cast came off and I was able to walk again, things changed. My parents explained to me that I had to take the chair to school everyday, but I did not imagine that I would be forced to sit in it. Not until recess time, when I hopped out of the chair and made a bee-line for the door only to have the teacher scold me. When I refused to get back in the chair, I was told that I wouldn't be allowed to go outside and I started crying. I didn't understand why she wouldn't let me onto the playground. The teacher was not without heart and while the other children were outside with the assistant, my teacher gave me some m&m's and allowed me to color with her fruit scented markers until recess was over.
I don't remember telling my parents about this, but I've always been an independent problem solver - only resorting to ask for help if I knew I couldn't do something. The next day, I was resolved to show the teacher that I could walk, that I didn't need to be in a wheelchair, so I got up and walked to my cubby hole for more crayons. Again, I was scolded. Now I started to hate my wheelchair, I felt it was time to get rid of the stupid toy. I asked one of my classmates if she would like to trade her my little pony for my chair. All of the kids in my class were interested in the chair, but this girl had a pony so she and I made the trade during playtime. When my teacher realized that someone else was in my chair and that I was hiding under a desk, brushing my new pony's hair, she called my mom.
In the end, it was agreed that I could get out of my wheelchair in the classroom, but that I could not leave the room without it. Every school I attended was okay with this condition. As far as recess went, some schools were militant about not letting me onto the playground, but I often found a way to sneak out and have fun. As time wore on and my body wore down, the chair became more needed. Developing scoliosis (severe curved spine) was what finally put an end to me being able to walk altogether. The pain of just standing has become too much and my terrible imbalance put me at a greater risk of falling and breaking bones.
So now I'm dependent on my wheelchair. I do miss the days of running and climbing, but the adventures didn't stop, they simply evolved...
Hello readers and welcome to my ramp life.
In the end, it was agreed that I could get out of my wheelchair in the classroom, but that I could not leave the room without it. Every school I attended was okay with this condition. As far as recess went, some schools were militant about not letting me onto the playground, but I often found a way to sneak out and have fun. As time wore on and my body wore down, the chair became more needed. Developing scoliosis (severe curved spine) was what finally put an end to me being able to walk altogether. The pain of just standing has become too much and my terrible imbalance put me at a greater risk of falling and breaking bones.
So now I'm dependent on my wheelchair. I do miss the days of running and climbing, but the adventures didn't stop, they simply evolved...
Hello readers and welcome to my ramp life.
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