The Chair
By PABLO DIABLO
Copyright 2018
As I woke this morning, I was hoping things in my life had changed. I turned my head, wiping the sand from my eyes. I begin to stretch. I pull myself up in my bed. I look to my left and there it is, my wheelchair.
My prison.
My life.
It sits there mocking me, knowing that I will never escape its hold on me. I hate this chair with all my being. I can feel my soul growing darker with each day’s passing.
My mind rages on. Why did life have to be so cruel? Why can’t I find the happiness that others seem to have? Why do I have to be stuck in this permanent hell?
“Why does God hate me?” I say out loud.
As I struggle to move my legs from the warmth of my bed, I swing them in unison over the edge. Using my cane, I pull on the wheelchair’s arm to bring my jailer closer to me.
I hate everything about it. The shiny mocking chrome of its frame. The blue of the seat and arm rests. The blackness of the rubber tires. The squeak of my body being plunked down into my cage, my jail.
I think to myself how people either treat me as someone to be ignored or someone who can just ‘figure it out for myself’. However, the ones that give me the horrified look when I do open my mouth and must ask for help really set my brain to raging.
After all, I didn’t ask for the body to betray me and be so fragile. If I had a time machine, I never would have allowed myself to be in that place when the accident occurred.
I hate my prison.
I hate my life.
I work my way through my apartment. I bang my hand on that sharp turn into the kitchen. I still curse that the counter tops are too high for me. I hate that I must use that grabber device to reach anything.
Today is more of what I dread. Another physical therapy appointment.
Maybe I will see D’andre. He seems to be the only one who is nice to me, truly nice not that fake nice that the receptionist shows you.
D’andre, D’andre please be there today.
As I make myself coffee, I dial the physical therapy place to check if D’Andre is there. He is scheduled to arrive just a few minutes before my appointment.
I call the ‘Dial a Ride’ service to schedule them to come get me about 10am.
After my coffee, I head to the bathroom to do my morning ritual. I hate trying to fight the shower to get my chair either into the shower or to get my body to move from the chair onto the step-bench that rests inside the shower.
I decide to take a ‘whore’s bath’ as my Grandmother would call it. Some also call it a ‘cowboy bath’. This goes back to the wild west days when using the water in the horse troughs was used to clean up the cowboys coming off the trail.
I brush my teeth. I comb my hair. I put on make-up. I want to look good for D’andre, he is my imaginary boyfriend.
As time progresses, I see it’s almost 10. The handicap ride service is due here within minutes. I hurry myself to the front porch to wait for them.
They arrive on time. They are nice enough, but not very chatty. I like chatty.
We arrive at the physical therapy place. I am delighted to see D’andre waiting outside for me to arrive. I smile. He always makes me feel good.
He helps the ride service person unload me and he takes position behind my chair pushing me to the therapy room.
“How are you today, Sunshine?” D’andre asks.
“Better now that I see your smiling face.”
“Wonderful! Let’s get you through the therapy today, then I was going to push you through the back gardens afterwards if you would like.”
“Um, yes. I think I would really like that. Thank you D’andre.” I reply.
I am put through my normal exercises. I don’t believe that any of this is helping, not one damn bit. Yet, I do them anyways. Why? Because I don’t want D’andre to see me not try.
As we come to the end of my therapy, I’m happy to see D’andre waiting for me.
He hands me a towel, so I may wipe my face from the sweat that has formed from all the hard work.
He takes control of my chair, moving me outside of the therapy building into their flower garden.
“D’andre, may I ask you a personal question?”
“Of course.”
“Why are you always here, helping me?”
“Well, I see someone whom you don’t see. I see a beautiful, powerful, opinionated woman that just needs to change her view.”
“Change my view? I hate this chair. This is a prison I will never get out of. You really don’t understand at all.” I bark back.
“OK, let me try it this way then. When I was in my senior year of high school, my Granny had a massive stroke. She lost the ability to walk, most of her speech, the entire use of her whole right side. I felt it an honor to be allowed to push my Granny’s wheelchair around. I would argue with my parents, my brothers, anyone who tried to step in front of me to push Granny in her chair. And do you know what she called her chair?..........Her Chair-riot…. because of her stroke, she viewed being in a wheelchair as being a Roman Princess in her Chariot. She didn’t want pity. She took what happened to her and made the best out of it. That is what you need, to find your positive.” D’andre said.
I reached up and pulled him down to me, kissing his cheek and whispering “Thank you”.
