Where This Wheelchair Has Been

Sometimes I ask you guys what you’d like to read more about around here. And sometimes you tell me. A frequent request is more about my every day life as a wheelchair-user.

Hi. I can do that.

And so, during my recent assessment for a new wheelchair I figured out that I’ve had my current chair for going on 14 years. I thought it was 16, but we all know Math isn’t my thing.

Anyway, that’s a long time. Too long. I wouldn’t recommend waiting that long between chairs. But I really like this chair. Obviously. And I don’t trust any other chairs. I know this one like the back of my hand butt.

I bought this chair when I was around 25. I’d just gotten back from some time in New York and Seattle with a solo Amtrak trip in the middle.

While in Seattle, I stayed with a friend from University 2, pretended to be a vegetarian, and scattered some of my grandfather’s ashes with the cherry blossoms.

My chair before this one was well-loved, too. But I needed a new one to match my city life.

When I got back from the States, I landed in Glasgow, and stayed. Instead of going back to my house on the hill, I moved into a flat and found a job, and then another one. And four more flats.

I got a new wheelchair that could handle city streets and city taxis. I didn’t have a car, but I drove the chair. Everywhere.

Job interviews, book groups, writing groups. Bad dates, better dates. Backwards over cobblestones in Italy.

I tried online dating, put my wheels in the photos. Waited outside museums, and inside pubs, and got stood up. Or not.

One day, I drove myself to my last first date. In the rain. Rain is good luck.

I introduced Neil to my Dad, and I pulled up at my Grandparents’ kitchen table, transplanted to Scotland. I beat Neil at poker wearing a Mets hat and weightlifting/wheelchair-driving gloves, with holes in the palms.

I walked up and down stairs with my chair waiting at either end, and Neil next to me. I went into clubs and got locked in the bathroom of a pub. I missed the memo where the door was broken, and I should have left it open. Because disabled people should be perfectly happy with no privacy. Not.

I was sitting in this chair when Neil asked me to move in with him.

My first day at my favorite job was in this chair. I celebrated by hitting a pothole, and having to get my eyebrow glued back on. Showed up at work the next day and helped lead a training session, with a black eye.

This chair was with me at the airport when I introduced Neil to my mother.

Up the Empire State building in the fog, when I thought he’d propose.

I transferred out to propose to him.

The front wheel fell of on the way to a call-centre job that was indeed a very bad idea.

I was in this wheelchair trying on wedding dresses and I bought a new set of wheels to get married in.

Over more cobblestones in Bruges and out on the boardwalk at a beach in Barcelona.

(For real accessible travel blogs, check out Curb Free With Cory Lee, Carrie- Ann Lightley, and Spin The Globe.)

I wasn’t literally in the chair when I found out I was pregnant, but I drove into all my appointments, and requested a c-section, because I didn’t know how my body would react to labor.

‘You could try,’ said my doctor.

‘How ’bout you try?,’ I said.

And so, I was pacing in this chair from the bathroom to the bed on baby day. They came to get me for the c-section, and I went from the chair to the bed to the other bed, because they have a thing about their own beds.

I wore Isla in a sling for like two minutes, and then a baby-carrier until she learned to climb up my chest and onto my shoulders. Not really, but close.

I’ve taken her to school in this chair and there was that one time at the toy store.

This chair has been with me on the best days, the inaccessible days, and the interesting hotel stays.

When it’s out of action, so am I. My spare chair isn’t as badass.

And after too many years this one is out of shape, too. My posture is bad, and I rarely push myself any more, which is probably a good thing, because my center of gravity is off. The back is almost a recliner.

They don’t even make this chair any more, so instead of a repair job, I got a complete upgrade.

The day of my assessment and order was my happiest day in a while.

The practical side of choosing a wheelchair is coming up in another post, but I felt listened to and heard by the advisor, who came all the way to my house. He’s kindly agreed to chat about wheelchairs with me on the blog, so stay tuned for that.

Let me know if there’s anything you want me to ask or cover.

But there is one issue. One little snag.

‘Get a pink wheelchair this time, Mumma.’

‘We’ll see,’ I said.

I chose an electric blue. Which would be the color of my car, if I drove one.

Isla wouldn’t speak to me for half an hour when she found out it wasn’t pink.

I think she might get over it.

I wonder where the new chair will take me.

What do you look for in a new wheelchair?