Sometimes I feel like screaming Shut Up! at the world in my loudest, most annoying voice!
My tolerance level for these whiners has reached its limits. Complaining about how tired they are, racing to pay the bills, running to do these ambiguous errands after work, and having to attend these tiresome family events on the weekends can take its toll on my ears.
If they think they have it bad, they might want to trade places with me or anyone else with a physical disability trying to do what they are doing in a wheelchair, scooter, walker, cane, or crutches.
Recently, I almost let a group of people have it. I had lost it! I was having what some people with physical disabilities call a “Crip Day.” Everything was going wrong and it had everything to do with my physical disability.
So after hearing these people cry about their pitiful lives, I smiled, nodded in agreement and then said, “Yeah, I know what you mean. Now try to do all of that in a wheelchair if you really want to have some fun!” and left the room. I couldn’t take it anymore.
From the moment I woke up I should have stayed home! The minute my eyes opened in the morning the race was on. I woke up coughing my head off due to some breathing issues that doctors claim has no solution other than taking medication that would probably give me side effects that would make me feel sicker than if I didn’t take it.
Unfortunately, my lovable dog, Scrappy feels that the minute I wake up he has to be the first one to go to the bathroom.
Therefore, I jumped in the wheelchair, maneuvered around Scrappy whose tail whacked me at least three times as I headed to the kitchen to place his collar and leash. The minute I opened the door, Scrappy wanted to sprinkle the outdoor hallway. I barely had time to pop a wheelie over the one-inch high threshold. I raced to the closest patch of grass so that he didn’t leave a wet surprise for our three neighbors.
If you notice I never mentioned putting on a robe or slippers. That’s because I had no time for that. I never do. At 5:45 in the morning, wearing a t-shirt with temperatures in the low 70s, and my long curly hair in every direction but down, I strolled with my happy Dalmatian around the apartment building to a large common ground of grass, smiling and waving at strangers who have now seen me in ways that I wouldn’t want to see them.
After Scrappy did his business, I raced back home and turned on the computer so that I could hear my music while I made lunch for Michael which consisted of a sandwich and everything else I could reach and stuff into a plastic bag in under five minutes.
The kitchen is not very accessible. I can’t reach the cabinets. For all I know, I might have a pot of gold or missing limbs withering away in there. Since I rent I can’t make any permanent modifications, I try to put as many items into the refrigerator. I think I might have the coldest cereal and peanut butter in all of Miami.
I hung the lunch on the doorknob with Scrappy closer to me than my own shadow.
I grabbed my towel, went into the bathroom, closed the door behind me, and scratched the wall with my wheels. Despite my small wheelchair frame, the bathroom is not spacious enough to accommodate my wheelchair. Every now and then, I leave marks on the walls. A small headache started forming in the back of my head as I realized that soon I would have to spend an afternoon painting over these marks so that my home resembled a non-wheelchair home.
