Trial by Snow

It was an unusually long summer and fall in Toronto, a period marked by eerily comfortable temps that lingered well into November and delayed the inevitable freeze of an Ontario winter. As much as I’m alarmed by what T-shirt-in-October days might signal, I was pretty fine with leaving my parka in the closet until weeks after blue-tinged appendages would force a summer–winter outerwear swap in a typical year. I was also pretty fine with having a legitimate reason to put off facing a source of anticipatory anxiety that was new to me: handling the snow and ice in my power wheelchair. As long as the sidewalks were clear and precipitation was limited to permadrizzle—which I’d actively hate if it weren’t for the looming alternative—I’d keep racking up the kms like a madwoman on a mission. As a madwoman on a mission, that is. I’d say my OCD-fuelled bid to see that odometer number tick up at an impressively swift pace lands me squarely in that category.

Last winter was my first as a full-time wheelchair user, and it was, to put it lightly, not fun. Since someone had to push me over slippery or sludgy terrain if I wanted or needed to go somewhere, outings were limited in number and length and a major hassle for all involved. My husband was a good sport, but the whole ordeal was stressful, not least because my backseat (frontseat?) driving was annoying as all get out. (To be fair, though, so was tolerating icy patches and snow drifts with my chronic pain exacerbated by bumps and abrupt jerks from side to side and my chronic intolerance for being denied total independence exacerbated by my lack of control over my own movements.) This unfortunate state of affairs left me with two options: be a miserable heap of electric blanket and flannel PJs confined to the same old apartment or be a slightly more miserable ice cube on wheels in an uninviting but novel environment. I consistently chose the latter.

Wheelchair walks became a little easier after the snow melted. Less on edge, I held my tongue more than I had when the meteorological conditions made me feel extra justified in trying to avoid falling victim to navigation I deemed to be imperfect. And then I graduated to my power chair, and leaving my building went from pleasant but mildly irritating to genuinely pleasurable. That was my summer and fall: wheeling (almost) anywhere I wished, no/very few cares in the world. It was wonderfully liberating.

If there’s anything negative about this happy status quo, it’s that it makes the mere thought of losing any aspect of my hard-won independence send metaphorical chills down my spine. The idea that actual chills might cause me to lose that freedom, which I hold as close to me as I clutch my cosiest blanket on the coldest winter day, is all the more terrifying. So as I was forced to confront the harsh reality that winter would eventually come no matter how fervently I wished that my entire beloved city would magically relocate somewhere with a more favourable climate, I tried to soothe my anxiety and mentally prepare myself for reduced mobility by reminding myself that it’d only be temporary and that forced hermiting would free me up to focus on the writing and sewing projects I’d neglected the previous six months while out exploring. Still skeptical as to my ability to cope, I made a master list of outings that require only that I get from my building to the streetcar stop a block away. (Thank goodness for public transportation and Toronto’s extensive underground PATH system downtown.) These strategies mitigated my nerves but by no means eliminated them.

A week or so into December was the first real frost. I ventured out early in the day, determined to show anxiety—and the Canadian winter—who’s boss.

My chair handled it just fine.

There’s a big difference, however, between a little frost and a big dump of snow. I thus immediately began worrying about the next challenge to be conquered. As if to save me from stewing in my unproductive thoughts, it appeared mere days later, when I woke up to discover that the greenery with which we’d decorated our balcony for the holidays was covered in white. The glow of our Christmas tree made it sparkle in the early-morning dawn. It was a magical sight. It was a hellscape, if a festive one.

While this time I was significantly less eager to prove that my obsessing that I might be stuck inside for the rest of my life was unfounded, my desire for a Tim Hortons americano (don’t hate—they’re delicious) helped me get over my nerves with relative haste. I donned my toque, scarf, and gloves; reviewed the list of safety tips I’d compiled from various other wheelchair users; ordered my coffee; lingered in the lobby for a few minutes “checking my email” because facing my fears isn’t something to be done before reading several unimportant messages from mailing lists I never meant to subscribe to; and, having exhausted all viable delay tactics, pressed the automatic door opener, braced myself, and rolled into the frigid unknown.

Once again, it was totally OK and has remained that way ever since.

It goes without saying that walks in the sun are more enjoyable than walks in the slush are (for everyone, not just for me and my power chair) and that the snow poses certain risks that simply don’t exist in other seasons. I need to drive more slowly and exercise more caution, and I’m no longer compelled to take the scenic route in order to increase the number on my chair’s odometer, although one could argue that these are positive adjustments I shouldn’t abandon when the spring arrives and the sidewalks are clear. In any case, I’ve been able to get out every day, even the blustery ones, energized by stubbornness, my power wheelchair’s remarkable power, for lack of a better word, and the caffeine provided by my absolutely wonderful, I swear Timmies americano. 10/10 recommend on all fronts.