Figuring out how to set up a CamelBak so I could get some water in the middle of the night provided one of the early “aha” moments after my injury.

The CamelBak’s long drinking tube is easy to wrangle with my quad hands, and if I make sure it’s lying on my bed in the right place before pulling the blankets up, I’m good to go. Even with limited sensation in my hands and arms, I’ve mastered locating the tube and bite valve in the dark.

I wake up thirsty almost every night, and 99 times out of 100, I simply reach across my body, use my thumb to hook the bite piece on my CamelBak, gulp down some water and go back to sleep.

But once every blue moon, I reach across my body, and I can’t feel the tube. Since I can’t sit up or roll over, my search is limited to a funky mixture of elbow and shoulder movement that only a quad can truly appreciate.

When I’m lucky, I find everything hidden under a sheet or beside the pillow. In that case, it’s usually just a matter of flopping around some more to move the blankets and position the tube where I can grab it. Otherwise, I’ll find the tube wrapped around the bedpost, dangling over the side of the bed — tantalizingly close, but with no way to be hooked easily. Over the years, I’ve developed a last-ditch technique to rescue the tube by carefully positioning my bony elbow under the small space where the tube abuts the post, angling my elbow up so it hooks under the tube and then slowly dragging it toward me.

If it works, I bring the tube far enough toward me to pin it with the other side of my elbow and pull it the rest of the way. If it doesn’t, the agitation knocks the tube even farther off the bed. Game over, no water for me. Either way, there is a lot of flopping, chicken-like elbow work and way more cussing than I am proud to admit.

Whenever I’m in the middle of all this, there’s inevitably a moment where it strikes me how utterly ridiculous I must look flopping and cussing in the dark. With low stakes, high emotion and plenty of fail, it’s a viral sensation waiting to happen.

As ridiculous as it may be to watch, I’ll be damned if it’s not one of the most unexpectedly rewarding moments in my day. After anywhere from 30 seconds to 15 minutes of tediously battling the CamelBak, there is a surge of relief, joy and pride when I know I’ve corralled it and am about to quench my thirst.

It took time to appreciate and understand that feeling. When I first started using the CamelBak, it felt weird to get excited about something that had previously seemed so mundane. Today I get it. Those small victories are the essence of adapting to life after SCI.

For me, the CamelBak flop fills this need. For you it might be opening a tricky door or mastering a complicated voice app, but regardless of your disability there are plenty of obstacles offering similar rewards.

We put this issue together by tapping into the expertise of some of our peers to give you an awareness of products like the CamelBak that may be equally, or even more fulfilling for you. Happy holidays!