My family realized that while my condition was worsening, I wouldn’t be able to live in a two-story apartment, with small doors and heavy carpeting. My second hospital stay was longer, so my family took the opportunity to look for a home that would accommodate my handicapped needs.
My sister from Buffalo flew in to help my parents find a home. My sister was always great at handling the most stressful of situations. Family visits were mostly them showing photos of homes they have visited, fix-me-ups that needed work, and my father detailing how he would made the home handicapped accessible. Meanwhile, I’m being thrown around by hearing the word “handicapped” every 5 minutes from my family. It was a bad word, and I didn’t want to hear it; I didn’t want to believe in it. I felt as if I were becoming the nuisance and something that created more trouble than necessary.
I was being treated like my family was adopting a dog, trying to prepare the house for safety and potty training.
On the other hand, my speech therapist was a young woman confined to a wheelchair. My father, who sometimes is oblivious to the things that come out of his mouth, was so surprised that they let a woman in a wheelchair work at a hospital.
“That’s so nice of them to help her!” he says, oblivious that the statement would be disrespectful.
She fell off a bunk bed at 19 and crushed her spinal cord. My speech therapist made a very big impact on my recovery. It was the first time I would speak with someone who knew what I was going through, but also tell me about a bright future I could have in a wheelchair. She was married, had a great job, and loving friends; all things I wanted but didn’t think I could have being in a wheelchair.
My three-month stay in the hospital was coming to an end and I was terrified of being in the “real world”, riding in my wheelchair. My speech therapist prepared me, Rocky-style, on how to cope being handicapped.
There is one thing I had wrong about being handicapped at my age; pity. I really thought people would see this young girl in a wheelchair and think, “oh gee, I’m sorry!” However, when I made the rare treks outside, I was in someone’s way. People would huff and puff, and try to blow my wheelchair down to get past me. Children would climb on my wheelchair, and their parents would be too embarrassed to stop them. How could this be attractive? An overweight, handicapped girl with rug-rats using her wheelchair like a jungle gym.
