Shopping Cart Wheels

  Grocery shopping in a wheelchair is not easy. I can't push the cart around while pushing myself. I am too small to operate those big electric carts easily and I can't carry a basket, so whenever I went shopping by myself I was resigned to getting only a few small items. One day, I came up with a way to manage carrying more stuff.

  I emptied out my backpack and put it on the back of my wheelchair.

"I don't think you can do that, they might think you are shoplifting," my fiancé said to me, when I explained why I was taking my bag. 

"It will be fine. No one is going to accuse me of stealing," I scoffed. 

"Why don't you just wait for me to get done at the gym," he offered. 

"I can do this." 

  The thing I love most about my husband to be is he never holds me back. If I believe I can do something, he has enough faith in me to believe it too (unless it's standing on my tiptoes to see over a really tall book case).

  I arrive at the store and proceed to shop. As I go along the isles, my fiancé's words echo in the back of my mind: They might think you are shoplifting. To quell the paranoid voice in my head, I leave the backpack open, hoping employees might realize my intent.

  At the dairy section I see the fridge with the rows of coffee creamer. I scan each row and realize the one I want is at the top. I look around to see if anyone is coming, who may be able to help. At that moment a woman pushing her child emerged from around the corner.

"Excuse me ma'am," I approached. "I've looked for an attendant, but couldn't find one. Could you please help me reach the coffee creamer?" I asked.

"Sure," she smiled and handed me the one I pointed to.

"Thank you," I replied.

  I shoved the coffee creamer into my backpack and proceeded to shop. As I continued along, I noticed a tall elderly woman was following me. She showed up in almost every isle I visited. I tried not to pay too much attention to her, but when I got to the bread isle (where the snack cakes and danishes are) she finally approached me.

"Can I help you retrieve anything from the shelf?" She asked.

"Oh, please," I said, relieved by her kindness. "I am looking for cheese danishes, do you see any up top?"

  She looked, "No, sorry dear. Can I get you anything else?"

"Just those oatmeal creme pies, thank you." I replied when she handed them to me.

  I stuck them in my almost full backpack.

"My, you've got a lot of items in that bag," she noted.

"Yeah, and I promise I am not stealing," I assured, remembering why she'd made me feel nervous.

"Oh dear, I wasn't trying to accuse you," the lady said in an apologetic tone.

"I kind of noticed you earlier. I thought you followed me, because you assumed I was stealing -- though I guess I don't blame you. Who shops by shoving items into a back pack? I hoped leaving it open would give people the realization it wasn't shoplifting," I explained.

  She chuckled, "It makes a lot of sense. I was just fascinated by your independence and ingenuity. You've adapted so well. I doubt I could have come up with the idea of using my backpack like that."

"I bet you would," I told her. "My whole life has been about adapting, just like anyone who has a condition like mine or any other disability. We all find ways to adjust, so for me this is normal."

"I've never thought of it that way," she smiled. "It's a great perspective to have."

"Well, I try." I grinned.

  After speaking a little more, we bid each other good afternoon. I took my items to the front and paid for them, then I went to the coffee bar inside the store to wait for my fiancé. I was sipping coffee, the grocery bags hanging on the back of my wheelchair, when he arrived.

"I was followed," I said when he approached.

"I told you they'd think you were shoplifting," he grinned. "Looks like you got your items though."

"It wasn't an employee who followed me," and I proceeded to tell him about my interaction.

"Did any store clerks notice you?" he asked.

"If anyone did, I doubt they were concerned. What would I do, push myself really fast across the parking lot?"

"Really fast? They'd catch you before you reached the door," he laughed as we exited the store.

"That's why you're my bodyguard / get away driver," I told him.

"Oh that's why I'm here? Forget it," he pretended to be offended and walked off.

"But I love you," I pleaded and wheeled after him.

  He stopped and reached for my hand.

"Don't you want to be my partner in crime?" I asked.

"Never," he smirked. I pouted.

"Fine." he conceded.

"I win." I beamed, rolling beside him; hand in hand.

  I take pride in my independence, but it's great to know he is there when I need him.

My Wheelchair Gets A Paint Job

  In first grade, our class was chosen to make a friendship banner for the hallway. The teacher decided to have us do hand prints on a large paper banner. The next day she brought two large rolls of white paper and three bottles of red, yellow and blue paint. She incorporated the project into our art lesson. We were learning primary and secondary colors.

"These three colors are the--" she indicated to the red, yellow and blue paint.

"Primary colors!" we all chimed.

"Very good. And when they're mixed together, what kind of colors do they make?"

"Secondary!" we responded.

"Excellent, yes, when mixed together primary colors make secondary colors. Blue and yellow mixed together make?" I raised my hand and she pointed to me. 

"Blue and yellow make green!" I exclaimed enthusiastically. 

"Correct," she smiled. 

  The teacher continued questioning each of us, until she was satisfied we understood the lesson. Soon it was on to the most anticipated part of the project, getting to cover our hands in paint and splattering them against the white paper. We moved our desk to the side of the classroom and the teacher rolled one of the banners out across the floor, creating an inviting white road of artistic possibility.

 I got out of my wheelchair and knelt with my classmates along the banner as the teacher set down three circular aluminum pie pans in front of every other student.

"There aren't enough pans for everyone to have their own, so you will work together in groups of three and share. Decide now what color hand prints you want first. Everyone gets to make three hand prints. Only place your hands along the top and bottom of the banner," she instructed.

  I worked with the girl and boy to the left of me and they chose red and blue. I mixed blue and yellow together to make green. Satisfied I had the shade of green I wanted, I stuck my right hand into the pan and began to mix it around, covering it with paint.

"You don't need to cover your whole hand," the teacher said. "Just get enough paint on the bottom of your palm."

  But I continued to cover my hand in paint, imagining I was dipping it into a rainbow.

"No don't slap the paper," she chided a boy who was slapping his paint covered palm on the banner. Drops of blue splattered his clothes; his laughter suggested he was deliberately making a mess.

  When we'd finished filling up the first banner, the teacher had everyone line up to use the sink in the back of the classroom. I got in my wheelchair, not realizing that one of the pans of paint sat behind me. I rolled backwards, tipping it over and rolled through the paint. The rest spilled onto the floor. I turned my wheelchair around to see the mess I'd made and knocked over another pan. Now my wheels and hands were covered in green, red and blue paint. The wheels left a trail as I pushed myself over the banner, toward the back of the room.

"Teacher, I accidentally made a mess!" I panicked.

"I'll be there in a moment," she replied.

  I knew that dry paint was much more difficult to clean up.

"I just need a napkin," I said.

"Take one from the table," she instructed.

  The teacher was busy helping one of my classmates scrub his hands. I grabbed a few paper towels and turned around. I pushed myself over to my desk, leaving a colorful trail behind me. There were a few moist wipes in my backpack and I used these to wipe my hands, then I returned to the mess on the floor.

  I got out of my wheelchair and began laying paper towels down over the paint. I'd seen my mother do this anytime my siblings or I spilled something. She said it absorbed the spills and made messes easier to clean. When the main spill was covered, I set to work trying to cover the colorful trail my wheelchair had made.

  By the time it was done, my classmates were clean and coming to see what I was doing. A few even offered to help by attempting to wipe up the main spill with the napkins, but they only succeeded in creating an even larger mess. Amidst all of the chaos, the forgotten banner was ruined by the many feet which trampled it in our clean up effort.

"Stop," my teacher exclaimed, when she saw what we were doing.

  I got up and saw the trail of smudged paint leading to the large smear in the center of the spill. A few foot prints from kids who stepped in paint, faintly marked the floor. My wheelchair tires were also covered in paint.

"Everyone back to your desk and don't touch anything," the teacher instructed.

  We all went to our seats, and I was told to leave my wheelchair where it was and sit in a regular chair. The teacher pressed the intercom and asked for a janitor. Then she brought around wet paper towels for everyone to wipe their hands and shoes. When the janitor arrived, he took one look at the mess and called in a second janitor to bring extra cleaning supplies. While one cleaned the floor, the other took my wheelchair outside.

  I sat quietly at my desk wondering how much trouble I was going to be in. The first janitor finished mopping the floor and our lessons resumed. But I found it hard to pay attention. I stared at the door waiting; my wheelchair had not been returned and it made me nervous. What if they were unable to remove the paint? I'd seen my parents throw away things my siblings and I 'ruined' with paint or permanent markers. Thinking the janitor might throw away my wheelchair terrified me and I burst into tears.

"What's wrong?" my teacher asked.

"Don't let them throw away my wheelchair!" I sobbed.

  At that moment the janitor returned with my wheelchair. Surprisingly, he was able to clean off the paint. I sat in it.

"Thank you for not throwing away my wheelchair," I smiled at him, tears still on my face.

"I would never do that," he chuckled. "Is that why you were crying?"

"Yes," I admitted.

"Well, next time you want to give your wheelchair a paint job, just ask me. I have a garage where my brother and I paint cars. I can make your wheelchair look really cool!" he chuckled.

  I laughed, imagining him with acrylic paints and those tiny brushes, painting my parent's car. Later when I got home, I told my brother about the paint accident.

"I want to paint your wheelchair!" his five year old eyes lit up.

"Only when you grow up. I think mom and dad would be mad if you did it now," I told him.

  Today, my brother is an amazing artist, but I have yet to let him paint my wheelchair.