Somewhere to Go, Someone to Be

Months ago, I was assessed and approved for a power wheelchair and rushed to share the good news. Then came the “waiting for funding to go through” stage—never fun, especially if, like me, you’re impatient and eager to take on the world atop your fancy new ride. During this middle period, the chair’s made scattered cameo appearances in this blog like the A-list celebrity it is (in my heart, anyway). I haven’t, however, dedicated another full post to it.

My failure to do so is strange given a) the fact that I’ve had a (loaner) chair in my possession for a while now, b) how frequently I manage to work my chair into everyday conversation, and c) how transformative the initial phases of my metamorphosis into Master Power-Chair User have been. Maybe I’ve subconsciously avoided making it a fixture of recent entries because I haven’t wanted to jinx a process that’s still underway; maybe the chair’s became such a fixture in my life that I started to assume that my every word oozed the confidence of a woman who couldn’t be mistaken for anything but someone who travels the city by power chair; maybe I was too occupied being a (more) independent person of the world to bother praising a tool that I’ve already started taking for granted. In any case, there have been new and very, very exciting-to-me developments, so it’s high time I returned to the subject.

My initial elation following the visit with the accessibility consultant and my occupational therapist in which it was determined that a power chair was appropriate for me faded within hours. Before this turning point, I’d resigned myself to the limitations that using a manual wheelchair placed on me, but having a taste of what I hadn’t 100% known I was missing made it significantly harder to keep telling myself that I was OK with relying on others—mostly on my husband—when I wanted or needed to leave our building. Bubble burst, I found myself moping around the apartment, gazing out the window as I pictured myself weaving in and out of pedestrians, wind tousling my hair (in one version of this fantasy, I was Audrey Hepburn riding a Vespa; in the other, I was Celine Dion at the stern of the Titanic). I controlled myself for a good ninety minutes before shooting an email to the consultant inquiring about the possibility of renting a power chair to bridge the gap while my funding application was being assessed.

Whether out of a desire to make me happy or because she sensed that I wouldn’t stop pestering her for updates if I weren’t distracted by a temporary toy, she generously offered to have the demo chair I’d tried sent back to me for an “assessment” period.

It was delivered a few days later. Not long after that, my husband grew confident enough in my driving skills to agree that I could go to the library without him—my first time out by myself in years. Things progressed astoundingly quickly from there: I was soon taking public transportation, running errands, meeting friends, going to appointments, and taking leisurely (st)rolls in my neighbourhood totally alone. Unaccompanied. Unassisted.

I simultaneously can’t believe that this is my life now and can’t believe that it hasn’t always been this way. In my months with a power chair, I’ve progressed to such an extent that my husband recently said that he thinks I’m doing better now than I have as long as he’s known me. This might seem paradoxical given that I’m still and will likely always be a wheelchair user, but it’s absolutely true. It’s obviously just one of many elements that’ve pushed (and pulled) me forward, but the wheelchair has been a tremendous catalyst for change.

My funding application for a government program that will take care of the majority of the cost of my permanent chair went through pretty speedily, but preapproval for the remaining portion, which will be covered by our extended health insurance, took longer. A few weeks ago, we finally felt comfortable finalizing the purchase, and the (incredible) accessibility consultant I’ve been working with made the order. She and my occupational therapist are scheduled to come TODAY to dispense the chair, which will be a newer and fancier model of the one I’ve driven almost 350 miles this summer.

Yep. 350 miles.

Luckily, I’ve had lots to distract me while I wait. As I often forget—leading me to double book myself way more frequently than I should—I’m a busy woman. This is in large part thanks to the wheelchair (and to the fact that I’m so much healthier and happier, etc. etc., but this post is about my power chair, so I’ll give it most of the credit here).

My ridiculous excitement does, however, get the best of me from time to time. When I find my mind wandering from task to power chair, I plan my first adventures in my purple marvel, browse accessories, and picture that Audrey-Celine hybrid navigating the Toronto sidewalks: a person with somewhere to go and someone to be.