Joystick

Last Wednesday was one for the books.

It was on that monumental day that my occupational therapist, a sales rep, and a technician, the latter two from a medical-equipment supplier, came in the late morning so that I could trial a power chair and so that my OT could evaluate whether or not I’m a good candidate for one. I’ve seldom been so single-mindedly excited about a health-related event.

To be honest, I hadn’t thought much about the driving itself. Even before my long-expired learner’s permit was revoked by the DMV shortly after I was diagnosed with epilepsy (talk about adding insult to injury), my only real experience behind an actual or simulated wheel—save many a Mario Kart session—was the one or two informal lessons I had prior to deciding that I’d rather use public transportation for the rest of my life than face the crippling anxiety that stared me in the face when I was in the literal driver’s seat. I know many people living with epilepsy for whom losing their license was/is a devastating loss, and I totally get why. I, however, am not a member of that particular club.

Indeed, the sole motorized vehicle I’ve ever cared about not being allowed to operate is a power wheelchair.

This relates to what drives me in my quest to optimize all aspects of my health: my desire to be as independent as is achievable and reasonable. I’ve accepted that walking outside is completely off the table. Leaving all pedestrians in my wheelchair-generated dust, on the other hand …

I’ve already documented my thrill at being approved for a power chair, so I won’t subject you to another hyperbolic recounting of the pure, unadulterated joy that filled me with indescribable jubilance as my epileptologist handed me my ticket to a (more) powerful future (yep, definitely no hyperbole there!). After at long last being given his blessing—and, more importantly, a letter attesting to that fact—I not-so-patiently waited to move ahead with the process.

Much to my chagrin, I didn’t wake up the next day to find a power chair in my living room in the way gifts magically appear on Christmas morning, and although my OT got the ball rolling pretty quickly, the supplier required a few weeks to assemble a suitable demo chair. So by last Wednesday, more than a month had elapsed since that epileptologist appointment. A month in which nary a day passed without my longingly Googling power wheelchairs and dreaming about the wheels that would transport me to the promised land of cafés, libraries, gelato shops, and independence. A month in which focusing on anything but wheelchairs took all the strength I could muster.

This would be a good time to thank my husband and friends for successfully pretending to care about the ins and outs of the exciting field of power-chair innovation. Not all superheroes wear capes; some wear indulging smiles and a glazed-over pair of eyes.

The technician arrived first. With him was a compact, sporty chair in speed-car red. My heart fluttered. Every bit of me wanted to roll over and stroke its gleaming exterior. (OK, I might’ve rolled over and stroked its gleaming exterior, but only for a second.)

After what felt like an eternity but wasn’t more than five minutes, my occupational therapist and the sales rep—or “Mobility & Accessibility Consultant,” according to her business card—buzzed in and my introduction to the power chair officially began.

The consultant, “V,” delivered, well, a sales pitch. It wasn’t a hard sell: indeed, the moment I laid eyes on what I was later informed was a Quantum Q6 Edge 3.0 (swoon) was much as I imagine the moment new parents meet their newborn must be. Love. Upon transferring to the Quantum, my suspicions were confirmed. I was like a duckling imprinting to its mother; a permanent bond had been forged.

Before I could turn it on, I had to sit through Power Chair 101. While teaching it, V and my OT kept stressing the differences between operating a car and operating a chair, telling me that safely using said chair would require me to ignore the instincts that they assumed I’d acquired through years of driving. Here lay an epilepsy-generated win/silver lining, for it’s thanks to my neurological oddities that, as I previously mentioned, my only driving-related instincts come from one of the few video games I’ve consistently played in my lifetime. As it turns out, the skills needed to be competent at Mario Kart translate remarkably well to the best game of all, Power Chairing (more imaginative title needed). I was like a real-life Princess Peach. Or Bowser in an uncharacteristically good mood.

In all seriousness, though, it’s hard to describe how special it was to try the chair for the first time. It took me a few minutes to adjust, but it was more intuitive than I imagined it would be. Any worry that there might be a steep learning curve quickly melted into a sense of contentment that continued for the entirety of the test drive, and what a test drive it was. The four of us made a big loop along a stretch of sidewalk chopped up by ongoing construction, a side street that heavily slants, a lane that isn’t particularly well paved, and a back alley with several sets of speed bumps. I was able to navigate it all without injuring myself or any passersby.

Walking is so overrated.

The chair didn’t check all the boxes on the list of desired features I’d compiled in the research I conducted while waiting for this meeting. Since my husband and I have been hitting the road with more frequency as of late, and since we have several longer trips planned for the next few months, I was hoping for something that could be disassembled and transported in the trunk of a car. The Quantum isn’t that: though small for a electric wheelchair, it’s solidly built and doesn’t fold down. I raised this concern with V, who explained that travel chairs aren’t meant for everyday use and typically can’t be customized to the extent I require. My manual chair has a seat and a backrest that prevent pressure sores; if I’m to safely transition to a power chair, it’ll need the same features. There’s the option of adding an assist mechanism to the chair I already have, but that wouldn’t provide the same maneuverability or power.

All lingering doubt as to whether or not I want to compromise everyday functionality for travel convenience vanished after two or so minutes in the driver’s seat. I’m happy to bring my manual chair when I leave the city on vacation if the trade-off is the ability to navigate the community confidently and independently, and I knew almost immediately that that’s what this power chair will give me.

It was really hard to part ways with the Quantum. It’ll be six weeks or so before I get my permanent chair, which will be ordered as soon as my funding application goes through (fingers crossed that it does!). Before she left, V guided me through customization options, both practical, such as seat, backrest, and armrests, and less so, such as whether or not I want a cupholder (duh) and colour. With a little encouragement from her, I went with my heart and decided on purple.

I am, however, resisting the very real temptation to order a back-up cam.