An Interlude

First, some clarification for my own sense of pride: although I haven’t posted in a few days, I’ve decided that the weekend doesn’t count for the purposes of my blogging streak. In other words, the streak lives on. (Yes, I’ve been brainwashed by that language-learning app. At least writing is marginally more productive than drilling random vocab words is.)

Saturday was an intermission from the tragicomedy that’s been my life in recent weeks. The issues preventing me from going out alone persist—sidewalks still bad, wheelchair still out of commission—but my husband felt comfortable enough with the state of the roads to proceed with the day trip we’d planned well before we knew that I’d be long overdue for a change of scenery (what foresight we had!). We usually bring my manual chair or my travel power chair on these outings as to avoid the major expense of renting a wheelchair van, so no problem there. As you might imagine, I was eager to get out of the neighbourhood.

Lest you think that you’re in for a description of some exciting adventure to places previously unexplored, I might as well say right off the bat that this was not that at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. Indeed, it wouldn’t be worth writing about had the context been different and were I not so skilled at grasping for “meaning” in almost everything I do or experience—a superpower I wish I hadn’t had occasion to acquire. It probably isn’t worth writing about at all, but here we are. This was merely an errands-running mission with some thrifting thrown in because my husband and I are drawn to second-hand stores like moths to animal-based fibres. Our primary destination, besides a grocery outlet we make a habit of visiting when we’re in the area—we both love a deal and my husband is a sucker for a novelty food item—was IKEA. Always fun, right?

Stopping in at the Salvation Army in my neighbourhood is something I do on a too-regular basis but have been cut off from lately. I’ve been in low-key withdrawal while unable to safely get there, so I was excited to scratch that itch. Well, I’m not sure I so much scratched the itch as found the remedy for it. Our thrift tour of Newmarket (an hour’s drive from where we live) was OK; we targeted a few stores at which I once lucked out with a huge load of beautiful second-hand fabric for very little money, and I bought a couple of vintage pieces, though not much. More interestingly, I was pretty “meh” about it. Like, I got bored after a few minutes and opted to read the news on my phone while my husband finished browsing rather than thumbing through the racks as I usually would.

Next was the grocery outlet. Now, that was fun. No need to elaborate except to encourage you to visit one if you ever have the chance and are in the market for weird sodas, obscure snacks, and mega bags of miniature frozen scones.

And finally, IKEA. There are several of them in the GTA, but the one that made the most sense given our route happens to be situated a few blocks from a major hospital at which I spent a very unhappy, though ultimately life-saving, month more than a decade ago. I caught a glimpse of that looming medical facility from the vantage point of the second level of the parkade as I waited for my husband to unload and reassemble my chair. Too busy feeling good about how far I’ve come from those days of yore, I didn’t dwell on the fact that we’d been forced up the ramp because the main lot was jammed with a rush-hour volume of traffic that might augur the crowds inside. Within three minutes of entering the building, any enthusiasm I’d had about furniture shopping—limited at best—was replaced with growing annoyance at the obliviousness of the average shopper. I’ll never understand why blocking a labyrinthine path to conduct a prolonged group huddle strikes anyone as an acceptable activity.

Ten minutes later, by then overwhelmed and overstimulated and IKEA-ed out, all I wanted to do was go home and sew, far from the general public, free to wheel more than two feet without bumping into someone.

We found the items on our list but didn’t linger, and the drive back went smoothly. En route, I sheepishly acknowledged that although I’d needed some distance from my building, I’d in a certain sense be glad to return to it. In discussing this with my husband, I recognized that the trip did its job in ways I’d anticipated and ways I hadn’t. It was a temporary reprieve and distraction, but it also reminded me that I’d be fine a little longer. I’m good with a break from thrifting, and I’m stocked up on Faygo thanks to that grocery outlet. I like being home—or I’m learning to tolerate it, anyway. I have plenty of human contact but don’t need to deal with the general public, which is a pretty good deal if you think about it. It was that hospital sighting, however, that really put things into perspective. I’m not stuck in a ward with no means of escape and little to keep me occupied and engaged. Rather, I’ve maintained some autonomy and independence despite my current lack of mobility, and I have absolutely no trouble filling each day in a manner that leaves me satisfied at the end of it.

Of course, I’m only human. It’s been two days since that “epiphany,” and whatever lesson I learned lasted approximately thirty-six hours. Over the last twelve, it’s faded almost completely, leaving anger, resentment, and frustration in its wake. I’d assumed I’d get answers re next steps with my wheelchair today, Monday, which made it easier to push the whole thing to the back of my mind while the mobility company was closed and I couldn’t expect new information. I’ve had a back and forth with them since this morning, though, and their “you’ll hear back from us shortly” has led to nothing. It’s easy to tell myself that I should look on the bright side; it’s much harder to see that bright side through the thick layer of dark currently veiling my eyes. That said, I still believe there’s no use dwelling on what I lack if it detracts from my ability to make the most of what I have‚ which includes, as of thirty minutes ago, seven new sewing patterns and a pile of freshly ironed fabric. I guess it’s time to transform this rage into a pair of pants.