Oh no. He’s heading this way, from across the parking lot – with that look. It’s the “something’s not right in my world” look. We’ve all seen it before, those of us in wheelchairs who have adapted to everyday chores, like getting in and out of cars. But whether it’s a vehicle with a lift, retractable ramp, or just a clever scheme for hoisting your chair’s frame over your reclined seat and popping on your two wheels, as I’ve done everyday for over two decades, we’ve mastered this. We’ve figured it out – we’re functional, and proud of it. But even this won’t deter some, like the man pummeling toward me at this moment, crossing in front of moving cars, risking his very life to set things right.
Luckily I’ve completely assembled and transferred into my wheelchair and am just about to shut the car door, all in the time it’s taken him to cross 25 yards of asphalt. Impressive, right? At least I think so; but no –
“You need any help?” he asks, breathlessly. I had hoped my awesome display of wheelchair assembling finesse would have demonstrated that no help is required, but he’s committed; something is still not right in his world –