My beautiful wheelchair

I have not written for 2 weeks or so, bad form in the blogging world.  Sometimes though, it is hard to find beauty in an often inaccessible, uncertain, turbulent world, and that is what I promised to write about here.

But it - beauty - is always there.

Last week, I was having one of those inaccessible, uncertain, and turbulent days.  I took my kids to the mall to meet my husband, their dad, for lunch.  Sounds simple enough, except that: there were no wheelchair parking spaces left at the mall, and there were no safe spots by which to park so I could get my lift (that opens on the passenger side of my van) out.  In my effort to squeeze into a spot on the end of a line of vehicles, I scratched my side mirror.  Once out of the van, there were no clean or clear paths through the parking garage to get to the elevator.  Even my sixteen-year-old son who took over pushing me to hurry things up a bit, declared the situation, "ridiculous." Then, once inside the mall, I could not see any places to sit and eat in the food court that a wheelchair could navigate.  Busy getting our stir fries and sushi from Edo, and starting to feel the stress of it all, I barked at my kids to find a spot.  Assuming I had things under control carrying a tray, 3 drinks, and a plate of food on my own, my kids left to do what I had barked at them to do.

I carefully navigated my way through the maze of tables, chairs, janitorial carts, and strollers to where my son was standing.  I had not realized how tense I was until I relaxed and exhaled in that sliver of a moment when time slows down just enough to give you a chance to stop a mistake from occurring, and I watched the top fly off the drink I was holding and spill its contents across the table, onto the floor, and into the aisle right next to who I assume was another mom and her 2 kids. 

Not so beautiful.

Meanwhile, my husband Darrell was on his way to meet us.  The food court was thick with people and he could not see us, so he did what anyone would do - he looked for wheelchairs.  There were a few.  Removing scooters and power-wheelchairs from the scan, he narrowed his search to blond women in TiLite wheelchairs, and he found one in line at the Edo, exactly where he expected he would find me.  Intuitively knowing I would be struggling with navigating the crowd and finding an accessible spot, he sensed my stress and reached around the back of said blond woman in the TiLite chair to give her a loving and reassuring hug.  Except that it wasn't me.

No, I was across the food court tracking down paper towels and a caretaker with a mop.

In that sliver of a moment when time slows down just enough to give you a chance to stop a mistake from occurring, he caught himself and pulled back.  Just in the nick of time.  He eventually found us, and by then the mess was cleaned up.  Embarrassed, and surprised (what are the chances?!), he recounted his story, and I laughed and said, "That story sure flies in the face of everyone who has ever said they don't see the wheelchair, they only see me." 

And I realized that people say this to me because wheelchairs are not supposed to be the thing you notice first.  That would seem rude, right?  With my best interest at heart, they want me to know that my wheelchair is not a problem for them, that it is not a barrier in our relationship.  I get that.  I appreciate that and I love them for it.  But what I want them to know is that I would be literally and figuratively lost without my chair, and although I have only used this TiLite for about 6 months, it fits me in a way that it feels like an extension of my body.  And I want them to know that for all of these reasons, and more, and even though the world is not always designed for wheelchair navigation, to me my wheelchair is beautiful, and I love it very, very much.

wishing you beauty where you least expect to find it,
hk