I admit it. The thought of possibly needing a wheelchair someday tortured me. I was diagnosed in my late teen years with rheumatoid arthritis (RA), which is regarded as the most inflammatory and potentially destructive form of arthritis. Fighting the possible crippling effects became foremost in my mind. I entered into a war with my RA, battling it with the best treatment options available. I did everything I could to keep moving, keep walking, and minimize the physical limitations that RA can impose.
Over the years I have needed joint replacement surgery on my hips and knees, plus ankle fusion to correct my deteriorated joints. During the post-surgical recuperative periods, especially during the hospitalizations, I had limited opportunity to experience the confines of a wheelchair. During those times I viewed it as temporary transportation for quick trips to physical therapy or x-ray. When I would think of the rest of a lifetime spent in a wheelchair, I thought of it as someone else's lot in life, never my own. I can't say I feared it because in my mind I was certain that it would never happen to me. I was adamant and unyielding in my thoughts.
I'm not sure I can express what I found so torturous about the concept of a wheelchair. I guess to me it represented that the disease had won the war and the wheelchair was a flagrant symbol of disability.
When I was about six weeks post-op following ankle fusion surgery and using crutches, my family and some friends planned a trip to Sea World in San Diego. Knowing that I did not have the strength to navigate the grounds of Sea World on crutches, I was left with two alternatives,not going or going in a wheelchair. Realizing my aversion to wheelchairs my husband announced to me that I would be going and he would be pushing me in a wheelchair. He had removed the burden of choice from me. I went along with the plan, albeit reluctantly, since it was only for one day.
My day spent in the wheelchair served to change my perspective greatly. Though there were some less than glorious moments such as the stares from strangers, the young lady who walked into my propped up leg as if I were invisible, and waiting to use the handicapped toilet as a mother and four children finally emerged from therein, I began to view the wheelchair not as confinement but as support equipment that allowed me the freedom to participate. Without the wheelchair I could not have joined in and I would have missed a trip to one of my favorite places. Worse yet, the others might have felt compelled to not go without me.
On that particular day, the wheelchair felt liberating. It eliminated some of the restriction created by the crutches. It also served to open my mind. Now when I see someone in a wheelchair, I no longer am flooded with negative thoughts. Instead I am glad to see that person enabled and empowered.
