Tag: Wheelchair life

I recently fell across this crazy (yet brilliant and hysterical) article written by Yasha Levine on “The Exile,” a Russia-based informations site, called “Hell On Wheels: 24 Hours Without Wheels in Moscow.” I’m not quite sure if his article was supposed to be satirical or purely informational, or shocking, or all three of these attributes, but I do know one thing – it was a HUGE wake-up call to Miss Tiffiny Carlson, in regards to how lucky I am to live in a city (Minneapolis), that is over 90% accessible (in regards to public facilities).

What Mr. Levine did was rent out a wheelchair for 250 rubles/week called “Nadezdha,” from an area medical rental place, which basically means (translated from Russian into English, of course), “Hope.” So, with the shoddy “Hope” wheelchair in his possession, which wasn’t easy to find by the way, Mr. Levine went out across the vastness that is the city of Moscow – post-Communism over 10+ years no less – to peruse the town PUBLICALLY, which in itself happens to be a big deal over there because essentially no one with a disability ever goes out in public out of both physical (lack of accessibility) and psychological (shame, embarrassment) reasons. Thanks to the extreme division of the able-bodied and the disabled in Communist-era Russia, everyone with a disability was pretty much institutionalized and never integrated into the public environment. The Russian public, still, TO THIS DAY, doesn’t know how to properly and politely handle people with disabilities (other than throw spare rubles at them or tell them they’re not wanted).

What Levine did in his 24 hours “without legs” was traverse the Muscovite subway system (via wheelies on escalators), dine on sub-par sushi at a huge (relatively new and thankfully accessibly) mall that lies on the outskirts of Moscow (fitting in a dinner date with his girlfriend, no less), and than (his biggest challenge), attempting to integrate himself into the elite Moscow clubbing scene (which was by far his biggest challenge). “We do not allow invalids into our club,” said one bouncer in the most simplistic terms possible, as he attempted to enter a certain snotty club. Undeterred, he used his friends (who were able-bodied and hip, as “clout”) he finally did get himself into another nearby high-brow club, and even got himself a few sexy (clothes-on) lap-dances from some hot Muscovite-women too. Oh the surprise that was!

To read this truly informative and mind-expanding article, and to learn to fully appreciate the accessibility of your current residence by the highest means possible, do read Yasha Levine’s article on his one-day escapade (thank ye gods) in the city of Moscow.

If you happen to be the lucky owner of a feline companion and also find yourself a wheelchair-user, you might have discovered the same bizarre occurence that I have during my many chair-using years: Cats want your wheelchair.I think it’s because that cats are, without a doubt (next to the sloth of course. No animal can beat the sloth), the laziest animal on the planet. And if you don’t believe me, go down to your friendly neighborhood cat shelter and pick one up. Not only will you be doing a service to society (score!), you’ll also be endlessly amused at how a cats seem to hone in on your chair; the most expensive seat in the house.

Take my one year old cat “Pixie Stick” for example. Every night after transferring into bed, she takes the first second it’s without “The Tiff,” and jumps right onto it; hanging on it in all wacky poses and perches, much like a monkey in a tree. Or trying to show-off like Nadia Comaneci. She thinks it’s hers, or at the very least, she thinks she’ll be able to steal it from me while I sleep. Lucky for me, the chair by itself weighs exactly 307 lbs (thanks to the two incredibly heavy car batteries that power the thing). I don’t care what kind of cat food I feed her, there’s no way on God’s green earth she’ll be able to even budge the thing. Ha. Dumb cat.

In all seriousness though, I love having her in my life. She is by far the most hyper cat I’ve had, allowing her to easily win Gold in the category, “Hardest Cat to Control.” I mean, she isn’t named after a pure-sugar candy for nothing. Just look at her in the picture above. She looks like she just got the best high ever on some high-grade opium, after settling her bony butt on my backrest.

But she’s only allowed to sit up there for so long. All the seating I have is custom and cost thousands of dollars to make, so having long grey and white cat fur all over it evey morning isn’t something I appreciate.

I do however have a huge supply of lint rollers on hand to erase any trace of her lounging. I swear, I have at least six rollers right now in my bedroom dresser, waiting to be used. And oh yes, they WILL be used. 

Ok, I’ll say it once again: “I’m Really Not a Wheelchair-Type of Person.”

You see, I’ve found this totally ludicrous statement to work like a charm nearly everytime I spew it from my mouth. When I meet amiable, yet (unfortunately) ignorant, able-bodied folks, it’s the only way I can get it through their thick “sterotypical layered skulls” that I’m just as “normal” as they are. And of course, after I say this statement, I go into my injury story: “Yadda, yadda, I dove into shallow water, broke my neck, yadda, yadda, drowned, yadda.”
And then, after this bizarre conversation (if you can even call it that. It feels more like being grilled by the Spanish Inquizition), they begin (at least from what I can observe) to treat me un-alien like; a complete 360 degree turnaround from what they were doing just a few minutes ago.
It makes my soul cry everytime I feel the need to say this statement; especially when I see that it works. I have to be honest here; it simply lowers my faith in humanity. Just when you think society as a whole is beginning to see the “person” and not the disability, your hopes get shot down like a fake rabbit in a carnival shooting range.
But desperate times call for desperate measures; and I’ve found that this desperation, the feeling of wanting to prove I’m just like everyone else, really hits me hardcore when I meet my boyfriend’s family or friends. If I truly care about someone, i.e., my boyfriend, I really want the other people who are important in his life to see me as a positive addition, not some “cripple” who’s dragging him down. This is without a doubt my worst fear, my worst my anxiety.
I’ll go out dancing and clubbing (with my versatile elevator-seat – great for bars – power chair), I’ll throw out the f-bomb just for shock value, I’ll subtely mention I can still drive, still have sex, still have babies, etc, all to cue them into the fact they, “Hey! I’m really not a wheelchair-type of person!”
Now, between you and me, we both know that no one is really a “wheelchair-type” of person. We’re all humans; plain and simple. There are just a lot of idiots out there who need the dumbest statement thrown down at them, so maybe, just maybe, they’ll finally get it.

(Please! No pictures!)

A fellow female quad (and hysterical I might add) friend of mine, from an unnamed locale in sunny (and oh-so-coveted on my end) Florida, has seriously invented one of the best lines ever in regards to life with a sudden disability: “When you get a SCI, you’re an instant celebrity.” And she’s right! Well to a degree at least… You definitely do receive some of the bennies of being a celeb, like getting scurried to the front of lines at clubs, to the front rows at small concert venues, and even scurried to the front of the heinously long lines at most of the rides in Disney Land (or World; whatever your “happy place” poison might be). But the reasons, oh the reasons, you get this “celeb-like” treatment my friends, are for MUCH different reasons; and pretty sad (and annoying!), if I may be so blunt. It’s most likely that these complete strangers, the concierge at hotels/casinos, bouncers, waiters and waitresses, whatever, are kissing your warm, flat tuchis either out of a) fear of legal repercussions (no, thank YOU Justin Dart; my personal hero, b) pity, or c) religious duty. Whatever their reasoning, don’t be fooled. They’re not, “oohing and aahing,” over you like they would if they had ran into say, Adrien Brody or Keira Knightly.

Heck, if you’re visiting a small town and get stares, it’s probably likely you’re getting the once-over because they’ve never seen a person out in public in a wheelchair before (apparently these rumors are true, although being from a big city like Minneapolis, I have yet to encounter such shock first-hand; Thank God).So, the next time you head to your local Starbuck’s and get the usual stares (or for the intellectual city-dwellers: Those “secret” glances hidden by quickly diverted eyes. Yes, I’m talking about you. I see you), and then even get asked on multiple occasions, “Are you sure you don’t need anything else?‘ or maybe you just get a free coffee out of the deal, do not under any circumstance think you’re getting treated like a celeb ’cause you are one in a weird, novelty-esque, convuluted, sort-of-way.

You may be interesting and new, and a fascinating customer who breaks up the monotony of their day, but remember, you are disabled. You may feel like a “celebrity” at times, and you might even (God forbid), get your photo secretly taken by some messed-up devotee hiding in a nearby bush, but the life of being disabled is unfortunately, nothing like celeb-dom (I would assume at least. I do not know this first hand. ha).

But hey, that might be a good thing.