THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, April 2, 1995 TAG: 9503300033
SECTION: REAL LIFE PAGE: K2 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: The Imperfect Navigator
SOURCE: ALEXANDRA BERGER
LENGTH: Medium: 94 lines
THERE'S SOMETHING about being in a wheelchair that reeks of giving up. I definitely was not going to be one of those people who sat down, a ``wheeling quitter.'' Stubbornly, I dragged my body behind my mind. I became a nighttime ``leg voyeur,'' dreaming of legs, and a daytime ``leg junky,'' hooked on watching people move.
Everywhere I went there were stairs. One step was a challenge. Two were exhausting. Three were like the Pyramids of Giza. My body became covered with bruises, a testament to falls, foolish pride, ego and denial.
I ignored my physicians' suggestions. I slowed everyone down to my pace. With only limited, carefully chosen access to the outside world, I squandered life by denying myself freedom. Finally, I said, ``Yes,'' to using a wheelchair. It took six years.
So what's it really like to be in a wheelchair? Let's take a ride. We're going to the mall. Aren't you excited? Get comfortable because you can't get up by yourself. That feels very frustrating, I know. You want to move, but you can't. Someone else must push your chair. Your arms are too weak to wheel yourself any distance. Remember, you have a neuromuscular disease. With the sound of the wheels spinning, off we go.
No cheating.
Congratulations. You've just lost control. You are being pushed, at the mercy of the ``pusher.'' If you could get out of your chair, you could walk through the mall and browse at your leisure. You wouldn't have to ask permission to stop, to go, to see something that catches your eye. While you've gained wheels for legs, a new and glorious freedom, you've lost independence.
Oh. You'd rather have an electric wheelchair or a scooter. No problem. Well, now, you have freedom and independence. Whoops. Sorry, the batteries just ran down and your forward control just went haywire. And now, your handicapped-adapted van just shorted out the electric lift, and it's stuck in mid-air. Being physically handicapped is an expensive mechanical nightmare.
You arrive at the mall. There are only four handicapped parking spaces close to the main entrance door. Two spaces are taken by cars without permits. The rest of the lot is filled. It begins to rain. You suggest going home. Your companion, ``pusher for the day,'' assures you it will be OK.
This next part is tricky. The two of you must get into the mall, by opening and going through 500-pound doors without getting crushed. How? Simple. Your companion opens the door with one hand. With the other, he pushes you through the door, as if you are a bowling ball, aiming straight down the middle. You're in. Good work.
Then, as you glide into the open entrance of the department store, your wheel accidentally gets caught on a rack of ladies' sportswear and then bangs into a sale table piled high with jeans. Forty pairs of dungarees land in your lap. Suddenly, a screaming salesperson offers her services. Ms. Booming offers to charge them to your account. ``Why is she screaming at me?'' you ask. ``I'm not deaf, just physically handicapped.''
Welcome to our world. It's a hoot.
As the journey continues, your mind becomes filled with things you want to say:
``Please don't make an Indian circle around my wheelchair because you believe I'll run over you.''
``Please don't stare at me with pity. I'm not dead yet.''
``Don't make it difficult for me to enter your stores and theaters by minimally complying with the Americans with Disabilities Act.''
``Give us more handicapped spaces close to main doors.''
``And one more thing. When you're not yelling at me, you speak only to my companion. It makes me feel like I'm invisible.''
All right. I can tell you're beginning to get very tired. After all, this is your first time. What's wrong with this picture? Get out of your chair. Go ahead. Stretch your legs, and I'll tell you.
Wheelchairs have no class. They're like training bras. No design. No style. Ugly, overpriced institutional contraptions. We need something sexy. Isn't that what society tells us we must be?
Nothing sells without sex appeal. You can't raise money for charitable causes without sex appeal. Politicians won't get elected without it. The Wheelchair Olympics on ESPN don't rate prime time because wheelchair races aren't sexy enough. Stature, money, beauty, power, it all boils down to visual appearance. Wheelchairs lose. The morons who design wheelchairs remind us we're sick or disabled. Is it any wonder you treat us as you do? Riding lawn mowers have more sex appeal. We want stylishly structured, butt-cushioning elegance. Send word to Ralph Lauren.
That's it. Now you know. Going into a wheelchair requires that we swallow our pride, our ego and our vanity in one gulp. It's the hardest part of coming to grips with physical disability.
So, whether you use wheels or not, let me hear from you. Write. Fax. Drop me a note by pigeon.
Now relax. You were terrific. MEMO: Write to Alexandria Berger, The Imperfect Navigator, c/o REAL LIFE, The
Virginian-Pilot, 150 W. Brambleton Ave., Norfolk, Va. 23510.
by CNB