Anyone who has no experience, yet, with having
lost the ability to walk, drive, bathe, do laundry or go shopping without
significant assistance, probably can’t imagine what it’s like, as I couldn’t
either, until gradually it happened. I was like you, going places and doing
things, working for a living and traveling at will. But then, after a broken right
leg left me needing a walker -- from which doctors discerned the onset of
multiple sclerosis -- and a broken left leg 10 years later which put me in a
wheelchair, I have discovered the literal meaning of St. Francis’ serenity
prayer. I can’t pretend this discernment came easily nor that there was no
kicking and screaming involved, but on good days I do have the serenity to
accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and
the wisdom to know the difference.
So, I can talk about
my day-to-day solutions for problems I never even knew existed until they became
mine. For example, my living quarters -- once the conventional layout of
bedrooms with beds in them, a front room with seating for visitors and an
office with computers -- are now entirely configured around the requirements of
a motorized wheelchair and the hospital bed in the living room. Alongside said
bed on the right is a three-tiered table filled with everything essential from
bathroom, bedroom and office. Alongside on the left is the multi-lift extension
arm (named Lieutenant Fancy) which can pick me up in a sling and place me into
the motorized wheelchair, or back to bed when I choose.
What this room does is it provides
everything a nursing home could if it wanted to (but doesn’t) without the call
bells, crowds and rules.
What it also means is
that when Lieut. Fancy lifts me to the motorized wheelchair, that wheelchair, named Big Gorgeous (in an attempt to keep on its good side) rules. With leg rests extending out front, Big requires a substantial turning radius. I learned this the hard way. If
Big hits a wall, it doesn’t stop just because there’s a wall, or a door sill or
a cupboard in the way. No, it leaves its mark. It will have you remember that
it’s been there. A motorized wheelchair rider, once properly trained by the
wheelchair, learns to anticipate such collisions and to try to stop in time, but
even then this indomitable machine may coast a few inches further, just for
fun.
But, what Big gives
you in return is that all-important, much cherished gift of mobility. You took
it for granted when you had it. You misused it and abused it and made it wait. But
now, your motorized wheelchair lets you get around again. You can stand up at
your exercise bar. (Yes, I can still stand.) You can even go outside the front
door if you want to, or into the hospital HandiVan for doctors’ appointments if
you have to. Larger trips to out-of-town appointments are more rare, since
going anywhere in the car requires scheduling the assistance of a good and careful
driver who is also a caregiver. (And yes, I do have such a person on my speed
dial.)
However, there are no more impromptu car excursions
solo, not even with the hand controls I had installed after the first but
before the second broken leg for no better reason than to take pictures of sunrises
in my own time, on my own terms. I can still drive; I just can’t walk or get to
the exercise bar or into the car on my own! And falling again, say the doctors,
will break the hip. So I avoid that. But I have learned what disablement
teaches, which is to be glad that I ever could dance, that I ever did ride horses
and fly airplanes, or travel in a motorhome to Texas for the winters. Because
now, I have the technology with which to generate little masterpieces of memory
(well okay, masterpieces to me) from those many better days.
Best of all, I can still write-- albeit with voice type dictation and JAWS screen reader
technology -- but still, it is writing. I can still take pictures. And once again also, now I can share
it.
