My first encounter with a wheelchair was in my mum’s nursing home on one of the many occasions we were summoned because she was dying. We had all assembled. The only chair left to sit in was a wheelchair, so I sat in it.

Friends of my Dad walked past the open door, wishing everyone well and saying they would catch up with Dad soon.

The catch-up with Dad was ‘Oh George! We had no idea that as well as everything else your daughter is a wheelchair user! You poor thing!’

He did not disabuse them. And later, at her funeral, they attended and asked Dad afterwards how I had made such ‘a miraculous recovery.’

Under a decade later, I got a job working with adults with learning disabilities. My first day was spent in a wheelchair. I was told I had to understand what it felt like for a wheelchair user being totally out of control of what was happening for them.

It was a truly terrifying experience.

I was pushed along level flat corridors, then bumped over doorways into the outside and bumped horribly over gravel until the pavement was reached. Then it got worse. Terribly worse. Pavements are constructed on a slight slope toward the road.

In a wheelchair, utterly reliant on the person pushing, you have no control over yourself and where you go. And on pavements, I found I slid to the right or the left of the chair and could not position myself where I felt safe. I did not, at any time, feel safe.

Crossing the road was another nightmare; the pusher is behind you. You are facing the traffic – far too low to be safe. And even on zebra crossings, the push is not smooth; you are bumped over each zebra stripe until your teeth rattle in your head.

That day of training has never left me. And I believe it has made me a much more considerate wheelchair pusher. But I am terrified of being in my own wheelchair. Terrified.

Following brain surgery, I have had to learn to control my physical movements; for a long time I was told I would never walk again. My lack of balance has made me a liability. I was assigned a wheelchair as the many physios I saw decided I had not enough control over my balance, to walk independently.

Determined to be independent, I bought a mobility scooter. I was delighted. I could go where I chose, not at the whim of others. I had become resigned to being ‘parked’ outside a shop, while others went inside. Being left in the car because getting out the wheelchair was too much bother.

My delight was swiftly curtailed. Smiling with triumph, I processed proudly, only to have utter strangers place their hands on my shoulder – or even more intimate places and tell me sorrowfully that if only I lost some weight, I would not need to use such a thing.

CMM

A Moodscope member