The view from a wheelchair

 The world has looked very different to me for these past 6 weeks with my broken foot.

The hardest was when I  was restricted to non-weight bearing on the injured foot. Everywhere I went I was hoisting myself along on crutches or in the extremely retro wheelchair I borrowed from camp. All of a sudden architectural and geographic features I'd barely ever paid attention to became focal points defining my freedom of movement.

I learned that my house was not designed for wheelchairs. A half-inch lip over the threshold into the kitchen became my nemesis. I needed at least two limbs to make it over - either both hands to move the wheels or a hand and a foot if I was attempting to carry something. The chair fit through the doorway, but just barely. I left probably dozens of scuff marks on the wall when my aim was a little off.  I began strategizing my kitchen entries and exits for maximum efficiency.

The approach to the bathroom wasn't much better, because it involved an L-shaped turn and then I'd have to abandon the chair or the crutches and do a left-footed lopsided polka hop sideways through the door, then clutch at the walls or the towel rack which would inevitably fall and clatter to the ground, and then do a bare-butt one legged backwards Warrior 3 yoga pose to get my butt aimed more or less towards the bowl.

Also stairs. I recall with awe the time when forgetting an item upstairs was no big deal - I'd run up and get it and run back down without a second thought. If you want an unconventional core workout, lift yourself up a set of stairs with crutches while keeping one leg from touching the ground. When I'd wake up in the morning and get ready to go downstairs I'd think through my belongings as if I were going on a trip, because I sort of was. I had to travel light, though, because there's not much else you can carry when you're hoisting yourself around like that. Coffee time in pajamas was suspended because it was too annoying to get back up to change later on. It was either get dressed right away, or commit to the jammies look. 

For me the deprivation I probably felt the most was access to the outdoors. Technically I could get outside on my own, but once I got there, where would I go and what would I do? My driving foot is out of commission and I live on a hill, which feels treacherous in a medical boot and I quickly discovered that the amount of energy it would've taken to wheel myself to the park uphill in the chair was not worth whatever I would've done when I got there.

Even after the long confinement of pandemic lockdowns, this time I felt the loss of some of the things that had helped me get through it - neighborhood walks with my mom, yoga, the minor thrill of mundane errands. It was surprising how quickly I felt the walls closing in on me. How trapped I felt in my own home. There are days when you wake up on the weekend and you just want to go to the hardware store or CVS and buy like four random things that you want but don't really need. You want to go ride a bike, look at some trees, smell the air changing from summer to fall. You want to be in charge of your destiny without making an appointment with anyone else. I do still resent my right foot for stealing my my ability to be spontaneous, even though I know it's temporary.

Knowing how stir crazy I was then, back in the wheelchair phase, my mom intrepidly agreed to bring me and the wheel chair to check out a trail in the Wissahickon that was marked "accessible..." We weren't sure what they meant by that, and still aren't.

 Between the gravel walkway and the fairly steep gradient, with my mom pushing behind me and me pumping away at the wheels, we made it about an eighth of a mile before our entire half metal/half human apparatus was shaking and wobbling like a two-headed robot about to blow a circuit. We observed the trees from a bench for a while, then turned around and went home.  That's the thing of this temporary disability. I'm relegated to observer when I'd like to feel like a participant. (Another nuisance was that I really had to pee, but the logistics of somehow launching myself into the port-o-potty felt insurmountable.)

I know it is my great privilege to look forward to the day when I get to have my freedom of movement back. My eyes have been opened to the way the world has been designed for able-bodied people. I see the curbs and cracks in sidewalks now as potential obstacles. I recognjze stairs as impenetrable to some as a fortress wall. I never even noticed these before. I never had the need to pay attention. Which is, I suppose, the definition of privilege: the ability to sail with ease over a situation that for others causes difficulty, frustration, desperation, separation, hopelessness. So many features of the physical world were invisible to me until now. I couldn't see them until I was unable to avoid them.

My family and friends have been beyond generous throughout this whole time. I've received incredibly thoughtful care packages. My parents have cooked meals and gone grocery shopping for me and shuttled me around to doctors appointments and social events. They try to make sure I have human contact each day. My sister comes by on Wednesdays after work to keep me company and fetch things for me. My other sister came over to help me in the garden with some corners I can't reach right now. My cousins who are also informally my employers at the moment have been incredibly flexible and forthcoming in rearranging our schedule to accommodate my inability to drive. I feel grateful and also indebted.

The experience of being limited in mobility these days has also made me think about my relationship to helping and being helped. Usually, I like to be the helper. My career as a teacher was built on that foundation. In my family, I feel good when I can do for others - cooking, moving boxes, running errands, helping with chores. As an adult, I see myself as a contributor; a giver and not a taker. I've always valued my independence, so it has been difficult to feel dependent, despite the willingness of others to help. 

This has had me thinking deep thoughts about my inherent value as a person, and my own ideas and perceptions about the value of all people and the ways in which we are taken care of and take care of each other. About what it means to accept help when you aren't able to provide anything in return. It's an act of trust. It's powerful. It's a vote of confidence in the depth of your relationships. As a recovering achievement junkie, I recently came to realize that productivity doesn't have to define your worth in a society. That's a lie that capitalism tells us. I am realizing that my humanity is not defined by what I can provide to others. Loving and caring for others is not an economic transaction. There's no balance sheet tracking us. We won't need to settle up at the end.