Ditching My Wheelchair For Blackberries

  My generation was the last group of kids born before technology took off. This meant on weekends, rather than sit indoors, playing on iPads and game systems, our parents kicked us out of the house for the better part of the day. Being in a wheelchair did not give me a free pass to be lazy. Fortunately for me I had two siblings who were just as imaginative as I, and we always found something fun to do...

"We're bored," I complained to our mom, hoping she'd suggest going to the park or somewhere fun. However, she was busy cleaning the house -- something that always seemed to escape our notice. 

"If I hear that again, I'm putting y'all to work. Go outside and play." she said. Then to me, "Put your wheelchair on the porch so I can wash it."

  We grabbed popsicles from the freezer. Then I took my wheelchair out and parked it on the porch. We went over to the tire swing in our front yard and my brother and sister fought over who would push and who would swing first. 

  Mom came outside with soap and water. She cleaned my wheelchair and rinsed it off with the garden hose. I went up to the porch to get my wheelchair. 

"Let it dry first," she instructed, then went into the house. 

  After a while of swinging...

"Lets go pick backberries," I suggested. 

"We aren't allowed to go down the street without mom or dad," my brother reminded me. 

"I'll go ask," I said.

  I went inside. "Mom can we have the Easter baskets to go berry picking?"

"Sure," my mom said. 

  It should be noted that (unbeknown to us) our mom had not yet learned about the black berry patch down the road. The kids that lived nearby told us when we saw them riding their bikes one day, carrying bags full of berries. I suppose to her we were pretending, but Mom gave me the baskets and I assumed permission to go pick blackberries. When I went back outside, I gave the good news to my siblings. I got in my wheelchair. 

"The seat is still wet," I said. 

"Just sit your basket on it and I'll carry you and push the wheelchair. I'm sure it will be dry when we get ready to come back," my brother offered. 

  My brother carried me on his back and pushed my wheelchair while our sister walked beside us. We weren't usually allowed to walk down the street by ourselves and I was excited mom allowed it now. 

  We came to a small sparse of woods. There was a large ditch, about five feet deep, between the road and the wooded area. The thicket of black berries sat just in front of the woods; we didn't know if they were wild or purposely planted, but neighborhood kids came here often to pick and eat the delicious, tangy berries. The only means of crossing was a thin, peninsula like patch of dirt. Walking across it was simple, but my wheelchair was a little too wide. 

"I am just going to leave your wheelchair parked on the side of the road," my brother said. 

"No, what if someone steals it?" I panicked. 

"But we'll be able to see it from the other side and I can run back over here and stop them," he boasted.

"What if we are way down there?" I pointed far off.

"Fine," my brother groaned. He gave the basket to our sister to carry and she took it across. Then to me, "You push, I will stand in front and guide it." 

  Everything worked out well enough, until we got about halfway across. It happened so fast, I spent the moment after frozen in shock. The left tire slipped off the side. Not wanting to be taken with it, I simply let go of the wheelchair. My brother did not give up right away; he grabbed onto the front and attempted to pull it up. But he was small for a seven year old and gravity quickly won that game of tug o' war. 

  The wheelchair landed in the ditch -- in a big puddle of mud. My brother and I used a few choice words we'd heard our dad say.

"Should we go get mom?" I asked him. 

"No, I can get it out," my brother insisted. 

  He went into the woods. I sat on the edge of the ditch looking down at my wheelchair and wondering what I would be in trouble for more; getting my wheelchair dirty or dropping it in a ditch. 

  A few moments later my brother reappeared carrying a bundle of long, slightly thick branches. He was sweaty and panting as he set to work angling them in the ditch. Many of them barely reached the top, but he put them as close together as he could to make a crude ramp.

"I'm going to jump in and push your wheelchair up the ramp. You grab the front and pull it up when it gets close," he said to me, then hopped into the ditch. 

  My brother attempted to push the wheelchair up his constructed ramp, but the branches were not solid and kept sliding apart. He rearranged them and tried a different approach. Laying the wheelchair on its side, he pushed/lifted it up toward me. This worked. I was able to get a hold of the handles, but I was too weak to pull the heavy wheelchair out myself and my brother wasn't able to push it any higher.

"Help her pull the wheelchair out," he directed our sister, who was watching from the other side. 

  She crossed back over to the road and together we pulled while our brother pushed. Slowly we succeeded in getting the wheelchair onto the road. 

"Okay, don't lay in the street," I instructed my little sister, who would definitely need a nap after this.

"I got berries," she answered, holding up her basket. There were only a few, while her mouth and t-shirt suggested what happened to the rest. 

"Let's just go home," my brother said. 

  We made it back to the house. Mom was waiting for us on the porch. 

"I could whip you three. You know better than to go down the street by yourselves."

"But you said we could pick berries," I argued. 

"You know I never would agree to that if I knew it meant going down the street." Then she saw the mud.

"What did you do to your wheelchair?" she demanded. 

  I decided honesty was the best policy and told her the story.

"Can I go inside now?" I asked, wanting only to lay down in front of the box fan.

"No, you're going to wash your wheelchair first."

  I looked at my brother. 

"He's already done his punishment; getting the wheelchair out of the ditch."

"I helped, too" I explained. 

"You manipulated them and tried to be sneaky with me, but you know better," she scolded. 

  As unbelievable as it sounds that wasn't my intention, because I thought she knew about the blackberries. However, I didn't try to argue, because I knew it would only make my punishment worse. The next day my mom asked if we would like pick blackberries with her. This time, I left my wheelchair at home. 

Happy Wheels

  The summer before Kindergarden started I broke my legs and was forced to spend the last part of vacation in a spica cast. Fortunately, I'd just received my new wheelchair, so rather than laying around immobile, I was able to roll around the house. It was a little difficult pushing myself in the chair, because the spica cast went from my waist to my toes and did not allow me to sit per se, but because I was so small, my parents figured out a way to angle me in the chair with pillows so I could "sit."

"I push you around okay?" my little brother said.

"Okay, go fast." I squealed.

"No, don't go fast." my mom chided from the laundry room. "And don't wake your sister."

  Too late.

  My little brother raced my wheelchair and I around the kitchen and into the living room where he crashed me into a corner of the couch. Luckily, I did not fall out, but my near painful accident did not deter us from rushing down the hall, screaming at the top of our lungs. Our baby sister's cries joined us.

"I told you two not to wake your sister," our mom snapped at us as she left half folded clothes to attend her.

  She brought my sister out into the living room and let her crawl around.

"Watch her while I finish the laundry and then we will go to McDonald's for lunch," our mom offered.

  My brother and I relished the thought of collecting another Happy Meal toy so we succeeded in keeping a vigilant eye on our baby sister. Soon we were on our way!

  The great thing about going to McDonald's in the late eighties, early nineties was - apart from the Happy Meal toy - kids had the joy of jumping around in pits of brightly colored plastic balls. My brother and I would spend all day throwing the balls at each other or burying ourselves beneath them if our parents allowed it.

  On this trip however, I was unable to jump into the ball pit, but was confined to my wheelchair instead. My little brother sat at the table with me for as long as his four year old attention span would allow him, but then...

"I wanna go play," he whined.

  Mom looked at me. This was the part she hoped to avoid. "Bubba (our nick name for him) can play for just a little bit, okay?"

  Tears welled up in my eyes.

"I wanna play too."

"Please don't be sad, I'll be right back," my brother insisted.

"Fine," I sulked.

  My little brother got up excitedly and raced to the pit. I sat in my wheelchair with my Happy Meal toy, tears running down my cheeks.

"It's not fair," I sniffed.

"I'm sorry, ladybug," my mom said, attempting to comfort me.

  My little sister sat in her highchair watching our brother with me. She pointed at one of the color balls that rolled out of the pit and close to our table.

"Ba," she demanded. Mom walked over, retrieved the ball and handed it to her. My little sister happily beat it against the table, threw it down and demanded it be given to her again.

"Do you want one?" Mom asked me, when she went to snatch another for sissy.

"Yes," I said.

"Bring your sister a few balls to play with," she shouted to my brother.

  He stuffed his shirt full of plastic colored balls and brought them to me. Then he turned my wheelchair to face the pit. Next to the entrance was a height chart. A tall tin picture of a character stood beside it with his hand stretched out.

"Try to hit his hand," my brother challenged.

  I threw the ball and missed entirely.

"You have to throw like this," my brother attempted to show me how to toss the ball, but it took him a couple of tries before he succeeded.

  I threw ball after ball and managed to hit the sign a few times. Whenever I ran out of balls my brother ran back in the pit to retrieve more. Soon there were so many balls outside of the pit the manager took notice and came outside to chide us. Mom explained the situation, but agreed to clean up the balls we'd taken from the pit. After that we only took out a few and used those to play our game.

"Did you have a good day?" mom asked as we drove out of the fast food parking lot.

"Yeah," I beamed. "Now whenever I break a bone, I know I can still have fun!"

  I realized then, even if I am confined to my wheelchair I can ALWAYS find a way to enjoy my life!

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."

Working At The Wheelchair Wash

Wheelchairs should have their own washing services.

  I was eating breakfast one saturday morning and looking at a car magazine. At sixteen I was already dreaming about having my own vehicle. I knew it would have to be a van to accommodate my wheelchair. 

"Dad, when am I getting a car?" I asked, flipping through the pages of the magazine.

"When you get your license," he answered, "but I'll tell you one thing, if you treat a car the way you treat your wheelchair you won't have it very long."

"What does that mean?" I frowned.

"It means you better be more cautious when you drive, don't let it run on empty and keep it clean. Just look at your wheelchair. I don't think you've ever washed it. You need to do that this afternoon," he said.

  Later, I took my wheelchair outside. I got a bucket of soapy water, a sponge and set to work. I intended to make my purple wheelchair look as shiny as a new car. I scrubbed hard and for what felt like an hour, giving it a good twice over. However, for all of the effort, my wheelchair seemed just as dirty as when I started. My sister offered to help.

"Maybe you should use some kind of cleaner," she suggested after trying to scrub some of the dirt off. 

  I went to the kitchen and looked under the sink where the cleaning products were kept. There was wood furniture polish, glass cleaner, tile scrub, sink and toilet cleanser and oven cleaner.

"Do you think oven cleaner would work?" I asked my sister.

"Seems closer to the stuff the wheelchair's frame is made of," she replied.

"Yeah, I was thinking that too." I grabbed the oven cleaner, two rags and went back out to where my soapy wheelchair was drip drying. 

  I skimmed the directions on the back of the can. 

"It says to let it sit for about thirty minutes before wiping off," I said. "Since this is a wheelchair, not an oven, I'm just gonna give it ten, then scrub and rinse."

  I only sprayed the white foam on the wheelchair's frame. The tires, I'd cleaned successfully with the soapy water. After ten minutes, my sister and I began scrubbing the foam from the frame.

"Oh my god, stop-stop-stop!" I shouted.

"Uh-oh," my sister said at almost the same time.

"Quick, we gotta wash this off," I said, grabbing the hose. My sister turned it on and I sprayed the frame clean of foam.

"Well that was a bad idea," I sighed, examining my wheelchair. 

  The oven cleaner worked a little too well. It removed the dirt, but it also stripped much of the purple paint off, particularly where my sister and I scrubbed. I couldn't hope that my dad wouldn't notice so when he came home later I told him what I'd done. He shook his head and laughed in disbelief.

"It's a good thing for your future car that you can take it to a carwash."

Game Of Wheelchairs

  When I was eight I declared myself a princess. My reign was short-lived; I was quickly usurped by my brother and cast out by our parents.

  My seven year old brother and four year old sister were usually good about listening to me even though I am smaller than them. I did my best to be a good big sister, but sometimes the power went to my head.

  We were watching cartoons one morning. My sister and I were wearing our Princess Jasmine nightgowns. Typically, whenever I became obsessed with a new disney princess my sister decided that it was also her favorite. Often we argued over who was the current coveted princess, with my sister eventually consenting to be the second favorite princess, but on this particular morning I made a new declaration.

"I have decided that from now on I am going to be the only princess and you two are going to be my royal servants," I announced to my brother and sister as we watched cartoons.

  Immediately my siblings turned in protest.

"Nuh-uh!" They said.

"I get to be the second princess, cause I'm the baby sister, remember?" my sister said.

"And I am the prince or the knight, but I am not the servant," my brother declared.

"No, I need servants and I only have you guys, so I am the princess and you have to listen to what I say." I decreed.

"Why?!" my sister said.

"Because I am the oldest and you have to do everything I say," I reasoned.

"That's not fair!" my sister whined.

"Don't worry about it," our brother said, and then to me, "we just won't listen to you," and he turned back to the television. Our sister however, took it personally and ran to tell our mom.

  Panicked, I gave my first command to my brother.

"I order you to stop her!" I shouted. My brother ignored me.

  We had an old TubeTelevision that did not come with a remote, but was operated with a knob on the front. I rolled to the TV, turned it off and held my hand over the knob. He jumped up furious.

"Turn that back on!" He shouted.

"Say you'll be my royal servant." I yelled at him.

"No!" he roared back at me and then stormed toward me, yanking my hand away from the console.

  I tried to bite him, but my brother was bigger and stronger. He picked me up out of my wheelchair and carried me to the couch. He set me down, went back to my wheelchair and sat in it. He turned the TV back on.

"Now I'm the prince and you have to sit in the dungeon!" He declared.

  I howled in anger. At that moment dad and mom entered, mom carrying our little sister.

"How about all of you go to the dungeon while I watch TV," dad said.

"No," we all cried, but our parents shooed us off.

  After changing into our play clothes, we went to my room and gathered toys to take outdoors. I pushed myself down the hall, my brother and sister in front of me, carrying our things.

"Don't ever take my throne again," I commanded my brother, still piqued at his usurping my seat of power.

"That's not a throne, it's a wheelchair," my brother said.

  I was wearing my birthday crown and pointed to it.

"I'm a princess and my wheelchair is a throne with wheels."

Wheelchair Sniper Simulation Training

  When I was sixteen, my brother and I went with our church youth group to play Laser Tag. Although it was my first time playing, I knew I wouldn't be able to escape anyone in my wheelchair and that I would most likely lose, but the appeal of watching other players run around me as though it were an actual war zone while flashing lights on their body armor indicated fatal hits, filled me with excitement.

"I'm gonna play the first game alone so I can see what kind of course we are dealing with," my brother instructed.

  I waited outside, getting my gear on and checking my gun. As soon as the first round was over my brother came toward me with a look of frustration.

"What's wrong?" I asked, feeling as though my fun were about to be ruined.

"There are a lot of platforms and I don't think I can get your wheelchair up them quick enough for us not to get shot," he said.

  Of course it would be difficult. 

"That's okay," I said, trying not to let my disappointment show. "Go ahead and play without me. I'll see if I can find something else to do," I gestured toward the arcade.

"Wait, I have an idea," my brother mused, "if you don't mind staying in one place."

  He quickly pushed me inside ahead of a few people and found a spot.

"Hurry, get out of your chair and sit in the corner," he whispered.

  I did as he directed. My brother was wearing his friend's black leather jacket. He took it off and gave it to me. I am really small, and the jacket covered me almost completely.

"Perfect," he grinned. "Okay, I lure, you shoot," He commanded.

"Got it." I said. "Behind you!"

  I saw a kid come around the wall just in time. My brother turned and shot him fast as a blink. The light on his armor lit up.

"You're dead kid," my brother told him.

"Awwww," the kid said, following directions to exit the course.

  My brother saluted me, then disappeared behind the wall. I stayed crouched in the corner behind my wheelchair. Fortunately, the course was dimly lit by ultra violet lights. My black wheelchair hid me well enough. Ever so often my brother would emerge and signal me to be ready. Almost immediately after, our victims would follow and I'd shoot them with an almost sniper like grace.

  I began to think we might win this round, but no sooner had the thought emerged than did a group of three shooters.

"Someone is picking us off," one of them said, "I think they're hiding over here."

  At the same time, one of them spotted me.

"Oh man, it's a chick in a wheelchair!" he laughed. They all laughed in disbelief as they readied their guns.

  I sat frozen, preparing to be massacred. Suddenly, one of the kid's critical hit lights flashed and my brother burst into the area shooting like a madman. He took them all out.

"Our game is up, time to leave the course!" He shouted at me.

  Quickly, I got back in my wheelchair and handed him the jacket. I prepared my gun. Two more shooters came in and I fired. I missed them. My brother shot one, but the other went around us. I was trying to turn my wheelchair around, but it was hard to hold the gun and turn with one hand. My brother dove behind me and I heard the beeping which indicated he had been shot.

"Why?!" I asked him, in disbelief. "You could have easily won this!"

"So that you could have fun sis," he said. "Now, let's have fun!"

  He ran me through the lower level covering my back so that no one could snipe me. It was an epic battle. I must have killed seven enemies that night before I, too, was eliminated. As my brother and I exited the course, I felt proud, because my brother has always fought for me, but for a moment (even though it was a game) I was able to fight for him.

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.