Illustrations by Mark Weber

Hospital Life

Being in a hospital is usually not fun, but life has its share of good times, even if you have to create them yourself. Because I had lost my ability to walk due to a syrinx (a fluid-filled sac in my spinal cord), I had been in a community rehab hospital for almost a year. And when you’ve been around any institution that long, you become the guinea pig for every new nurse or nurse tech that needs to practice a procedure or do something for the first time.

On this particular day the newbie was a guy I had gone to high school with.  He’d been at the hospital for a few months, but was still learning the procedures and how-to’s of the nursing profession every day. At about seven in the evening a perky, by-the-book RN was standing outside my room explaining to Mr. Newbie the proper procedure for inserting a suppository and doing a bowel program on a paraplegic. As he walked into my room, he was sashaying from side to side like a five-year-old who had to tell you something yet really didn’t want to.

“What’s up, dude?” I asked, as if I didn’t know.

“Well um, I um,” he stammered, “I gotta give you a suppository,” he answered reluctantly as he looked at the floor.

“Well, OK,” I said. “Let’s just get it over with.” I’d been down this road before but I wasn’t about to let him off the hook or put him at ease. With that I rolled over on my side and he did the job at hand without a flaw. I then asked if I could see little Ms. By-the-Book. He smiled and asked why.

“Nothing important,” I explained. “I just need to talk to her.”

With that, he left the room and in a few minutes re-entered, following Ms. By-the-Book.

She was always perky and full of energy, and today was no exception. As she entered my room, she said, “What’s up, Steve, what can I do for you? Did everything go OK?”

Putting my tongue between my lower lip and gum, I mumbled, “I don’t know what this thing is that he gave me, but it tastes awful.”

She immediately put her hand to my face, and trying not to panic, sputtered, “Spit it out, spit it out!”

I couldn’t hold my face any longer and started to laugh, while Mr. Newbie was standing off by the corner, saying, “Man, you’re gonna get me fired, you’re gonna get me fired.”

Soon we were all laughing, even Ms. By-the-Book. Thank God for nurses.

What Could Go Wrong

Ah yes, the trials of wheelchair life are neverending. After my release from the hospital, my real life of being married to my wheelchair began. At this time I was in a manual chair and had just gotten my van converted so I could drive again. One of my first trips was to see my physiatrist in a secluded medical office building where pedestrian traffic was at a minimum. In fact, on most of my previous visits, I never saw anyone in the building except those in my doctor’s office.

On this visit my adrenalin was running a bit, and being out alone only added to this excitement. I was feeling thrilled and scared at the same time. After finding the perfect parking spot, I transferred into my chair and headed into the building. Then down the hall I zoomed, and putting my hand on the corner I spun through the turn, picking up speed as I headed for the elevator. Once there, I pushed the up button and anxiously awaited the opening of the door on this seldom-used elevator. There was a ding, the doors opened, and just as I had suspected, the elevator cab was empty. I spun my chair around like a top and with all the grace of a figure skater, flung myself into the back of the elevator.

But when I hit the back wall of the elevator, I learned that the hand rails on an elevator were set almost a quarter inch higher than the push handles on my wheelchair. I also learned that if you hit it just right, your handles will pop up on those miserable useless rails, and when your wheels are a quarter inch off the ground, “you ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

I sat there wishing I had a cell phone, pondering my predicament. I began spinning my wheels, trying to get some traction so I could go to the front of the elevator and push the button for the third floor. Then to my horror, the doors closed and I realized I was on my own. This elevator wasn’t going anywhere, and with the limited traffic in this building, I knew that I could be here for a long time. I sat and rested for a bit, then spun my wheels some more, with little result. Still no traction, although I was getting my workout for the day.

After what seemed like hours, and with no one coming to use this elevator and rescue me, I started to rock back and forth. I was hoping to either fall off the hand rail or create enough noise so that someone would open the door to see what was going on. After a bit of rocking, I finally fell off the hand rail, pushed the button to floor three and was only five minutes late for my appointment.  Not bad for someone who went through the front door of the building 15 minutes before his scheduled appointment.

To this day, every time I get into an elevator, I move my chair with a little more caution than I did in those rookie days.

Making Friends

I  live near a large midwestern city that enjoys the often beautiful but always challenging winter snowfall, and this year was no different. My day started out like most others, out of bed with the help of my wife (by now I was using a power chair) and off to run errands, snow or no snow. Because I’m unable to transfer into the driver’s seat of our van, Kim, my wife, is saddled with the chore of being my chauffeur.

On this particular day we had two different locations on our agenda. First to see her grandfather, who was in the hospital, and second, to the federal representative’s office, to sign some papers. In our town there is a large hospital complex at the top of a very long and steep hill that overlooks the city.  And at the bottom of this hill are buildings with all of the necessary governmental offices.

As we pulled into the ramp for the hospital, I suggested that instead of loading me back up and finding another parking space after the first errand, I should just ride my chair to the federal building, as it was only a few blocks. While I took on this task alone, Kim could go into the hospital and visit her grandpa, thus giving her more time with him. Although she was unsure about my traipsing off alone in the dead of winter, she knows that I usually tend to just jump in and then try to figure out how to handle the problems as they come up. I think this approach to life is more productive than trying to anticipate every scenario and getting bogged down in what-ifs.

I headed down a snow-covered sidewalk. Just as I hit the great outdoors I remembered that no one can bring a cell phone, a multi-tool, or any other unnecessary or potentially dangerous artifact into a federal building. So I headed back into the hospital and handed off my backpack, my cell phone and what seemed like all my personal possessions and safety nets to my ever-so-skeptical wife. Then as I turned to leave, she said, raising one eyebrow, “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?”

I replied as nonchalantly as possible, “Naw, I got this. You go see your grandpa, and I’ll be up in a half hour or so.” With that I headed out into the snow and cold again with hopes of reaching the federal building and my representative’s office before I froze to death.

The federal building was only three blocks from the hospital, but it’s all hill. I had to be very careful because of the snow buildup on the roads, and especially, the sidewalks. My getting stuck in snow, even on a city street, could be disastrous.  Finally, I was able to enter the warmth of the front doors of the federal building. I had survived with no phone, no multi tool, no safety nets, nothing but my pad of paper, a pen, and my willingness to push on.

When my meeting was finished, I headed back out into the frigid air. Now I must say that I didn’t relish the thought of heading back up that long hill, but I did savor the thought of entering the warmth of the hospital building again and rejoining my wife in her grandfather’s room. I went up past the state building, and was able to push the snow with my feet while wishing that they had done a better job shoveling. I remember thinking that at least I had enough traction to push through this inconvenience and that they must have salted at some time.

After passing the state building, I went into a no man’s land, about 300 feet of sidewalk located on a bridge that goes over another road. This sidewalk had more snow than the rest of the areas designated for pedestrian traffic, and from the buildup it was obvious to me that no one was responsible for clearing the snow from this particular section of my path. I headed up the hill with the determination of a five-year-old looking for candy and resigned myself to stay off the busy four-lane road that ran up the long hill.

About half way over the bridge, I began to slow down and eventually ground to a halt for lack of traction. There I sat, stuck in the snow on a sidewalk next to a busy street without my lifeline, namely my phone. I sat there for what seemed like ten minutes, getting colder and colder while trying to figure out my next move. Finally, I tried to wave down one of the many cars passing me by on the street. I had to smile because I felt like I was in the friendliest city in the country. Everyone I waved at either waved back or honked their horn.

After 15 minutes of looking like a pencil salesman on a lonely corner, I figured out that waving wasn’t going to help. At this point I started rocking my wheelchair from side to side and moving the joystick back and forth. After a few minutes of this, I was able to get free of the snow and get enough traction to back myself down the hill and out into the cross street, which had been plowed and salted.

When I got to this corner I was in front of the state building again. I then decided to go out on to the busy road. At least it had been plowed and salted, and most of the snow had turned to slush. I headed up the hill amidst the cars as they slipped and slid their way around me on this icy, slushy, salty road, but at least I could get enough traction to keep moving. Whenever someone honked or waved at me as I headed up the road in their path, I knew it was because I was in the friendliest city in the country, and I would return the gesture with a wave and a smile. What a wonderful place to live, I thought, everyone waving or shouting what must have been encouraging words of joy. I must admit I could only see their lips move because of the rolled up windows, and I could only guess at what that funny closed-hand wave meant. But I figured they were just happy to see my progress, and they didn’t mind my being in their way for a short time.

When I got back to the hospital and found my wife, everyone was smiling, Grandpa was doing better, and I had returned without a scratch. She asked me how things had gone, and I said that I thought I had sold three dozen pencils and made a lot of new friends. I also said that life is good because we live near the friendliest town in the country.

She smiled an odd smile, and said, “What in the world are you talking about?”

But I’m used to that, and I think she is, too.