My power wheelchair’s first set of batteries started showing signs of failure mere months after they were given their inaugural run. Concerned, I contacted the service representative I’d been dealing with at the store through which I purchased the (remarkably expensive) chair. It took some back and forth, but she was helpful and kind and arranged to have them replaced under warranty. Given how quickly I’d grown reliant on my power chair to maintain and expand my independence in the community, it was a huge relief to know that my proverbial wings wouldn’t be prematurely clipped by the very (power) source that fuelled my autonomy.
Two and a half months later, I sat down to compose another concerned email to that service rep. I’d been extremely, even obsessively, careful about maintaining good charging practices, following the manufacturer’s instructions to the letter and reading countless threads on wheelchair-user subreddits with advice as to how to prolong battery life, and yet I’d already noticed signs that the same pattern was repeating itself, even sooner this time.
And thus began a drawn-out, semi-traumatic saga whose details I’ll largely spare you mostly because I don’t want to relive them. The short version? I emailed the now-delinquent service rep six more times—spread over many months; I’m not a psychopath—before emailing the company directly. I would’ve done so earlier had the battery decline not slowed down over the summer, which gave me a false sense of confidence that everything was okayish. Silence yet again, so I made a few calls and eventually talked to an actual person.
She and I got off to a rocky start. I gave her a high-level summary of the course of events; she informed me that there was no record I had tried to reach out to begin with. Armed with printouts of the numerous appeals for aid I’d launched at multiple recipients, I corrected her in the overly nice, abundantly sweet, grossly deferential tone I’ve learned is more effective than being forceful is. Gotta love being a disabled woman in a patriarchal society that rewards pushy men and punishes female-identifying people who try to assert themselves, but I digress. In any case, it worked: now solicitous, she offered to have a tech contact me.
“Sounds good” is what came out of my mouth. I’m not holding my breath, lady is what ran through my head. By some mobility miracle, though, said technician phoned later that same day and listened patiently as I outlined the details I promised I’d spare you. He confirmed that it was way too soon for there to be such deterioration and suggested that the batteries were likely defective from the get-go.
That was the moment I realized I’d been engaging in the age-old thinking trap into which I still consistently fall despite hundreds of hours of therapy and multiple medications to correct my woefully imbalanced brain chemistry: assuming that I was making the whole thing up and/or that it was all. my. fault.
Pausing my perpetual self-gaslighting, I basked in the glory of validation for approximately ten seconds.
“You should have told us earlier,” he said upon learning the timeline. “We can send them back to the manufacturer for the first six months.”
My life-long companions, Guilt and Panic, instantaneously returned. Guilt because yeah, I must’ve done something to cause what had seemed an annoyance until my brain suddenly turned it into a catastrophe of my own making. Panic because what if I had to pay for the batteries out of pocket and ended up in financial ruin as a result of what was surely a moral failing? Maybe I wouldn’t proceed with the repair, for a functioning wheelchair would do me no good if I lacked a roof over my head. (Side note: this was catastrophic thinking of the highest order. I have the financial luxury of knowing that I could cover the batteries if push came to shove, and I recognize that not everyone is in that position.)
After I laid on more of that deferential sweet-talking so effective at making things happen, if bad for my sense of self-dignity, the tech advised me that I would need to make an appointment to bring the chair into the shop to have it evaluated. It’d cost $85 for the labour, but given that my extensive record-keeping confirmed that I had, indeed, kept the company apprised of the batteries’ gradual demise—score one for scrupulosity!—the batteries would likely be covered under warranty. This seemed fine; all previous chair repairs and checkups had involved a housecall, but whatever. Minor inconvenience at worst.
All this fell into place shortly before my husband and I left for a week-long trip to BC, so I scheduled a slot for the first Thursday following our return to the GTA. It was only after hanging up that it occurred to me that I shouldn’t have agreed to commute to the shop without knowing where it was located. I looked it up, shook my head—not metaphorically—and irrationally buried my rational response, “an hour and a half one direction on public transportation in the winter with a chair whose batteries are on their last legs is maybe not the best idea,” under the mountain of pre-vacation prep still left to accomplish. I wouldn’t let practical concerns ruin my travels.
While waiting for our return flight the next Sunday and planning the week ahead, however, I let myself confront the reality of the situation and admitted to my husband, and to myself, that trekking back and forth would be an unwise move. My fleeting instinct was to either a) grin and bear it, thus imperilling my and my power chair’s health; or b) resort to avoidance, which, in this case, would mean cancelling the appointment, cherishing my last days with my power chair with the knowledge that all things, including the lifespan of wheelchair batteries, are ephemeral, and then being a recluse confined to my building rather than taking further steps to take care of things. A previous version of me might’ve done just that, but I am, thank goodness, a very different, much more capable person now. A person who values her independence too much to risk losing it. A person who in fact relishes facing obstacles as long as there’s a decent chance she can overcome them.
Having geared myself up for a challenge, I was almost disappointed that no significant one was forthcoming. The first order of business on my first morning home was calling the mobility company to ask how much extra it would cost to have the tech come to me. The upcharge was surprisingly marginal, and there was an opening the very same week. It was a no-brainer.
The day of, I sat around most of the morning and afternoon waiting for him to arrive (no precise time was given, just the promise he’d be there by 5:00). Growing steadily more anxious, irritated, and cynical, I steeled myself to say something uncharacteristically forward about how people with disabilities have lives too. I was in the midst of inflaming the fires of my discontent when the intended target of it finally buzzed up.
All plans to communicate my ire at the injustice of it all melted into nothingness when the technician, a dapper young man with a sheepish smile on his face and a hefty toolkit in his hand, opened his mouth. As if the humble nerd persona he had going on weren’t enough, he proceeded to introduce himself and apologize for being late in an English accent of the type that telegraphs “charming British chap.” Swoon. I’m convinced that he was hired to make clients who are disgruntled by the inconvenience of being left literally powerless forget all the hoops they had to jump through for basic wheelchair maintenance. He was a living, breathing, presumably tea-drinking elixir. Get me a cuppa.
This is all to say that I reacted with nothing but obsequious gratitude when, having completed a series of diagnostic checks, he gave me the verdict. The batteries were testing at 28%; a fail is under 70%. It might take a few weeks for a new set to come in, and I should exercise real caution in the meantime lest I get stranded in the cold far from home, but help was on the way, and the batteries themselves would indeed be covered by warranty.
True to his word, my tweed-wearing saviour returned not ten days later and did the swap. I hardly cared that I lost another day to sitting around waiting for him. OK, I cared, a lot, but again forgot to be mad once enchanted by his foreign lilt, and all was definitively forgiven when he confirmed that my chair was now rideable. There would be a break-in period before the batteries were at full capacity, though, so I shouldn’t interpret faster-than-usual depletion in the first week or two as underperformance.
I wish there were a happily ever after to this impressively drawn-out story, but this is real life, not an Austen novel with an unambiguously happy conclusion. It’s been a month, and I’ve been ceaselessly neurotic about taking care of the fresh batteries. Like a mother caring for her firstborn, I tend to their every need, worry about them, and imagine their premature demise and how awful I would feel if I were responsible for it, and yet they’re still not operating as I’d expect them to. I suspect that the issue lies with my chair or the charger; I’ll give it another week before I begin pestering the mobility company. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, and I’ve learned how critical documentation is.
The saga thus continues. For now, however, I’m safely back on the road. When I start getting caught up in that nagging wheelchair-related anxiety, I remind myself that the worst-case scenario is another future meeting with the Charles Bingley of wheelchair techs. I could handle that just fine.
De Morbo Sacro: Life and/with Epilepsy 