Wheelchair, Pomp And Circumstance

My fiancé and I taking a stroll. 

  I graduated from University of Houston in 2013. It was pouring down rain and because I had to bring my manual wheelchair, I needed help getting across the commons to the arena where the ceremony was to take place. There was supposed to be an escort, but oversight had not provided one.

"Is there anyone you can call?" the director asked as I waited. My class had already made their way to the arena and were getting lined up.

"I could call my fiancé I suppose, but he's not dressed up," I told her.

"That's okay, it's just to get you situated," she said.

  So I called him.

"Honey, I'm going to need your help getting to the arena. They didn't have an escort ready for me and can't get one now."

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

  A few moments later he arrived and rushed me through the rain, to the arena. We made it in time for the line up.

"Okay, I'm gonna go," my fiancé said.

"You can't," I told him, "I need you to help me inside. Since I don't have my power chair, I'm going to need help up the ramp."

"I can't go in there like this," He gestured to his jeans and t-shirt.

"I don't think it's going to matter," I said.

  Personally, I don't care for all of the pomp and circumstance. The only reason I was going through with the ceremony was so he and my family could watch me graduate. Most of my family couldn't make it because of the weather, and now he would have to be in it (something neither of us expected).

"Please?" I asked.

"You know I love you, right?" he responded and kissed me.

  We followed my class into the auditorium as the music heralded our entrance. We took our seats and as we listened to the speeches of the valedictorian and salutatorian, I leaned over and whispered,

"When you graduate I'll enter with you and I won't dress up," I promised.

"Nuh-uh. My graduation, my spotlight," he responded with a big grin.

  The names were called and when it was my turn, he pushed me up the ramp and I rolled the rest of the way to receive my degree alone. When I came down the ramp, he was there to hug me.

"I'm sorry you felt so uncomfortable," I said, once we'd taken our seats again.

"It's really not that, it's just I came to watch you graduate. See you in your spotlight."

"But you did -- you just got a closer view," I smiled. "Plus you were there to hug me after. No one else gets that."

"One of the perks of being in a wheelchair?" He asked.

"The biggest." I beamed.

Wheel-Chairiot Racing

  Every summer of my childhood, from the time I was four until the age of eleven, almost like clockwork, I broke my leg/legs and spent a good part of summer vacation in the hospital. When I was seven my doctor spoke with my parents about a new rodding procedure that would prevent frequent broken bones. They decided to allow the doctor to place a rod in my left femur, because it was the one I broke most often.

  The surgery was preformed while I was still in school and I spent a month in the hospital. During that time my leg was kept in traction, but toward the end of the month the bandages were removed and I spent the last week undergoing physical therapy.

"As part of your therapy you need to get out of bed and spend some time in your wheelchair. There is a common room on the third floor and a park outside. Why don't you visit them for a while," the doctor recommended.

  Every morning after breakfast and vitals, I was placed in my wheelchair and escorted to the common room. There I met a girl a couple of years older who was also in a wheelchair. Rather than stick to the designated areas, we often got into trouble for going where we were not supposed to.

"Wanna have a race?" she asked.

"I want a head-start," I insisted. "You're bigger."

"Fine," she conceded.

  I pushed myself as hard as I could, but soon she was beside me.

"Hey, follow me," she said and pushed on ahead through two open doors that read, 'emergency staff only.'

"Wait," I called, "we're gonna get in trouble, only doctors can come here!"

  She pulled to a stop and I almost crashed into her. She turned to face me.

"See that sign?" she pointed to a large white plaque with red letters.

"What's, 'ICU'?" I asked.

"It's a place filled with people who are about to die," she said somberly.

"Nuh-uh, how do you know?" I said in disbelief. I didn't know much about death at the age of seven, but I understood that people who died went to sleep and didn't wake up.

"My grandma is in there," her voice was sad.

"Are you here to visit her?" I asked.

"I want to, but I am scared," she said, and tears welled up in her eyes.

  We sat in silence for a moment. I was in shock. I couldn't imagine either of my grandmothers in a place like this and I didn't want to. Still, I would want the chance to see my grandma or my grangran, no matter where they were.

"Don't be scared," I told her, "She is just sleeping. Maybe she can hear you. She'd like it if you said hi."

"Will you go with me?" she asked. "Maybe she'll wake up and you can meet her."

"Okay," I said, though in reality I was a bit scared myself.

  She knocked on the door. A moment later a nurse answered.

"What are you girls doing here?" the nurse asked, in a tone of rebuke.

"My grandma is here and we wanted to visit." The girl said.

"I'm afraid your parents have restricted visitation to family only," The nurse said after checking her chart. "You may come in for a while, but your friend is not allowed." Then to me, "I'll have an orderly escort you back to your room."

  The girl hesitated, but I urged her to stay and she allowed the nurse to show her to a row of beds where an elderly woman lay connected to a bunch of tubes. I felt tears well up at the sight and wished I hadn't come with her. Soon an orderly came and pushed me back to my room.

  A few days later I was in the common room and she came wheeling up to me.

"My grandma died yesterday and I got permission to go to her funeral," she said.

"I'm sorry." I said.

"Thanks for going with me the other day," she said.

"You're welcome. Do you want to go to the park?" I asked, not knowing what else to say.

"No, I just came to say, 'bye'" she said.

"Oh. good-bye," I told her.

  We maneuvered our wheelchairs side by side to hug each other. Being short and trying to hug someone else in a wheelchair has always been a challenge.

"Wanna race me back to my room?" She offered.

"Okay," I said.

  She gave me a ten second head-start, but as soon as she caught up with me we slowed down and the rest of the way, rolled side by side.

The Amazing Spider-Wheels

Warning: the following post contains super cool pictures of wounds, which some people might consider gross - enjoy!

  My fiancé and I were really excited to attend the 2015 Comicpalooza. We purchased tickets to four days of nerd/geek bliss full of comic book artist, celebrity guest and pop-culture fun. He and I spent a year saving for autographs, photo-ops and merchandise. The night before the big event I was bit by a spider. It happened while I was asleep and when I woke up the next morning my arm was stiff and sore. A small lump formed, but since there was no blood I just put antibacterial ointment on it and we headed off to the convention.

"For all the planning we did, I wish we'd checked my scooter days ago," I said as my fiancé helped me across the carpeted halls.

  We planned to bring my power chair, but had waited till the day before the event to load it. The chair was at my mom's and she put it on the charger the night before. The next morning, I received a phone call.

"Honey, your battery is completely dead. I had this thing on the charger all night and it didn't charge at all," my mom said.

  Great.

  We spent the rest of the day trying to find a battery, but with no luck. Finally, I gave up. It was going to be difficult, but last year, I'd traversed these hallways in my manual chair. The only problem this time was the pain I felt in my right arm as I struggled to push myself. I never knew a spider bite could hurt so much. It didn't help that the wound kept rubbing against the tire as I maneuvered the wheels. When I got home, I noticed the bite forming tiny pockets of pus and was red, so I decided to wear a bandage and a sleeve to protect it from the tires.

  The second day at Comicpalooza was AMAZING! I got to meet a bunch of celebrities I loved, take photos with some of them, talk to cool and interesting people, and hang out with some good friends. But despite the excitement, my arm was really hurting and I wasn't feeling so great. My energy level was almost zero, but I chalked it up to the convention hype. As we were leaving the convention I banged my arm on a trash can.

  It was a good thing I'd decided to wrap my arm, because I felt a pop and knew that the tiny bite had broken open. Pain shot through my arm, but I did my best to ignore the agony. We arrived home and I unwrapped the bandages. I cleaned the wound and redressed it. The next day, I wasn't feeling well and stayed home while my fiancé took our nephew to the third day of Comicpalooza. Later that evening I unwrapped my arm to clean it and was horrified. The wound had become infected. It was red, swollen and boils had formed. The bite itself was almost black. I called my mom.

"I think we should go now and have it checked," my mom insisted when I told her about the bite.

"But I still have one day of the convention left."

"Is it more important than your health?" she asked.

"No, I just don't want to sit in the emergency room only for antibiotics," I said.

"It sounds like you might need more than medicine," mom said, and she was right.

  It turned out that the spider bite had accumulated a staph infection,

"Possibly from the tire of your wheelchair," the doctor said. "It's not uncommon for people in wheelchairs to get them on their arms, especially if they touch the tire as often as yours do."

  He'd noted how my arm grazed the tire every time I push myself. After lancing and draining the fluid from my arm, I was given medication to take at home. Five days later at my follow up appointment, the wound had not improved and I was admitted to the hospital (on my birthday) to receive IV antibiotics. Test were done to determine if the staph infection had reached my blood or bone; fortunately it had not.

"Peter Parker gets bit by a spider, he becomes Spider-man. I get bit by a spider and get staph. Reality is so lame," I lamented to my fiancé.

"You should tell Stan-Lee," he laughed.

  I wasn't too upset really. I did everything I'd really wanted in the first two days of Comicpalooza. It was merely frustration at having to miss things I'd spent money on, and spending my birthday hooked up to an I.V. Fortunately my fiancé and some family came to visit, but for the most part I was just plain bored. I spent three days in the hospital, though it felt like a week.

Isn't it beautiful? Photo taken while waiting in the ER

  Upon release I was tasked with taking care of the wound, which was two holes in my arm. For the first week my mom cleaned the holes and packed them with medicated gauze. Eventually, I was able to take over and after two and a half weeks my arm was healed enough to stop packing it, but I still needed to cover it with ointment and gauze.

After the first cleaning - I have craters!

  A little over a month later, after my stay in the hospital, my arm finally scarred over. I still rub ointment on it when the skin gets dry. Also, I went to the store and bought some socks and made sleeves to wear anytime I am in my wheelchair. I've started designing different styles which I intend to make for myself and others who are in wheelchairs. My best advice to any reader who is in a wheelchair: Make sure your arms are protected and wash your tires, because that was not a cool Ramp Life experience.

My awesome new scars!

Embarrassing Wheelchair Tales: Part 2

  The kind of humiliation I felt from being in a wheelchair was not through taunts or stares. If anyone gave me issue I'd run over their toes and that would be the end of it. Often the humiliation was my fault, because I wasn't paying attention to things that got tangled up in the tires. Once I had a trail of coat hangers dragging behind me, before someone pulled me over and alerted me to the situation. You'd think that I'd take more notice of what I ran over, but it was the lack of attention that led to my most embarrassing moment in a wheelchair.

  I was getting ready for school one morning and went to my mom's room, where our computer was, to print out my homework. My cat Mistika was laying on a pile of my mom's clothes; she'd pulled them out of the laundry basket and the ones that weren't under her were strewn across the floor. 

"Mom is going to kill you cat," I warned. I didn't feel like picking up the clothes, so I rolled over them. 

  At school, the teacher paired us up to work on an assignment. I don't recall the assignment, only that I was paired with my crush from the class. He and I were buddies and I had never felt shy around him. I was really excited that we were working together.

"Do you want me to get your book out of your bag?" He offered.

"Yea, thanks," I said, copying the instructions from the white board in my notebook. 

"Hey, you have something tangled in your back tire."

  I looked down. Dang it.

"I ran over some clothes, something probably got caught," I said. 

"I'll help you get it out," he offered. He went to the teacher's desk and borrowed some scissors. 

  The article of clothing had wound itself pretty good around the tire. It took him a few moments to get it untangled. When he pulled it lose, the item turned out to be a large pair of silky women's panties. 

"I take it take it these are probably not yours," he grinned and tossed them to me. 

"Obviously. They're my mom's," I said, mortified and stuffed the cut cloth into my backpack with the intention of burning my humiliation at home. 

  Suffice it to say I have not learned my lesson. I usually hang my clothing on my wheelchair when I shower, with the intention of putting them in the laundry. Every now and then a bra, a shirt or a pair of panties will find themselves on the floor, outside and sometimes in the car. I've learned to just shrug my shoulders and accept my wheelchair's embarrassing reminders.

Embarrassing Wheelchair Tales: Part 1

My electric wheelchair is fun to drive, but when I was younger, it could get me into trouble.

  I was at the mall with my little sister. At fifteen, my parents deemed me responsible enough to go from store to store with just the two of us. In other words, I was the babysitter. Unlike most teenagers I didn't care for spending every weekend at the mall, but my preteen sister lived for it and often bribed me with allowance money (which she'd later borrow to shop). 

  One Saturday afternoon as I followed her through the narrow isles of the store, my patience began to wear thin.

"We have been here for 45 minutes," I said. "If you want to go to any other stores you better hurry up. Dad is picking us up in an hour and I still want to go to the music store."

"Just wait, I wanna try this on," my sister insisted.

  After ten more minutes or so I finally lost my cool.

"You have five minutes or I'm leaving without you," I snapped.

"Wait," my sister whined from the dressing room.

  I would never actually abandon my little sister, but I'd make her think I had by going outside the store. A few moments later she came running out.

"You're mean," she fumed.

"Come on, it's time to go," I ordered and we left the mall. I didn't get to stop by the music store, because I knew our dad would be waiting.

  My wheelchair had a habit of snagging onto things. Normally, I would check before I left any store to see if my klepto-chair had stolen anything. Once, I found a whole rack of bracelets hanging on the side of my wheelchair. This time however, I had forgotten to inspect my wheelchair for snatched inventory in my rush to be on time.

  As I used the power arm to load my chair in the back of the van I noticed a pair of jeans hanging on the under side by the back wheels. I took them off, unfolded them and saw that they were exactly my size. How had the alarm not been triggered when I left the store? A rip in the side made it clear that the tag had torn off. I knew I had to return them.

 I unloaded my wheelchair, folded the pants into my bag and hurried back into the store. I went to customer service where I saw an older and not very pleasant woman. She seemed stressed and as I approached the counter, I felt I may have made a mistake.

"Excuse me, I think my wheelchair accidentally took these," I said, and pulled the folded jeans from my backpack. Timidly, I handed her the folded pants.

  She unfolded them. Immediately I registered the accusation on her face as she noticed they were possibly my size.

"Yeah, I know they probably fit me, but I promise I didn't steal them," I said. I started to feel nervous because I realized how guilty I sounded, but I was just scared. I am not a thief and I was afraid of being labeled one.

"Do you mind if I check your bag?" she asked.

  Eager to prove my innocence, I allowed her to go through my stuff. She also checked my wheelchair, 'Just to be sure.' I felt shaky as if any moment a secret compartment in my wheelchair would open up and reveal a treasure trove of items. Satisfied that I had nothing to hide, the sales lady returned to the counter.

"Thank you for returning the pants," she said. "You need to be more mindful in the future."

  I smiled and quickly returned to the car. Once inside, I allowed myself to breathe. Tears spilled out of my eyes and it was then that I felt the anger and injustice of what happened.

"I didn't steal those pants! I didn't have to return them, I probably shouldn't have." I sniffled.

"You did the right thing." My sister said. "God knows, we know. She was just a cranky old lady."

  I felt comforted by my sister's words. Still, I avoided going into that store for a long time. Yet to this day every time I go shopping, before I leave, I always inspect my wheelchair.

Wheeling And Dealing

  The first stunt I learned to preform with my wheelchair was how to ride a wheelie. My manual wheelchair was equipped with what the chair specialist called, "wheelie bars." The wheelie bars were supposed to prevent me from tilting too far back and falling. That was the idea.

  However, I saw the tiny wheeled bars as a way to impress my friends. I would tip the chair back until the wheelie bars touched the ground and then push myself around making it look as though I were balancing on just two wheels.

  My brother loved to take things one step further. He was paying close attention when the specialist showed our parents how to take the wheelie bars off so that they could get me up steep curbs. Resting on the tiny bars was not very impressive to him.

"I bet I can ride a wheelie without those stupid bars," he boasted.

"No you can't, you'll fall." I challenged.

"Can so. What will you give me if I do?" He asked.

"I'll clean your room," I offered. "And if I win?"

"I'll give you two bucks."

  I knew there was no way I could get him to clean my room so I accepted. We took my wheelchair into the kitchen where there was no carpet. Our little sister sat at the counter on one of the barstools, eating a snack.

"Can I have a turn?" she asked.

"No, you'll hurt yourself." I said.

I got out of my wheelchair and watched as my brother expertly removed the two wheelie bars. Then he got into the chair and said,

"Okay, how long?"

"An hour!" I cheered.

"No, be for real. How about count to ten. I bet I could do ten - and don't count really slow!" He said, eyeing the mischievous look on my face.

"Okay ready!" I said.

  As soon as the front wheels were off the floor I started to count.

"One.. two.. three.. four.. "

  Bang!

  The chair fell forward.

"Sorry," our sister apologized as she picked up the kitchen barstool.

"You lose!" I laughed.

"She did that on purpose, so it doesn't count!" my brother shouted.

"Fine, okay you can have another try," I said and started pushing all of the chairs out of the way. I made our sister take her snack in the living room while our brother got ready for his second attempt. I waited until he was balanced and started to count.

"One.. two.. three.. four... five..." my brother was pretty good at this.

"six.. " better draw this out.

"se-v-en... ei-ght..." oh, he almost lost it!

"ni-----ne.." just one more.

"Come on," my brother fumed.

"TEN." I yelled, but my brother didn't set down.

  Instead, he began pushing himself around the kitchen balanced on two wheels. My sister and I cheered as he smiled with triumph. He got a little too bold however, and tried to do a full turn. The chair tilted back and my brother had to reach behind and catch himself before he hit the floor. He climbed out of the chair and uprighted it.

"Told you I could do it," he bragged.

  Even though I had to clean his room, my brother taught me how to do a wheelie so that I could get myself up curbs that were too steep for my wheelie bars. I've only lost my balance twice, but being able to do a wheelie on my own is better than having barriers to prevent me from trying.

A Tale Of Two Wheelchairs

  When she was 13, my little sister wanted to know what it was like to be me so I challenged her to spend an entire Saturday in my manual wheelchair.

"You have to stay in the wheelchair from the time you wake up, until bed time," I told her. "The only exception is if our parents tell you to do something you have to do without the chair."

"I think I should walk on my knees if I have to get up," my sister offered.

"If you want to, but it might be hard," I warned.

"That's okay. We'll be like twins!"

  The next morning I got into my power wheelchair and my sister sat in the manual since it was easier for her to maneuver on carpet. We wheeled into the kitchen to eat breakfast.

"I'll get us bowls since you can't reach them," I offered, but she brushed me aside.

"I wanted to do what you do, so I'll climb on the counter and get it."

"I don't want you to get hurt," I said.

"Don't worry, I got this."

  My sister wheeled up to the cabinet and set the brakes securely. Using her arms, she hoisted herself up on to the counter, on her knees. I was impressed at her clever tactic. She retrieved two bowls and slid off the counter, into the wheelchair.

"Well done," I said and my sister smiled. I got the rest of the essentials to make cereal and we parked ourselves at the kitchen table to eat.

  After breakfast we went into the living room to watch TV. Our living room was small and didn't accommodate two wheelchairs easily, so my sister got out and walked on her knees to the couch. Again, she hoisted herself up, using only her arms. As we watched the saturday morning cartoon line up I thought about my sister's effort to understand me.

"This is fun," she said, as if reading my thoughts.

"Yea," I replied. "Too bad I can't know what it's like to be you."

"Too bad you couldn't walk on stilts," my sister said, bringing back a brief memory of a time I nearly broke both my legs trying to walk with two tall cans tied to my feet.

"I could always sit on someone's shoulders for an entire day," I suggested, we both laughed.

"Why do you want to know what it's like to be me?" I asked her.

"I dunno. Sometimes it looks easy, like people always want to help you. But sometimes it seems like it sucks. Does it suck?"

"Not more than anything else I suppose," I said, "It sucks that I can't do a lot of things I used to do - like walking. It seems like that got hard after my spine started curving. But as far as being me, I don't think it sucks more than being anybody else. Everyone has problems."

"I guess I never thought about it being normal to you," she replied.

  My sister and I spent the better half of the day entertaining ourselves with wheelchair antics. I took her outside and let her grasp onto the back of my power chair while I dragged her up and down the street. We rolled to the convenient store -- I had to allow her to get out and push the manual chair when she ran it into two mud holes. By mid afternoon however, my sister was itching to get up and stretch her legs, so I told her she was free of her challenge. Still, she used the wheelchair for sitting the rest of the day, even parking it at the table to eat dinner.

  When bedtime came, we went to our shared bedroom. My sister parked my manual wheelchair in the large walk-in closet. She got on her knees and gave me a hug.

"It was fun being your twin today. Sorry I couldn't go all day in the wheelchair," she said.

"Thanks for trying. That was fun," I replied.

  Siblings can surprise you and I was blessed with two who made being in a wheelchair 'not suck.'