When visiting a friend resembles an episode of Man vs. Wild.
By Beth Livingston
Last summer I made plans to visit my friends Lisa and Mike in Salt Lake City. I was going to be in town on business and delighted in the thought that I would get to see them, too, as a side benefit. We spoke on the phone about dates and directions, and where to stay.
Lisa and Mike work in two different towns, Orem and Salt Lake. To save time and hassle, they bought a modest apartment in “the Avenues” of Salt Lake City where they stay when working in the city. Lisa warned me that the apartment was small, up a flight of stairs and the bathroom was certainly not ADA-compliant. I responded that most of my life is not ADA- compliant and that I would be fine.
I love and trust Lisa and Mike implicitly. They both work in the medical field, and they are the kindest, most caring friends you could wish for. I never have that awkward feeling that I am somehow disrupting the normal pattern of their life when I show up and need to be piggybacked 75 yards down a narrow pathway flanked by waist high snow to their door, Lisa in tow with my wheelchair thrust over her shoulders. No, I’m sure they carry all their house guests around. I never feel like a burden around them. That makes for a great relationship.
Down the Rabbit Hole
As I pulled up, I saw Lisa and Mike standing outside next to their cars, realizing they themselves had arrived from work. After big hugs, the process of watching helplessly as my friends shuttled my crap into the apartment thus began. This moment never seems to get any easier for me. All these years later and I still get a stabbing pain of anxiety knowing that I cannot help with these simple tasks. I am idle and I sit feeling helpless.
With all my bags inside, Mike came back to retrieve me, and Lisa followed with my wheelchair. When shopping for friends, always select strong ones. They come in handy. If they drop you, that’s it, they’re done.
The apartment building had two large concrete stairs to the outside door; inside, two flights of stairs led up to their door. A short trip on Mike’s back and we were in the apartment. Mike set me on the open hideaway bed in the living room, already set up for my comfort.
Taking in the space I got that uncomfortable feeling that I was Alice in Wonderland trying to get through the tiny doorway to the miniature rooms down the Rabbit Hole. True to its billing, everything about the apartment was on such a small scale. I wondered how people could function in such tight spaces-two of them, no less! I tried to remember the last time I could fit in such a small space. Standing upright requires so little room. It’s almost as if you are a sliver of yourself. How efficient!
As much effort as it took to get into the apartment, and as spent as everyone was from the day, we were in for the night.
Exit Strategy
The next day Lisa and Mike would have to leave early; I had nowhere to be until noon. We agreed that they leave as scheduled, and I laid out the plan for how I would exit the building without their help.
In the morning, I puttered around the apartment, looking longingly into the kitchen at the sink I could not reach. How close, yet how far! The kitchen was designed for the “sliver people.” The bathroom was so inaccessible, I couldn’t even enter the short hallway leading to it. My need for water meant I had no choice but to leave the Rabbit Hole.
My strategy was simple. I would go out the door and lock it behind me. Once near the stairs I would get out of my chair and slide onto the floor. Slipping down the first stair, I would drag my bag of things for the day with me, and push my chair down the stairs. Taking my legs with me, like an awkwardly large Slinky, I would bump down one stair at a time. The trick I found to lowering a runaway wheelchair down stairs is to lock the brakes, turn it around and, using the front forks to grip, guide its descent.
I just wanted to make it down safely before any of Lisa and Mike’s neighbors encountered me. I thought of this as my greatest peril. Though I am disabled, I still think very much like the nondisabled person I once was. I did not want to inflict the horror that I would have felt if, while jamming down the stairs, I came upon a crumpled up crazy person inching their way down the stairs pushing their wheel chair backwards, babbling, “I’m ok, I’m fine, really, I do this all the time.” I would have felt absolutely compelled to help this poor soul, and I imagined most people would be the same. Even worse, I thought they might be concerned that I had just moved into their building and they would have to pass me every day, bumping up or down the stairs, chanting, “I’m ok, I’m fine, really, I don’t need any help!”
Luckily, at the bottom of two flights of stairs, I had not encountered a soul. I was pleased, and relieved. I transferred into my chair two steps up from the bottom of the flight, and realized that I was far from out of the building. As I looked at the concrete steps outside the front door I tried to envision popping a wheelie and bumping down them. Then I envisioned a concussion and an ambulance.
Assessing the situation further, I noticed a drainpipe next to the stair and wondered how much weight it would hold. I got a grip on it and shook it and pulled on it. This is yet another way to look crazy, outside a strange building, but I needed to know. I held on to the drainpipe with one hand and my opposing wheel with the other as I lowered myself down the short steep stairs backwards-and onto solid ground!
I was free, and I did it on my own! Though I didn’t need to squeeze fresh elephant dung to drink its moisture, make shelter from banana leaves or ford a raging river, just starting my day did feel a little like an episode of Man vs. Wild.
Beth Livingston is a frequent contributor to Action.
