Diane Hoover BechtlerBROKEN PEOPLE: Part 11. The Elevator. The doors to the alcove in front of the elevator were closed again. They are only supposed close if there's a fire. It's a new building and there are still some glitches. I nosed my chair forward. I leaned to reach the door handle I stretched for the handle and opened the door about 2 inches. I put my chair power on high and rolled into the small space. I pushed the door completely open with the chair. Then I could reach the button to summon the elevator. I use a lot more space now. When the elevator doors opened on the second floor, three men stood there. I sat in my chair using most of the elevator floor and much of the surrounding air. The men politely said that would wait for the next elevator. I knew one of the men. I fancied him saying, "That's Diane Bechtler, our resident gimp." Or maybe, he said, "That's Diane Bechtler, the writer. You know, the one who wrote, Losing Balance. Oh dear, what do you mean you haven't read it? You must read it. Fascinating story." 2. On the Sidewalk. I sit in my chair, while waiting for the special transportation bus. Before I became disabled, I did not realize the amount of activity that happens on a sidewalk. This is my new point of view. People stare at me, or they talk, or, they pass me at the speed of light. I have formed several sidewalk friendships. One is Brenda, the security cop, whose job is to keep things under control in my condo complex. I live in a secured building. People must be buzzed in through the telephone system. Owners are supposed to go downstairs and escort their visitors up the elevator using their key fobs to activate the elevator. Because I am disabled, I am exempt from this activity. (I am determined to get the policy altered so we can allow visitors access to the elevator so they can reach our floors without escorts.) My visitors call security to be allowed in on my behalf. Brenda came to my door one day and introduced herself. So when she sees me on the sidewalk we talk. We don't have long philosophical discussions; we chat. I see some of the same people each time I sit on the sidewalk. Sometimes, Raymond, one of the condo complex sales people walks by. He always says hello. Other people wave. I wave back. I may not know them but they know me calling my name as they pass. I have become a fixture. I imagine people saying turn left after you pass the woman in the wheelchair. I am a landmark for giving directions. One day I was particularly happy and felt fortunate that many people were out walking and shopping. My cell phone had stopped working. It needed to be rebooted. To do this the back had to be removed, the battery pulled out, then the entire thing put back together. I have use of only one hand so I cannot do this activity alone. I asked a gentleman passing me to do it for me and he did without hesitation. This is the kindness of strangers in action and I am grateful. After he snapped the phone together, it worked again. Brenda stopped to talk with me. I asked the man who put my phone together to pull out my magazine from the back pocket of my powerchair. I decide from now on to sit on the magazine. My jacket pocket is jammed with the other items that are necessary for my trip. The clicker, the bus ticket, and my cell phone are in my pocket. The clicker opens the door to my condo. I have a handicap door. It stays open long enough for me to power chair out. The door did not come standard with the condo. I had it installed after we moved in. No physician wrote a prescription sanctioning my door. The cost was out-of-pocket. Perhaps I'll get a tax break for it. I don't know. I saved the receipts just in case. People do not think of expenses such as a special door or a lift to get me in and out of the bathtub. The door was $3000. The lift for the bathtub will be $3000 when I buy it. For now I take showers sitting in a shower chair. The bathtub we had put in is a Jacuzzi. I look forward to to getting in that tub and soaking in the hot water. For now it was more important to have the door open so I could get out of the condo. Being disabled brings with it a lot of strange expenses. There are many other devices I need. I have a list. I chip at it slowly. On the sidewalk I see strange sights from time to time. One day the ice cream truck drove by. Until then I did not know that ice cream trucks still exist. I thought of Fudgsicles and vanilla cones. I thought of my childhood when I turned cartwheels. The cognitive part of my brain is in good shape so I was not hallucinating. Over my months of using the bus I have watched a restaurant get built. Today the skeleton of its kitchen is lying on the sidewalk. The hulk of a stove reflects the sunlight. Workmen are taking away the boxes that I assume held the stove, the chairs, the booths, and the sundry parts waiting to be carried inside.
3. On The Bus This bus is for disabled people. Riders must be approved to use Special Transportation. To be approved a doctor fills out paperwork about the nature of your handicap. How long has it lasted? Will it continue? Riders are interviewed every few years for continued eligibility. For those of us who are permanently brain damaged keeping our eligibility and passes up-to-date is easy. We will not get better. Tickets are bought in packs of ten for $35.00. A ride is $3.50 or one ticket each way. Currently, I'm using the Special Transportation Bus to go to physical therapy. The facility is only about a mile from where I live. I could probably get there in my power chair. But what if it rained. My husband picks me up after therapy. So I only use the bus, one way. $3.50 is a bargain even if I'm only going a mile. I no longer enjoy driving. I have a license and I can drive under certain restrictions, but I'd rather be a passenger. I schedule activities around my husband's work hours and my ability to use the bus. A few years ago one of my friends suggested I do more than one thing a day. I am lucky to get one thing a day accomplished. The bus requires that you be on time. If you miss three appointments, your pass will be revoked. I make my appointments five days in advance. I get to the bus at half an hour ahead and I wait. If I use the bus for a return, I would get there a half an hour early again. If you start adding the time it becomes obvious why I can only to one thing per day In three months I never saw the same bus driver twice. Someone new always arrived Invariably, the bus drove past me. I was sitting there in a power chair waving a cane over my head. It was not like there were a hundred wheelchairs sitting out there. It was always just me. I began waiting my cane more vigorously. When the bus is late, it makes me very nervous. I will be late for therapy. It doesn't matter. There is nothing I can do except sit and wait. So that is what I do. Disability births patience. When she arrives, the driver snugs the bus to the sidewalk on my side of the street. She climbs from the driver's seat out a door on the left. She comes around to where I'm sitting and presses buttons to lower a sturdy platform. When she gets it down, it is flush with the sidewalk and I drive my chair onto it. The bus driver presses the same buttons, which them raise me to the bus floor. The platform flattens again, and I drive off to position my chair in the bus. The driver comes around her special door gets back in the bus and comes to attend to me. She takes the control of the chair and finesses it into a better position. She asks me if I am new to my chair and I lie. I say yes. I've had the chair, three years, but I don't use it often. So I'm not a very good wheelchair driver. Once she has me placed correctly, she buckles me in and straps the chair down. On my one-mile drive, she hits every pothole. I bounce and my teeth clatter. It seems to be a long mile. Today, the driver picked up two other wheelchair occupants. A three-chair day. Another passenger boarded. She was a large lady pulling a bright blue airliner carry-on bag. It was odd but no stranger than a typical ride on the special transportation bus. The strangest sight was a lady praying. We picked her up and she continued her conversation on her cell phone, which eventually involved praying. And reverence, I doubt my head. It sounded like marriage problems. Other people with health problems appeared sometimes although they never came to physical therapy. I don't know where they were going. One woman was already on the bus when I boarded. Her legs were as big around as my waist. I don't know what her problem was. I never will. Her legs were swaddled with heavy cloth. One driver requires that I back onto the platform. I find that impossible to do. So, he takes control of the chair and backs me in. He says it's a rule but he is the only one who has ever required it. Often I am the only person on the bus. I've rarely seen more than one chair at a time on the special transportation bus. I imagine four could fit in the first row, because the benches have been removed. I actually don't think I've ever seen more than five people on the bus at a time. I'm sure people use it to get to and from work. Since I don't have a real job, I'm not out that early.
4. The Waiting Room I know and have grown to love the waiting room and the inhabitants of the physical therapy facility. We are a motley crew the definition of diversity as we wait for our therapists to come get us. On Tuesday, I met Ron. He was in a full wheelchair that he operated by blowing into a straw-like tube. I knew of such devices, but I had never seen one. At first I thought he was sipping rum or exotic water holder out of my sight -- like a camelback. I thought perhaps it was behind his back. He could be sitting on it just as I sit on my purse. When I'm in my chair. But no, Ron was powering his wheelchair, with only his breath. Our group has a variety of children. The little blonde walking on her toes and wears two leg braces somewhat like my single one. After I studied her symptoms, I learned she must have a neurological problem. This way of walking was one of the symptoms. It's called toe walking. Another child is a newly walking baby. He wears a helmet and is in a heavily padded walking device. A squat olive-skinned man arrives. The therapist, who comes for him is dismayed because the translator has not appeared. I hear a cacophony of languages. Many of the therapists are bilingual. It must be a job requirement. I suddenly long to speak Spanish. A new woman enters the room. She is given the typical package of literature: it includes emergency telephone numbers, nonemergency telephone numbers, rules of conduct, and most important, a HIPPA brochure stating her privacy rights. Over the years I have collected quite a number of these packets. Now when I receive one, I throw it away.
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