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Home / Thoughts / Other's Thoughts / Chloe's Thoughts / In the Deep End: Part 3

In the Deep End: Part 3

Written by Chloe on Saturday, August 30, 2008

The final installment about my first wheelchair trip: By this time I was feeling very comfortable in the wheelchair, and I had figured out most of the practical issues.

DAY 6

I awake to substantial feelings of grief. There have been a number of activities at the convention that I used to enjoy greatly. It hurts me not to have been able to do these things, which are impossible in a wheelchair. I start crying because I think that I have already done these things for the last time. There are just some things that someone with paraplegia is not going to be able to do; things that mean a lot to me. I think I must be nuts. Why am I experiencing grief if I am choosing to do this? I berate myself for complaining about being paralysed. But wait. Did I choose this? Do I have a choice? If not, then it is perfectly reasonable that I am grieving over the loss. Why would it be any different for me than for anyone else becoming paralysed? It is not going to help me to deny that I have real grief about this. Of course there is going to be grief. It is all part of the deal. I settle into this insight.

Today back pain wins out over vanity. I shall wear my back brace. I have a nice ruffly frilly top that will help conceal the back brace, and still look very feminine and sexy. (You probably all figured out by now that I am one of those femme lesbians).

As I wheel across a parking lot to get to the one accessible restroom on site, someone greets me from a golf cart going the opposite direction. He is a convention site employee with whom I have been exchanging pleasantries for the last few days. He wants to have a chat. He asks me if my husband has been helping me with the competitions (he is correctly assuming that I did need help). I say that I am here alone, but I have lots of friends who have helped me out. After chatting some more, he asks me out for coffee. I have a little attack of paranoia, and wonder if he’s thinking that women in wheelchairs are "easy".

It is raining most of today, so my butt gets wet every time I do a car-wheelchair transfer. I feel the wetness.

DAY 7

Wow, day seven already! My back feels a little better today, so I forgo the back brace in order to look super hot for the final banquet: a thin stretchy form fitting camisole, with no bra; long black skirt; cute shoes; I already did my nails to match the camisole.

After a visit to the restroom I have about twenty minutes before the bar opens, an hour before the banquet. I hang out in the hallway for some quiet contemplation, just enjoying being in the wheelchair. My cellphone rings. It is a friend. She asks me how I am, since she heard about me being in a wheelchair. What the hell! She never comes to these conventions, and she doesn’t know anyone here either. How did she find out? She tells me who told her, and I immediately figure it out. I have a friend at the convention who has a friend (also known to me) via a completely different connection, who is a friend of my friend who just called me. Shit!!! The problem is that the person who just called me is a close enough friend that I told her about my "recreational" leg braces about a year ago, without telling her about BIID. Shit! I’ve been thinking that different groups of friends are sufficiently compartmentalised that all I have to do is keep my story straight within any particular group. But sometimes there are connections, albeit tenuous. This was a long shot. The four of us involved here live in four different, and non-contiguous, states. I confirm to my friend about the skiing injury. Everything I say is true. She says "Well, you’re into leg braces so you’re probably pretty happy about being in a wheelchair". I start laughing. I’m not quite sure what she is understanding about all this. Anyway, she seems to be buying into the idea that I like leg braces AND I had a back injury AND I need a wheelchair. It is possible after all, isn’t it? They are all true!

I have a good time socialising in the bar area before the banquet. Then I wheel up to a nicely accessible table with five people, who I don’t know, already seated, and I ask if I can join them. Sometimes I’m just in the mood to meet new people. About a minute before my name is announced I suddenly figure out that I am going to be getting a trophy for one of my competitions. I have been so busy having fun in the wheelchair that it had not crossed my mind ahead of time. I gracefully wheel up to receive my trophy amidst much applause. I can’t help but wonder if some of the applause is for the wheelchair; it seems louder and longer than other people are getting. Sometimes we do get good attention; might as well enjoy it. The folks back at my table let me know how honored they are to have been dining with a trophy winner. Afterwards some of my friends come up to me and say that none of the trophy winners looked more happy than I did. Yes, I probably was the happiest!

So far I’ve not gone to the vending building. I’ve been intimidated because it’s far from the nearest parking lot, and up a very long dirt hill. During drinking hour before the banquet I asked a friend if he thought I would be able to get there. He said no. HA! This is not the Chloe from Day 1. I start wheeling up the dirt hill. I am very confident that I can do this. Halfway up the hill I pass two kids playing. They look like brother and sister, around ten or eleven years old. They ask if they can push me. I am about to say no, since I am doing fine, but I can see in their eyes how much they really want to give me a push so I say yes. They are very eager and can’t wait for their turn to push. I direct them to the gate at the top of the hill, thank them, and tell them that I can handle the downhill part just fine from there. It makes me feel happy to have made their day.

After buying my goodies I prepare to wheel back up the dirt hill to the gate. A guy asks me if I’d like a push. I say "No I’m fine". He says "Are you sure?". This time I look into his eyes. I see that he is lonely and in need of company. I say "Well, O.K.; Thanks". We attempt a little conversation, but we quickly catch on that we are both deaf. He stops and comes around to the front so that we can admit this to each other. He is more deaf than I am. We adopt the system of stopping periodically so that we can have a little chat with the assistance of lipreading. About halfway to my car I point it out and say that I can manage all the downhill part. He wants to push me all the way to my car. I let him. He is the one with the greater need here. After stashing my goodies in the car, I sit in the chair for a few minutes, contemplating what I have just learned. Being in a wheelchair is not just about me. Other people have needs too. I should not be responding to offers of help based solely on my own desires. I should be looking at people so that I can ascertain the motivation behind their offer. Sometimes I can fulfill the greater good by allowing people to help me when I don’t need it. It makes me happy when I am able to facilitate someone else’s happiness.

This evening is a time for farewells. One of my friends comes up to me. I have had quite a few interactions with her during the week. We talk for a while; then she says "You seem really happy". I say "Yeah, I’m happy". Soon it is time to say goodbye. She gives me a big hug, and a kiss on the cheek. I barely manage to hold back the tears (but I am crying as I write this).

As I go to bed, exhausted, I think about what a truly wonderful day this has been. It has been a wonderful week. I am indeed happy.

DAY 8

I allow three and a half hours from getting out of bed until checkout time. It is not enough. I call the front desk to ask for another half hour, explaining that I am disabled. No problem, they know who I am by now. Four hours! Did I mention that being disabled sucks? ; )

On the way home I have plenty of time to digest a few things, besides lunch. I think it is strange that for the entire week I have not seen a single other wheelchair; not one among the two thousand or so people attending the convention; not one at the restaurants or around town; not one in my travels. Where have all the wheelchairs gone? Isn’t that a song? Now I truly feel unable to get by without the wheelchair. I feel like I have forgotten how to walk. I feel like I am unable to walk. The wheelchair comes out for every rest stop, every meal, every purchase. I’ll get another two days of it after I get home before I go back to work.

I realise how very little thought I have given to becoming paralysed this week. Usually it relentlessly pounds at my brain. Wheelchair therapy really does work! I have been able to focus on all sorts of other things, with joy.

I stop for a dinner of milk and ice cream (no, don’t bother telling me I have weird eating habits). I’m assuming that the doors in the restroom with the wheelchair symbols are supposed to be the accessible stalls. The wheelchair only just fits inside, jammed between the door and the toilet bowl. The transfer rails are completely out of reach. Can it really be true that it doesn’t cross people’s minds to consult a wheelchair user when they design such things? Forget about having an assistant in there if you needed one. The only restroom on this trip that has really worked well has been the one at the restaurant I have frequented, where I had lunch this morning. In the stall there I could bring the wheelchair parallel to the toilet and make a reasonable transfer. I still haven’t figured out the clothes though. How do you support all of your weight on both arms AND take down your shorts to go pee? I desperately need lessons on all this.

After dinner, my partner calls to see if I can pick up some stuff at the store, on the way home. I exit at the next town and drive around until I find a store. On the way back to my car in the parking lot, I suddenly feel very vulnerable for the first time. I don’t know this town; I’m not sure what kind of neighbourhood this is; It is almost dark; there are hardly any other cars in the parking lot, and it is deserted. I think I must look very vulnerable.

An hour away from home I start crying. I need to keep this under control because it is dark; there is a lot of road construction, and a lot of traffic. The emotions from this week are deep and complex; so many different things all at once; joy and grief experienced simultaneously. A thought bubbles up: I have lost all hope in my heart that BIID could ever go away. This week I just took the next inevitable step. How long can I keep going part time? After I am full time, how long before the incessant need to be paralysed drives me out of my mind?

I shall always remember how beautiful I looked in a wheelchair… No matter how screwed up I might be, I need to remember that I am still a beautiful person.

Tags: Back Brace, Back Injury, BIID, Leg Braces, Paralysed, Paraplegia, Wheelchair

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