Do you sleep in your wheelchair? How do you shower? How do you go up stairs?
These are just a few of the innocent questions kids have thrown my way. It’s funny. Kids sometimes think that my wheelchair is magically grafted to my ass. And even more amusing, they think that if I leave my wheelchair, I’ll poof (!)…spontaneously combust (or worse). I can survive without my wheelchair thank you very much. Yes, it would suck, but my body doesn’t require a “chair with wheels” to continue cellular regeneration.
If you haven’t figured it out yet, what’s happening here is kids will sometimes see the person and the wheelchair as ONE complete entity; not two separate things. It’s funny, mildly annoying, but not all surprising. I can see why they think this way actually. But hey, they’re kids. I have hope this a learning curve they’ll get over. And this is exactly why I used to go to elementary schools and let the kids inundate me with their round of questioning, just to (hopefully) help create future adults who will be free of disability stereotypes.
So no, I do not sleep in my wheelchair. I get lifted into bed each night, sometimes by art school students, other times by struggling 20 somethings, all whom work for me on a part-time basis (and all nearly found on Craigslist). And my wheelchair hangs out by my bed each night I sleep, charging away. My legs can still stretch out and lie in bed. I am like a doll, people. Put me in my dollhouse bed, and don’t forget to open that bottle of red wine and leave it by my bed before you leave.
And to shower, well I have what I have called my “water-proof” wheelchair (made of plastic and rubber), that I get lifted into. I have a shower with no steps, so I can just roll on in, get under the showerhead and pull the curtain closed, and then close my eyes and enjoy the hot water as it runs down my head, neck, face, shoulders, and arms…and watch the water hit my thighs.
This is my life.
And stairs? I can get carried up them too. I sometimes (for saving sanity sake) like to imagine I’m Cleopatra getting carried in a litter, but honestly, no…I know I’m just another gimp getting helped out by my humanoid friends. And even though I can get carried up stairs in my chair, I prefer to leave my chair out in my van and say…sit on my friend’s couch instead for the party (as I play Rock Band and horrendously screw-up the lyrics to Beastie Boys “Sabotage”). It’s all good you know?
And by the way, by wheelchair is named “Harriet” and she gets very upset when people lump her into my personality.
