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."

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.

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.