Recently, my wheelchair developed an annoying and persistently loud creaking. As a paraplegic, I use a power-assist chair to meet my everyday mobility needs, and my e-Motion chair includes ingenious German-engineered, battery-operated wheels that give me more oomph for each push, thereby keeping me extremely active without damaging my 67-year-old hands, wrists, elbows and shoulders.

The metal-on-metal noise emanating from this sophisticated piece of equipment, however, had become maddening. Imagine shoes that squeak with every step without being able to take them off. The irritation grew each day with each turn of the wheels. I called my equipment provider for help, and a week later they sent their technician, Jack, to my house to make the needed adjustments. Jack said that to make the repair he would need to order some parts, and he would need to take the chair to his shop.

So I took a deep breath, sought my inner-patience place, transferred into my regular manual chair, and hoped that my power-assist chair would soon be fixed. As I watched Jack drive his beat-up van down the street, I reflected on my good fortune that I had a backup chair. But I also felt dread as I watched the van disappear. It wasn’t going to the corner garage for a quick lube job. It wasn’t going to one of the dozens of bike shops in town for a simple adjustment. Was it going to Complex Rehab Technology Bureaucratic Limbo?

Several days later I had a phone message from a very polite repair department worker, Yvonne. Before the parts could be ordered, she explained, she needed a letter of justification from my rehabilitation physician, Dr. Shem.

OK, I groaned to myself. Patience. I called Dr. Shem’s office, which is part of the unwieldy but well-meaning county rehab center. The clerk told me that I had to be seen in the clinic before a Letter of Justification could be written, since I had not been in the clinic within the last year.

I gave the clerk my medical records number. She told me that there was no Cynthia Ranii in their files. I shared my surprise, and told her that I had been seeing Dr. Shem for the last 10 years. Oh, she said, if you haven’t seen the doctor in that many years, then no wonder we don’t have your records. No, I explained, I first saw her 10 years ago, and I have seen her routinely ever since.

My name is often misspelled. She re-checked the R-A-N-I-I spelling. Yes, here you are! She would be happy to make an appointment for me, but first she would need authorization from my insurer. Call back in three to five business days and we can schedule you to be seen in clinic within two or three weeks.

I stewed over my options and came upon a better plan. I called Yvonne at the repair shop and suggested that she fax the letter to my family practice physician, Dr. Morse. She and her staff in a small family practice might be able to expedite the signing of the letter, the letter which confirms that I am still a paraplegic, still need a wheelchair, and that my 67 year-old body is still in need of power-assist technology to preserve my health and well-being.

This part of the story has a happy ending: within 24 hours of the request, Dr. Morse faxed the Letter of Justification. Hooray for a small, private doctor’s office.
I wish I could say that upon receipt of the letter the parts were ordered and installed, and that I soon returned to wheeling in comfort. Sadly, but predictably, parts were ordered, the wrong parts were sent; new parts were ordered and received, problems with installation ensued; two months went by and finally my chair, minus its creak, was returned to me. It turned out the creak had been a sign of an axle that had been about to break. Multiple parts had to be replaced and the installation was difficult and time consuming.

After three months I am back in my power-assist chair. The creak is gone, but there is looseness, an extra “give” in the right-hand rim that creates an irritating click every time I propel the chair. Click, click, click, click. Much as I hate to, I have decided to continue to wear this particular “squeaky shoe,” at least for now. I only have so much energy, and the bill for repairing the creaking sound arrived today.

Who else has had a pair of creaky shoes fixed that cost $417 above and beyond Medicare and Blue Cross reimbursements?