Night of the Runaway Wheelchair

Night of the Runaway Wheelchair; A Life-Altering Class

As the class progressed, I grew more fascinated. I volunteered my required hours at an adult daycare center, a unit for patients with Alzheimer's, and a skilled nursing facility. I interviewed activity directors and residents to compare programs and challenges. As the weeks turned into months, my purse bulged with an ever-growing stack of 3x5 index cards Perkins assistive technology covered in notes about medical terminology, regulations, and information I required to pass those never-ending tests.

Perkins low-vision and assistive technology

But it was the night of the runaway wheelchair incident that was most memorable. Our instructors, which included a diabolical physical therapist, set up a series of stations inside the gymnasium. Students paired off with a partner for the evening and visited each station as a team to receive instructions.

Debie and I began at a table piled with clothing. Every station came with an ominous stack of cards, face down, waiting for us. I selected the top card and read the instructions out loud, "You have had a stroke on the dominate side of your body and are paralyzed. Put on a shirt and pants, and then take them off again." We exchanged amused looks as I rummaged through the clothing.

I sat down and lifted the dead weight of my 'paralyzed' right leg with my left hand and tried to aim my foot into the leg of the pants. The smile on my face evaporated within seconds. Eventually I managed to get both legs through, but still had to pull my pants up over my hips. To accomplish this maneuver, I needed to stand up using only the strength of my left leg to lift and support myself. Let’s just say this was neither pretty nor graceful. I glanced over at the physical therapist who stood off to one side watching, arms crossed over her chest, with a smug look on her face. What normally takes me no more than 10 seconds to execute each morning had lasted several agonizing minutes, and I hadn’t even started my struggle with the button-up shirt yet. I managed a little better with the sleeves and buttons, but it didn’t escape my notice that I also was not handicapped with stiff, sore fingers.

Debie's instructions said that she was recovering from hip replacement surgery and needed to use adaptive devices to dress herself in pants and socks so that she wouldn't bend at the waist less than a 90 degree angle. It made my previous task look simple by comparison. We left that station feeling quite humbled.

The episode with the wheelchair followed. I drew my card and got the 'paralyzed on the dominant side' diagnosis again, which is the reason I lost control going down the handicapped ramp. If you think that was bad, you should have seen me trying to go back up again. Hanging onto the handrail with one hand while attempting to use my 'good leg' as a brake proved to be a complete failure. Using my left hand to force one wheel forward (the uncontrolled opposite wheel forced me into turns instead of going straight) while trying to drag my way up with one foot just sent me sliding backwards out of control. Every method I tried concluded with me back at the bottom of the ramp, more exhausted than before. This ramp, by the way, complied with regulations for people with disabilities.

Predictably, I felt like a very elderly, frail, and helpless woman. I turned to Debie and begged for mercy. She came to my aid and pushed me back up the ramp and on to our next assignment.

This time, while still wheelchair bound, we took turns entering the restroom. This required pushing a heavy door open. It kept closing on me before I could get clear, catching my wheels and trapping me in a position difficult to reach the door to free myself. Somehow I even managed to get wedged sideways between the door and the jamb during one attempt. In truth, if I had actually needed to use the facility, I would have to plan for considerable lead time in order to make it though the obstacles before having an untimely accident and creating a whole new set of problems.

Once inside the restroom, I was instructed to enter the handicapped stall, turn completely around, and proceed to the sink. The stall itself wasn’t too bad, but trying to reach the soap and sink faucet capped off my irritation regarding thoughtless design. Once I finally managed to lather, rise, and dry my hands, I was required to exit through the door-from-hell and return to Point A, where Debie waited for her turn. My egress wasn’t much improved over my entrance. Debie anxiously searched my face for a hint of what awaited her; I just shook my head and wished her luck.

The instructor at our next stop invited us to sit at a table across from each other. The task was to simply open a jar of peanut butter, remove a cracker from a package, and spread it with peanut butter just using one hand (non-dominant, of course). Then I had to feed my cracker to Debie and she had to feed her cracker to me. Trust me on this; you have to try this task to fully appreciate it.

I wedged the jar between my knees to hold it still while I worked the lid off. Fortunately, the package of crackers wasn't sealed, so getting a cracker wasn't too intricate. The package did slide around the table a bit, but hunger won out. Without the ability to hold the jar steady while scooping the peanut butter with a knife, we both ended up with huge, lopsided globs of peanut butter. It was impossible to spread it over the surface of a cracker we couldn’t hold down, making it tricky and messy to eat. I'm certain Miss Manners would have been horrified at the spectacle.

Debie and I left behind a table (and our faces) smeared with sticky peanut butter and covered with crumbs, along with any remaining dignity.

At the next station it was mandatory for us to stuff cotton in our ears, and hold it snugly in place with our fingers while attempting to carry on a conversation with other classmates. The instructor asked us several leading questions, which we misunderstood. Voices were muffled and consonants were too garbled to distinguish. It was amusing, to a point, but would be a frustrating world to live in permanently.

Finally we put on safety goggles that had been smeared with a thin coating of petroleum jelly. We were told to fill out several pages of forms (like those you might encounter at a doctor’s office) while looking through the hazy, blurred lenses. This was the breaking point for me. My husband has impaired vision and the temporary experience broke my heart.

It took Debie and me so long to get through each of stations that we ran out of time before we could finish by taking turns being blindfolded and led around an obstacle course. All things considered, it was probably just as well.

The final parting blow was when I woke up in the middle of the night with excruciating leg cramps in the calf of my left leg from all the wheelchair expeditions.

Against all odds, I completed the class and graduated with high scores. I am certified by the state of California as an activity director. What I gained was valuable insight into a world that many of us will experience to varying degrees someday. I now understand why some people don't feel like changing their clothes or bathing every day. It’s just too darn difficult. Cooking may be too challenging or even dangerous. Hearing and sight impairment is isolating. Then when you factor in side effects from medication and other health issues, physical and/or mental, it becomes an even greater obstacle to preserve quality of life.

Debie and I made a promise to each other. If the time ever comes, we want to be roommates. We made a good team. I know she won't laugh at me if I drool, forget where my room is, or don't get all my buttons fastened correctly. I sincerely hope we will end up somewhere with an activity director who graduated from a class as insightful as ours and develops a rich calendar of activities to help pass the time and keep us stimulated.

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Night of the Runaway Wheelchair; A Life-Altering Class

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