Telling Dad

I was honored when Priscilla asked me to guest post on her blog because I find her story, her determination, and her spirit to be so inspirational.

When I guest post, I prefer to write something that at least complements the nature of the blog I’m writing for. Yet I haven’t experienced anything in life that can remotely compare. While my wife suffered a devastating spinal injury when she was 19, she has since recovered from her paralysis. I suppose I could have written about her injury and subsequent recovery, but I feel that my wife’s story is her own to tell.

Besides, I much prefer to write about funny things, and paralysis isn’t exactly a hotbed for comedy. When I asked Priscilla about possible topics, she gave me carte blanche to write whatever I pleased.

While most writers would be thrilled to be handed a blank sheet of paper and told, “write anything you want,” I was struggling to come up with a relative topic idea. That is until my wife reminded me that I once had my very own “wheelchair mommy” and that the story of that day has produced countless tears of laughter from those who have heard it.

The topic was set. For I can’t get much more relevant than writing about my “wheelchair mommy” on the Wheelchair Mommy blog.

……

Watching my mom injure her foot is as much a holiday tradition for our family as decorating the tree. If she isn’t wearing some kind of cast, brace, or ACE bandage by Christmas morning, our kids won’t recognize her. Over the years she has broken numerous toes, sprained her ankles, cracked the top of her foot, and even stepped on a rusty nail that impaled her flesh inches deep.

After her scheduled injury occurs, the child who draws the shortest straw must retrieve a set of crutches from Nana’s infamous crutch closet, an in-house museum packed to the rafters with all the ambulatory devices she’s acquired over the years.

She’ll then wrap her foot with an ACE bandage, claim half the couch, and await service from those not yet desensitized to her recurring injuries. I gotta hand it to her, it’s a brilliant plan. Injure yourself at a time when no clinics are open and be waited on by unassuming relatives.

I’m not suggesting that she’s faking any of her injuries. I’ve seen the bruises, I’ve seen the bent toes, and I’ve seen the x-rays. I’m just suggesting that somewhere in the deep dark depths of her central nervous system, there’s an involuntary chain reaction taking place that results in a timely and beneficial injury.

Walking anywhere with my mother after she sustains a foot injury is excruciating. You’d think years of walking by crutch would have translated into rapid mobility but she still wobbles and spastically slaps her crutches on the ground like some newborn fawn trying to stand for the very first time.

Shopping is an all day affair and you better pack a picnic lunch if she asks you to walk her to the mailbox and back. You may also want to take bail money because it’ll take the patience of a saint to not rip a crutch from her hands and fwap her about the head after enduring the symphony of grunts she releases with each step.

Alas, so long as she’s using crutches to get around, I’m patient. Walking at a pace slower than molasses running uphill in January is still better than watching her wheel around in a wheelchair because she’s too overburdened by the ACE bandage. Wheelchairs and motorized carts should be reserved for drunken teenagers and those who truly need it. Not for those who simply relish the convenience.

A few years ago we decided to venture out to the mall for a hellish day of shopping and my mom demanded that she have a wheelchair. I did all I could to talk her out of it, even offering to put her leg in a splint with makeshift pins and rods so she didn’t look like an over-privileged wuss. But it was to no avail, she needed someone to wheel her around the mall.

I was the first to volunteer. Not because I wanted to be the tender doting son, but rather because I wanted to teach her a lesson.

I wanted her wheelchair experience to be so terrifying and so unfulfilling that she’d never want to set her rear end in one again. I figured, outside the good Lord himself, if there’s anything that can inspire someone to walk again, it’s an afternoon with me behind the wheels.

Her first frightening experience was probably the most effective, even though it was totally by accident. Not realizing that you were supposed to back a wheelchair over a doorway’s threshold, I started jogging full boar towards the mall entrance to make sure I could get over the hump.

As we charged the doorways, her hair wafting wildly in the breeze, my mom started flailing her arms in a futile attempt to get me to “Stop! Stop! STOP!” To which I answered over the thunderous clinks and clangs, “Please keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times!”

The wheelchair continued to bounce over stone, crushing it into cinders, until BAM! The front wheels met the threshold head-on and let out an agonizing metallic ping, lurching the wheelchair forward through the doors. My mom endured a few harsh bounces but managed to stay seated thanks to her white-knuckled grip on the arm rails.

After our dramatic entrance into the mall, my mom casually brushed her hair back into place, and I let the games begin.

As we cruised around the mall, I noticed that the opportunities for annoyance were everywhere. I didn’t see wheelchair ramps, I saw racetracks, and I’m happy to report that my mom took the checkered flag in every “Wheelchair 500? event we participated in. There’s nothing like the freedom of nudging an opponent into a wall or drafting behind someone’s wheelchair before slingshotting around to take the lead. Those with real disabilities never stood a chance against the Queen of Feigned Despair.

Sure, she asked me to slow down, to not take curves so sharply, and to stop tailgating the handicapped, but what was she going to do? Ground me? Get up and chase me down the corridor? I told her we can always switch to crutches if she’s displeased with the job I’m doing.

Leaving her in the care of a skin care salesman was funny enough. As was circling the same kiosks and mall directory signs over and over and over again. But the pee-in-your-pants moments I treasure most are the times when she was actually stationary.

Like the time I slowly wheeled her into a giant rack of clothes at New York & Company and locked the brakes. You couldn’t see anything but the wheelchair handles and backsides of the wheels.

There were a few muffled, “Greg! Back me up!” calls from inside the rack, but I was too busy trying to control my bladder to acknowledge her. I left her there a good 10 minutes and simply remarked to the curious employee that, in addition to a wounded foot, she also has poor eyesight. Was the store going to deny her an equal opportunity to see the patterns?

In the food court, I turned her wheelchair around so that she was knee-to-wall about eight feet away from our table. I affixed her security brakes and explained that it was probably best that she not be forced to stare at the large number of amble people in the area. That would just be cruel.

I placed a tray of food in her lap and we proceeded to eat our lunch as best we could between hysterics. She’d strain to look over her shoulders to make sure we were all still sitting there, and refused to eat unless she was wheeled over to our table. The minutes passed and we all lost it when a distant defeated voice asked if she could have a drink.

As we made our exit from the mall I told her it might be faster if we just took the escalator. She freaked out, saying she’d tumble to the bottom because strollers weren’t allowed on escalators, let alone wheelchairs. I calmly explained that escalators were built for wheelchairs. Just look at how wide those steps are!

The trick, as I continued to say, was to spin her around on the platform so that the big fat wheels were on a lower step and the little wheels were on an upper. If all went to plan, she’d be level the entire ride and just casually coast into the aisle when she reached the bottom.

I walked her to the escalator despite her pleas and objections, spun her around, looked into her saucer-wide eyes, and said, “Seriously, relax. This should totally work. Just grip the handrails for balance.”

I never intended to actually try it, but after the day’s shenanigans, she had no reason to believe that I wouldn’t. I finally let her off the hook and we made our way to the wheelchair ramp. By this point, her now-rickety wheelchair was emitting all kinds of squeaks and rattles, so she asked that I take it easy.

Considering she gave birth to me and raised me, I find it surprising that she didn’t realize that asking me to take it easy is a sure-fire way to guarantee I don’t take it easy. I predictably flew down the ramps at Mach speeds and proceeded to bounce her out of the mall with a few popped wheelies and spins.

In the end, even with all I had done, the harrowing experience of having me behind the wheels just wasn’t enough to outbalance the servitude she enjoyed from the unwitting. At the time of this writing, she’s injury-free, and I’m sure she’ll remain this way until roughly the third week of December.

Which means I have a full six months to plan Wheelchairpalooza II.

It’s gonna be epic.