Disability as Combat

I've never liked the metaphor of disability as a battle. It sounds as if disability is a war with tools that can make the disability go away.

In the same vein, I wince every time I see an obituary with "after a long battle with cancer" or some other disease. Sometimes with illness, it can be cured or at least put into remission.

If you're talking about a choice to go on with your life and cope versus staying in bed and turning your face to the wall, the big news is that this is a choice every person has.

Why make disability into a personal war? Are there hills to take? Bridges to destroy? This immediately places the person into a role where he or she is forced to be a combatant or a coward, instead of a person who makes their own decisions about the direction of their life. The person with a disability is expected to put forth extraordinary effort to no longer be who they are. It's one thing to have surgery to deal with painful spasticity and another to have chancy surgery to gain just another degree of mobility. It's for the individual to choose and no judgment should be made if the decision is no.

As hard as it was for me to take, I respected my mother's decision to have chemotherapy when she was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer. Already in precarious health, it was extremely doubtful that chemo would extend her life and would certainly degrade the quality of her life. I wished that she had done more in previous years to reach out to life - to find out how she could best become more mobile, how she could improve her health. Still, it was her choice. It was hard for me to accept it, but I did.

If there comes a point in the life of a person with a disability that he decides enough is enough, enough with the surgery, enough with this or that or whatever painful treatment with a minimum of return, then that's enough. Respect that.

It doesn't mean that he's a coward. It only means that he's comfortable in his own skin and makes his own decisions.

It's not a war. It's not a battle. It's living life day by day, every day.

Mail Order Takes an Interesting Turn

The other day in the mail, I got a packet from Paralyzed Veterans of America.

They asked me to send me money.

Do I get my own paralyzed vet? Please?

Life Sentence for Speeding

An acquaintance has recently blogged that the 22 year old Thomas Wopat-Something has received his just desserts if his spinal cord injury turns out to be permanent.

I am stunned at the maliciousness of this. This is a person whom I respect. I know everyone has an off day, but when I questioned her on this, she redoubled her statement. People on the Taconic speed all the time. Locals have been killed by non-locals who were speeding on what is a local road and not an interstate and certainly not a speedway. Those are tragedies and there's no doubt about that.

If Wopat-Something's spinal injuries are severe enough to cause complete or partial paraplegia, that's a harsh sentence for speeding. Yes, we know paraplegia is not the end of the world or the end of a life, although it does cause lives to take unexpectedly different directions most of the time.

For going too fast, Wopat-Something likely faces surgery, painful recovery, and rehab. I'm sure he would have much rather pay the $200 fine for speeding and lose his license if he was, in fact, driving under the influence. If he had been speeding, he should have slowed down.

That's like wishing Stage IV lung cancer on someone who smokes a pack a day. The punishment in no way mirrors the crime - if there was one.

Mostly, I'm surprised at the harshness of this woman's judgment. I know her usually to be just and fair, so this venomous take on this shocked me.

Ironically, this woman's husband was severely disabled before he died.

Could she have forgotten this so easily? Or has her anger marred her judgment?

I hope she doesn't find out that I went 80 mph on the Turnpike last Thursday.

Hanging wif my Peeps

I just back from "Abilities" expo. These seem to be good to go to every three or four years. The pace of innovation isn't exactly breath-taking.

I have to come down off this high I'm on because all I can burble right now what how cool it was. How people looked me square in the eye and shook my hand. I was taken at face value - except for one guy who was in a chair, in KAFOs, who asked me within two minutes "what happened". And I replied - truthfully, as it turns out - lesions at t-12 and l-5. He said he was a polio. 'Scuse me if I'm skeptical.

Don't get me wrong. I am grateful for the chair I have now....but...but... as I was cruising down an aisle, a Quickie rep came up to me and said, "Aren't you kind of worried about that left wheel?" Yes, as a matter of fact, I was. It had a wonky feel to it, and as I was wheeling along, I kept it slow. I asked if anyone was repairing chairs and he pointed directly over my head at a sign in the next aisle for free wheelchair repairs.

Free! Free wheelchair repairs, although I imagine you would have to pay for the parts. I rolled over there and within five minutes, all was set in order. There were nuts loose. (Stop. Don't say a word.)

I went over to a major, major, major w/c manufacturer. They let me take two different chairs out for a test drive. One was good, but the second was the one I fell in love with. It fit me perfectly.

There was a demonstration of wheelchair/AB dancing on the other side of the convention center, so I zipped over there to watch. A female dancer was teamed with an extremely buff para. Be still, my heart. At first, I wasn't impressed but when it was just the two of them, things got muy caliente.

I saw a big open space away from the dancing and I went over there to dance. It was so freeing. The chair was a dream. What a wonderful thing! I take back every snotty thing I've ever said about wheelchair dancing.

I zipped all around the convention center - still in the test drive chair. In ten minutes, I saw what would have taken me hours in my own wheels. I went back to the sales guy - who turned out to be the international production manager. I asked how much the chair was and he told me a figure that would fund a two week deluxe trip to Europe. I gulped. And then I said, "I know you guys get asked this all the time, but do you ever sell demo chairs?" The sales guy pointed to a guy in another chair. "Ask him. He's the head honcho. He's the president of the company."

The Prez wheeled over and Sales Dude introduced us. We shook hands. Sales Dude put the question to him and then walked away. The Prez, who looked to be about my age, pondered the question. He went through a legal disclaimer about only selling through dealers, etc., etc., etc.

I have learned that the most amazing things happen if you just stand there. By just standing there at a mattress store, the price miraculously descended several hundreds of dollars. I just stood there.

"Insurance," he asked.

I shook my head.

He sighed. "E-mail me when I get back into the shop next week. Remind me about our conversation. Sales dude! Get the measurements on that chair she liked! Sometimes we have things that have just...amortized out. Maybe $500?"

I nearly wept. These gorgeous chairs. These swift and beautiful chairs!

Then he whispered, "But you can't, for God's sake, tell anyone we did this. The distributors would kill us."

I zipped my lip, locked it and threw away the key.

Everyone who saw my current chair looked at it and then back at me, in the spiffiness. They shook their heads pityingly.

With great regret, I got back into it. But make no mistake - I am grateful to have this one.

And I'll just wait for the spiffiness.

When You Hire A Negro

Welcome to the XYZ Corporation handbook on interviewing and hiring a Negro.

As we all know, laws have been passed to make companies a more hospitable environment to Negroes. It is important that we learn to feel comfortable around people who are Negroes.

Interviewing a Negro
First, make sure the Negro understands where and when the interview is to be held.
When interviewing the Negro, do not judge the person by how dark or light his skin is. Sometimes, it might even be hard to believe a person is a Negro!
Do not make a point of mentioning the person's skin tone.
Do not judge a Negro's ability to do the job based on the person's Negro-ness.

Hiring a Negro
It is up to the Negro to identify himself as a Negro. Again, sometimes you can't tell that they might need extra help (also known as "accommodation") to perform the job they were hired to do.
Ideally, the person would identify himself as a Negro before beginning work in case accommodation is needed.
Before the Negro's first day, gather your staff to explain that the new team member you have hired is a Negro. Explain a little about the exact kind of Negro-ness the new hire has.
Don't stare at the Negro. It is perceived as an insulting and threatening gesture.
Make sure the Negro feels included in team meetings and activities.
You will find that Negroes are loyal and tend to stay longer at companies more than non-Negro employees. They are tremendous assets in this sense.

-------

Honestly, this is what I read online today at the company where I'm consulting these days. Oh - except "Negro" was spelled "person with a disability".

Well, Blow Me Down

It doesn't happen so often anymore, but there are times in my life when I realize something or am made to see something I have not wanted to see.

When that happens, I tend to shut down. Before, I've deleted blogs or sworn that I'm never coming back, etc. etc.

I'm not saying that now.

But what I am saying is that I've had the wind knocked out of me and I'll be taking some time off here for awhile.

Fair wind and smooth sailing.

No Limits

One of my fantasies is that I'm allowed to try every form of disability that I want to. Miraculously, I am restored to my ordinary self within a fantasy day or two.

I saw a video once of a Japanese woman who had an insert in her ear that made her gait spastic. I would love to get hold of that ear piece for a day or two.

Blindsimming is easy. All I have to do is take off my glasses, put on a pair of dark glasses, and I'm in business. Actually, it's a lot like every day life.

Deafness? I think my hearing is already impaired. Once upon a time, I had to use ear plugs to get to sleep, but I never took them out for a spin in public.

Most of my interest lies in mobility or lack thereof.

Again, my very rich fantasy life sometimes has been spending days in the House of Solange, an ordinary-looking woman (with the exception of her long leg braces) who can arrange to have many fascinating things happen.

Some go beyond the pale, but it's my pale and I can go beyond it if I want.

It's always satisfying to spend some time chez Solange, but it doesn't do to stay there very long. At all.

Dark Wonderland

Last week when I was transferring from my chair to a chair in the restaurant, it took careful planning and a couple of tries because my lower body did not want to move.

I've experienced this a couple of other times in my wheelchair.

What surprises me is that I'm not faking anything. My lower legs aren't working. I don't trust my quadriceps to hold me up.

I don't get a thrill that "oo, look at me, I am what I want to be" because I'm concentrating on the situation at hand.

Those moments of struggle and plotting every move are as real as real can be. For one or two brief seconds, they have been alarming.

After it's over, I'm a little amazed that my mind is that strong. Because surely, that's what's orchestrating my lower body's non-cooperation.

No doubt it is my mind, perfectly willing to hypnotize myself into believing what I want to believe.

I don't know how to emphasize how real and how striking these moments are, how they go into a quiet internal space that I don't think my conscious mind has ever seen.

What, I wonder, is that place like? And what else is in there?

Maps Lie

I went to a world-famous museum today, wheeling. I did my due diligence first. The blue badge parking lot was just here. The museum's accessible entrance, right next to it. There was an accessible ladies room next to the restaurant.

What the maps didn't tell me were that:

1. The blue badge parking was on a relatively steep slope. I wheeled down it, but it took extra help getting back up.
2. There is only ONE accessible rest room and it's faux accessible. I couldn't fit my chair into the stall.
3. The restaurant (which was very nice and very pricey) was at the end of another incline. One of the security guards came over and pushed me the rest of the way. Going back down was fun and I have to admit, I was very tempted to just keep rolling and maybe run over some people.
4. Unlike the NY Metropolitan Museum of Art that stocks all of its stores with the same things, this museum didn't. I mean that if, say, you see a book on Andrew Wyeth right outside a Wyeth exhibit, if you don't buy it there, it will be at the museum store. If you find, as I did, a couple of cute doo-dads and expect to see them at the museum store, you won't.

There was something about this trip that took a lot out of me.

For one thing, after awhile, I gave up telling people that I was fine and I didn't need any help, thank you. At least ten people asked me. Ten! And honestly, my shoulders and hands were done. So at the end, someone could have wheeled me home and I would have been just as happy.

I was disappointed at how much the maps lie. I know they don't lie at the Metropolitan Museum, having gone there and rented a chair. And I didn't need anyone to push me anywhere.

I'm taking some Aleve. And then I'm taking a nap.

In Retrospect

Despite what I think most of the time, I really have been fortunate in my life. My physical maladies and injuries have been few. I have no lingering health problems. I think it makes doctors angry that I can be so overweight and yet be so healthy.

I've had the usual scrapes since childhood. A broken foot. Badly sprained ankles. Some cases of road rash when I fell off my bike a couple of times. All in all, well done, me for not being more of a klutz and managing to be in the right place most of the right times.

There have been some close calls, though, some circumstances that would have proved painful, if not deadly. Or really, really inconvenient.

Four or five years ago, a friend had invited me to drive into the city with her to pick up her daughter and go out for dinner. I don't remember why I declined, but it turned out to be the night of a massive blackout in New York City. I think it took her until one in the morning to get home.

On 9/11/2001, I had been scheduled to be at my then-company's Wall Street offices for training. There was a change in my job duties, so the training was canceled two weeks before.

Then much further back, there was the impromptu trip I turned down with my parents. I was going to college in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. It was a gorgeous spring day in March. My mother was recovering from hip replacement surgery and she wanted to get out and about. Although they lived about two hours away from where I was going to school, they called me and asked if I wanted to go for a ride with them.

It was so tempting. Really, really tempting. But I'd done badly during my first semester and was working like mad to rescue my GPA. Despite how gorgeous the day was, even though at first, I said yes, when I looked at the stack of books on my desk, I knew I had to spend the day at the library, studying.

They called me four hours later. They'd been rear-ended by some drunk going 50 mph while they were going 45 mph. Luckily, my parents were unhurt, although I think it set back my mother's recovery a little bit.

The car wasn't driveable so they got my aunt to come pick them up and had the car towed back to town.

Later when I went home for spring break, I saw the car.

I saw where I usually sat. The drunk's car had pushed the trunk forward to the point where, if I'd been sitting there, I would have gotten hit hard (if not smushed). It would have hit me a little below the waist.

At the time, I thought, my legs would have been broken. My knees would have been smashed.

I think that would have been the least of it, really.

Set forward, who knows what would have happened to my mother?

And what damage would have been done to me? Specifically, my spine.

I'm grateful I wasn't in the car that day. The physical damage would have been the least of it. If I had caused injury or worse to my mother, that would have been nearly impossible to live with. If she had survived intact, what would have followed would have been years of unbearable dependency on them. My mother's attitude would not have been good.

The house they lived in was completely inaccessible. I know I would have wanted to go back to college as soon as possible, but would have found that campus inaccessible.

Now I would like to think, maybe it would have forced the issue sooner for me to be out on my own. Perhaps I would have moved to the West Coast, found a college there. And likely would have stayed there.

There are so many points in our lives where we don't realize that we're making a life altering decision. Taking this road or that, going for a Sunday drive or staying at school to study.

I wish there was a machine to let me see what that one decision, reversed, would have meant to me.

Closer

Since I was five, I have known what I wanted to be and how I wanted to look. Despite literally having dreams about it, I put it aside. I did it very effectively, too, because it remained mostly buried for decades.

I wanted long leg braces. I wanted black ankle boots. I wanted a wheelchair. I wanted forearm crutches. And yes, I wanted the disability to go along with it.

Again, I tamped it all down, knowing it must be impossible.

And what a painful thing to learn that it was possible, but financially out of reach.

Within the past two months, I have found and brought home the wheelchair and the black ankle boots. The boots are unbelievably perfect. And I'm saving them for special. I already had the forearm crutches. I bought a pair of orthopedic shoes from a thrift store and found it was possible to create about a 2" difference in height. Walking in them with the forearm crutches was so good. So much closer than I ever dreamed.

Lately, I'd been concentrating on getting an AFO, preferably a right AFO to guard my weak right ankle.

And suddenly, I am the owner of a set of AFOs. They are home made, but passable.

I am learning to maintain and repair the chair. I know what adjustments I need on the forearm crutches, which again, I do myself. All of this is changing me slowly, changing who I am and how I think.

I look at curb cuts in a completely different way now and am surprised at how many of them fail to meet muster.

Double doors are an annoyance of larger proportions than I'd realized.

I'm getting closer.

I doubt I'll ever get all the way to where I want to be, but getting closer is the important thing for now.

First Wheelchair-related Injury

I managed to get the chair un-frozen. And I learned that I could wheel around in my house on one caster with little problem.

I'd seen a couple of nifty You Tube videos on popping wheelies and while I had done one accidentally last Sunday, I decided I needed to master them.

I wheeled over to an empty area of the living room, managed a wheelie and promptly landed on my back. I also hit my head on something relatively hard. It turned out to be the basket with all the cat toys in it. Ow. I mean...ow.

Using my injured head, I decided to try it against something softer - like the couch. Much better.

I wouldn't say that I've mastered the wheelie but I've got a good start at it.

Grounded

Unless some minor miracle occurs, there will be no flying around for me this weekend.

Mechanical failure. It's a bitch. I have 1 1/2 casters on my chair.

And this is very embarrassing but my folding chair does not want to unfold. It spent this past week in the trunk of my car and while it didn't get jostled around very much, I wondered if it could have frozen shut. It's been in the house for hours now.

I knew it would be futile to go out in the mainstream looking for that very peculiar six-sided bolt that holds the caster into the prope

r position, but I did give it a try. Truthfully, I want a few spares of the caster-holder-onner assembly.

Of course there are lessons to be learned everywhere and I have learned a couple of things here.

One is that wheelchairs are very complicated machines. If you're going to ride one, you need to know how to maintain it.

Another is that I'm never going to be out without some little toolkit with me.

I will likely spend the weekend trying to find out if any of the wheelchair supply and repair stores around here are open on weekends.

But first I've got to be able to get in the chair.

Another Scream in the Night

At exactly 1:38 this morning, some mysterious and formless assailant crept into my bedroom, grabbed my left leg and stabbed me repeatedly with a stiletto. Every muscle in the back of my calf bunched and it felt like the stiletto was twisted around and around, like winding spaghetti onto a fork.

Without being aware that I was doing it, I started to scream. I have quite a set of pipes on me. I screamed while trying to get out of the bed, out of the sheets wound around me, away from the cats that just didn't understand the disturbance.

I finally made it out of bed and saw that my heel was pulled up and back about three inches. I stopped screaming, but each time I tried to gently stretch out the spasm, it went back into that fist-sized knot.

This is the leg I hurt last summer. My first wake-up-screaming episode was in September, 2009. This was only the second one, but I have to say, I'm not a fan. I wonder if there's some sort of scarring on the muscle - not that I even know that this can happen - and wonder if surgery could keep it from happening again.

Weirdly, I would be afraid that the surgery would go awry somehow. And hope that it would, somehow. And at the same time, realize that were my perverse wishes to come true, these muscle spasms would likely be a part of it.

The screams in the night bother. But they don't.

Warming the Hearts of Do-Gooders Since 10:30 EST

When I put the chair together after it was shipped to me, I looked at one of the casters and said, "That's probably not on right."

I was right, but it took three trips to the outside world to find out for sure.

The good news is that I have found the perfect place to cruise. It's a mall, of course, and it has a bookstore on one end, but all the flooring surfaces meet my criteria.

I encountered my first do-gooder as I was going up the slight (slight? Really?) ramp to the bookstore entrance. My casters smacked against uneven pavement with dirty water splashing up on me. I nearly did my first wheelie and it was not intentional.

A guy pushing his kid in a stroller leapt forward out of nowhere and said, "May I help?"

After the third time I'd taken a run at the door sill and still hadn't made it, I said yes.

Somehow he got me and the stroller in the door. God bless. I really wasn't looking forward to getting the entire back half of me drenched in filthy water.

I went to the posh food court and got myself a tasty early lunch. Twin girls turned around and looked at me. They were Asian and looked to be about the same age. One was fascinated by me. She was about three and was all staring wonder. Cute kid. Seriously.

On my way back through the bookstore, I picked up a copy of Pride and Prejudice (and thank you, no, I do not have a copy of Pride and Prejudice. Thank you very much.) and as I was cruising against a far wall, I felt a weird "ka-chunk" and the chair pitched forward and to the right, nearly pitching me out. I dropped my gloves, my sunglasses, my Visa card and laying on the floor next to all of this was one of the bolts that held the caster on.

I think this is when I dropped the f-bomb. It might have even been the m-bomb f-bomb. I straightened myself up, put the remaining stuff in my lap onto a bookshelf and tried to reach the stuff I'd dropped.

Here I began muttering and a woman asked, "Can I help?" I rolled my eyes at myself, just annoyed as hell at me, and said, yes, I did. She handed me the stuff from the floor, I thanked her and she moved on.

I sat there for a moment, pondering my situation.

I checked underneath the chair. The caster was still on, although pointing backward. I tried to balance and found if I kept my weight to the back and to the left, and moved very slowly, I was okay.

Finally at the check-out counter nearest the door, I dropped my gloves again, tilted forward perilously and the store clerk came around to ask me if I was okay and handed me my gloves. If I could have safely done an "oh, f- me," face palm, I would have.

I got to the door, my chair lurched again, but I knew I was okay going out. I just hoped I didn't pitch face forward into a pool of filthy water. The dean of the Physics department at Princeton rushed up. "Can I help?"

Not unless you've got a toolkit in your trunk. His sons watched me pass.

I went across to the parking lot verrrryyy slowly. I stopped traffic. As I approached my car, a very snazzily dressed older Russian woman called out, "Kin I hilp you?"

"No, no. No. No, thanks. I'm fine."

"Are you sssurrrre?"

"Yep. Yeah. I'm fine. I got it. Thank you."

A pregnant pause and then she shouted, "You are hheeeerroe!"

Oh, f- me. Now I'm a hero.

I managed to get into the car without requiring a dozen people to run to my aid.

Well. Ahem. I guess my good deed is done for the day. I made at least ten people feel good about helping me.

And I'm an f-ing hero.

Ha.

Limits to Mobility

I'm at home today and likely will be tomorrow, too. Where I live is smack in the middle of Snowmageddon. There are about eight inches on the ground right more and probably at least another four to come.

My wheels likely would not be happy in this, any kind of wheels.

But here's something else - I probably couldn't wheel today. I have arthritis in my right hand that is normally managed down to annoyance level, but today, it hurts all the way up to my elbow. I've also got some kind of strained or pulled muscle in my shoulder. All told, I can't do much with my right arm at all today.

These things happen. There are some days when you have no choice but to stay close to home.

Concerning Doors and Floors

Oh, right, like I could wait until Sunday to do this again. Actually, considering my weekend schedule, Friday night looked like the best time to go for a spin.

What I had forgotten was that on Friday night, the mallrats come out in force. They travel in packs and their movements are unpredictable and erratic.

Weeknights, then, would be a good time to go out and about.

Regarding Doors - Everyone Wants to be Galahad
The doors for Anonymous Mall aren't great but they aren't terrible, either. There's a wheelchair entrance of one door, with the big square button to push. The sills aren't raised. It's easy to get into. The Anonymous Bookstore, on the other hand, is a stone bitch. Yet, I managed. I had to leave the mall to get into the bookstore.

Honestly, the only attention I pay to people is to make sure no one is darting in front of my path, which would end badly for both of us.

But as I approached the bookstore's doors, two guys ran ahead of me to get the door for me. While I appreciate the gesture, it isn't necessary. I grabbed the first door, shot through it and as someone was getting ready to hold open the second door, I opened it and used the door jambs to shoot on through. I heard a disappointed little "oh" behind me.

"Got it, thanks," I called over my shoulder.

The same thing happened as I re-entered the mall.

But the worst door, the almost insurmountable yet most vital door, was the one leading into the ladies' room. I'm sure it has to open inward to the bathroom to meet some kind of code, but the way this one was positioned was just a pain.

Otherwise, no problems.

Floors
Ceramic tile = Evil.
Padded carpet = Evil.
Unpadded carpet = Better.
Plain old floor, such as linoleum or wood = Whee!
Smooth cement = Watch my dust.

But you probably already knew that.

First Flight

I had the tricky part of the chair fixed at a bike shop. The guy was able to get the seat back into the right position. I think he was initially a little freaked out about it, but after a few minutes, he was just working on machinery, which made him happy.

He was fascinated by the quick release pin for the wheels. I also think I put the casters on wrong, but that's another adventure at a later date.

For the past three years, I've known exactly where I would head the first day I had my chair: the Anonymous Mall. No one I know goes there because it's out of the way and a bit down at heels.

The parking lot was full.

I lucked into a spot relatively close to the book store I wanted to go to. I got the chair out of the car, assembled it, and got in. I closed the trunk and set off slowly.

What I didn't realize while it was happening was that I had to go up a slight incline to get into the store. There were double non-automatic doors with raised sills.

Every middle-aged woman in the book store rushed to the front to open all of the doors for me at once. I said thank you because I genuinely needed that bit of assistance. So. Thanks.

In the store, I took a minute to orient myself to being in an unfamiliar store and at tush height, no less.

I picked out a couple of books and wheeled over to the cafe area. I was already jazzed up/borderline manic without making it worse with a cup of high octane coffee, so I just wheeled up to a table, scooted over one of the chair, and thumbed through my books.

There were a couple of things I learned.

One is energy conservation. I was in the middle of the store and wanted to look at cookbooks. Instead of drifting all over the place, I asked a sales clerk which direction to the cookbooks and she pointed me on my way.

I haven't the least idea if anybody stared at me, nor do I care. I was more concerned about getting from point A to point B without falling on my face. When I left the store, I was feeling considerably more confident and I bulled through the doors. "Oh wait," one woman said, chasing after me,"I'll get the door for you."

"Got it, thanks," I called over my shoulder.

And then I zipped down the slight incline and began to feel what my cadence will be like when I wheel longer distances. It takes some experimenting to get into the groove. To find your own particular groove.

I got into the car and thought about how odd it was.

When I was in the chair, it was as if my legs and indeed, anything from my hips down, didn't exist. I didn't expect them to do anything to aid me in my travels.

Getting in the car, it really was a bit of a struggle. I sat and looked at my legs. I said, "All right. You have to work now." And after a few minutes, they did.

When I got home, I thought, that was interesting but I don't know if I ever have to do that again.

Today, I started planning a trip for Sunday.

Mine

It's sitting in my bedroom, the Quickie 2 wheelchair that arrived yesterday. I put most of it together, but not being mechanically-minded, I was stymied by one back post. I'll deal with it later, but want it dealt with by the weekend.

Because yes, that's when I'm taking my first trip with my chair.

My chair. My wheelchair.

Although one of my cats would disagree...

I was mortified to find that it is a bit of a squeeze to fit into it, but tell myself this should prove an incentive to fit into it better. (We don't say the "d" and "e" words here, although we think them, frequently)

And it's mine.

Someone had loaned me his for a good long while, but I thought I was keeping it in storage for him. As such, I didn't regard it as something I could play fast and loose with, although I did roll around the house a little bit with it. There was something about that chair - I never felt comfortable in it.

This one, I do. And we will begin our adventures together very soon. Stay tuned.