I was thrilled with my first Quickie, a wonder in deep purple aluminum I enthusiastically purchased in 2000 when I realized I could get durable medical equipment covered. All I needed was good insurance. Luckily, I had good insurance. I loved the Quickie ethos: the name loaded with innuendo, the colors flashy and fun, the design sleek. On the long lane leading to my parents’ house outside Boston, I practiced my technique before prime time in the city. Fourteen years later, I am the proud and skilled user of a rigid frame with a flip plate for my feet and an adjustable, supportive back rest. It’s faster than anything I’ve ever powered. Negotiating the hills and curb cuts and pot holes and ramps in Seattle, it’s all about balance.
In my many years of riding wheelchairs, self-propelled, I’ve seen rapid improvements. I’ve had the good fortune to trade up every few years and the good sense to ensure that my old model finds a new owner. Wheelchairs are lighter, more comfortable, specialized, user-friendly. I feel nimble in my ride. Athletic. So I’m a savvy consumer, but maintenance is still a tricky matter. If my chair’s not fully functioning, I’m a mess
That’s why the breaks are so shocking, even though I know my chairs get a lot of wear and tear. They’ve been up hill towns in Tuscany and down dangerously steep roads in Cinque Terre. I have motored through cedar-chip paths in British Columbia and acted as a human snow plow in frigid Boston. I faced crowds at Fenway Park to watch the Sox. I braved Super Bowl celebrations in Seattle. I figured out trans-continental travel, chair intact. But my accidents have rarely happened on adventures.
This week, during my early walk with Gus on a wet, dark Monday morning, the bracket that connects the seat post to the frame sheared off. I couldn’t shake the sickening snapping sound, like a broken femur on a field of play. But no trainers sprinted toward me. Dog in tow, sans cell phone, I didn’t think I could make it home unaided. I had no leverage to push. I called out to a guy who was working on Seattle’s infamous viaduct replacement. “Can I get a favor?”
He took a drag off his cigarette and squinted, “Depends what it is.”
I pointed to my broken chair and asked him to push me home. “Close enough?” he queried when we neared my condo. I nodded. He disappeared quickly into the wind and the rain before I could give thanks. I wondered if I had conjured him.
I’m not sure when I started consciously thinking of my chairs as an extension of myself. But I remember asking baggage handlers and flight attendants to be careful with my legs as they disassembled my chair to store the pieces in the cold, cavernous hold. I’ve cradled broken parts and wheeled them to fix-it shops as if offering up my own limbs. And with the exchange, I utter a silent prayer of redemption.”Please make them whole.” Well-worn, chipped, bent, and beat up, each chair extended my horizon line, and — with the help of random strangers, loyal friends, and my true love — pushed me past limits. I feel proud, now, to have garnered the strength and support to wobble through the every-day finish lines of my life.
Not broke ‘jis kinder wobbly, Randy.
Randy,
You are an inspiration for what you do on a normal day, for what you do to affect Leslie and others in your lives and the words you share with the world.
I have a great appreciation for your struggles and successes through your stories and those of my niece and her caregiver my sister. While I’m personally fortunate to still have full use of my legs, I’m currently recovering from my 3rd knee surgery in less than 10 years and I’m guaranteed a 4th in a couple months…and we haven’t started looking at the other leg yet.
Laying on my back, feeling the brace and using the crutches is an inconvenience and a pain at times. But stories like yours help me to remember how fortunate I am to be able to recover and walk again.
Never mind your seemingly never ending wit and intellect that you on occasion allow Leslie to provide the rest of the world a glimpse of.
Please pardon any language errors, I’ll blame them on the pain killers this time.
I’ve had a couple knee surgeries myself, Jeff. There’s no pain like a torn ACL. I did that a couple times. So I can picture your discomfort, and I thank you for reaching out during a tough time. The transition to and from (and from and to) mobility aides can be daunting. I always tried to weigh the inconvenience against possible gains. (Is that outing or game or party really worth it?!) Some days that line of thinking worked; some days I stayed discouraged. Whatever happens, be gentle with yourself.
Thanks for the inspiration and insight with your talented writing skills. If hands on mechanics such as preventative maintenance would be of any value just let me know on your next trip to Kelowna. Have wrench, will travel short distances.
It’s a deal!
The first time I saw you, showing us where to park – friend of the parking gods – I marveled at you. Even more, as we shared a meal I deeply appreciated how you live. You and Leslie have a full, beautiful life marked with simple grace and love. We love you, Randy.