ignoring everything I said. On top of that, to be told I was going to have to wear a head strap from then on, with no say in the decision, was more belittling than you can imagine. The fact is, the specialists were usually wrong. They’ve been telling me since I was four that I’m going to get skin breakdown from leaning on my right elbow all day, and that we should look into a bunch of different methods to take pressure off my elbow, methods that would render my right arm unusable. Every six years I fought them off and somehow convinced them that my elbow would be fine. Twenty-one years of leaning on my right elbow have gone by, and guess what, not once have I had any breakdown of the skin.
With a new wheelchair on the way (a process that would take four to five months because of stupid insurance hassles) I felt like the proper thing to do was take some time to honor the valiant life of my soon-to-be old wheelchair. We’d been through a lot together; some fun, some shit, but all worth remembering. So I wrote her this letter:
Dear Darla,
The time has come to say goodbye. But before you go, let’s reminisce about all the memories we’ve shared.
I don’t actually name my wheelchairs, which always astonishes people. My wheelchair became Darla about fourteen seconds ago.
There were the countless feet that we have run over together. Most of the time it was an accident, but sometimes we did it on purpose and disguised it as an accident. Other times we ran over feet because people asked us to, not in a fetishy kind of way, more of a, “Run over my foot I want to see if it hur—OH GOD! GET OFF! GET OFF!”
There was the time we stayed outside in the summer downpour against all reasonable logic, and you broke down for three days. I had to sit in a very old, very uncomfortable, manual wheelchair while you were being repaired. Andrew parked me in the corner and told me I was in timeout probably a hundred times during those three days. Without instant Netflix, I probably would have died.
There was the time we were in the car together, not strapped in (because we like to live on the edge), and mom had to slam on the brakes and you rocketed towards the front of the van, since I had also forgotten to turn you off. I broke my big toe as we collided with the driver’s seat, so that was a learning experience. We still don’t strap you in, though, because we still like living on the edge, but at least I now remember to turn you off.
There was the time you threw me out of your seat when I ran over a soccer ball with you. The broken femur I suffered put me out of commission for a month. I still kind of hate you for that, but forgiveness is a process.
There were all the times we were an awesome street hockey goalie. Your 400 pounds of steel and brute force, combined with my catlike reflexes and determination to win made quite an impressive team.
There was the time the street in front of our house froze over and we had races on the ice until my entire body was frozen solid.
There was the time I missed the birth of my first-born son because I forgot to charge you the night before. (That never happened, but I have missed countless events because I’m an idiot and almost never remember to re-juice my battery at night.)
There was the time I burned holes in your controller interface because I wasn’t paying attention while playing with fire. That’s what I get for having such a fascination with fire.
We have traveled hundreds of miles together. We went through puberty together. We made friends together. I can never thank you enough for all that you’ve done for me. You will never be replaced. You will never be forgotten.
Unless, of course, if my new chair is a lot cooler.
chapter 22
femur destruction
When I was in eleventh grade, I was forced to take an adaptive physical education class, much to my dismay (I just wanted to be in a normal class with my friends). This class consisted of two mentally challenged students and me. Not to
With a new wheelchair on the way (a process that would take four to five months because of stupid insurance hassles) I felt like the proper thing to do was take some time to honor the valiant life of my soon-to-be old wheelchair. We’d been through a lot together; some fun, some shit, but all worth remembering. So I wrote her this letter:
Dear Darla,
The time has come to say goodbye. But before you go, let’s reminisce about all the memories we’ve shared.
I don’t actually name my wheelchairs, which always astonishes people. My wheelchair became Darla about fourteen seconds ago.
There were the countless feet that we have run over together. Most of the time it was an accident, but sometimes we did it on purpose and disguised it as an accident. Other times we ran over feet because people asked us to, not in a fetishy kind of way, more of a, “Run over my foot I want to see if it hur—OH GOD! GET OFF! GET OFF!”
There was the time we stayed outside in the summer downpour against all reasonable logic, and you broke down for three days. I had to sit in a very old, very uncomfortable, manual wheelchair while you were being repaired. Andrew parked me in the corner and told me I was in timeout probably a hundred times during those three days. Without instant Netflix, I probably would have died.
There was the time we were in the car together, not strapped in (because we like to live on the edge), and mom had to slam on the brakes and you rocketed towards the front of the van, since I had also forgotten to turn you off. I broke my big toe as we collided with the driver’s seat, so that was a learning experience. We still don’t strap you in, though, because we still like living on the edge, but at least I now remember to turn you off.
There was the time you threw me out of your seat when I ran over a soccer ball with you. The broken femur I suffered put me out of commission for a month. I still kind of hate you for that, but forgiveness is a process.
There were all the times we were an awesome street hockey goalie. Your 400 pounds of steel and brute force, combined with my catlike reflexes and determination to win made quite an impressive team.
There was the time the street in front of our house froze over and we had races on the ice until my entire body was frozen solid.
There was the time I missed the birth of my first-born son because I forgot to charge you the night before. (That never happened, but I have missed countless events because I’m an idiot and almost never remember to re-juice my battery at night.)
There was the time I burned holes in your controller interface because I wasn’t paying attention while playing with fire. That’s what I get for having such a fascination with fire.
We have traveled hundreds of miles together. We went through puberty together. We made friends together. I can never thank you enough for all that you’ve done for me. You will never be replaced. You will never be forgotten.
Unless, of course, if my new chair is a lot cooler.
chapter 22
femur destruction
When I was in eleventh grade, I was forced to take an adaptive physical education class, much to my dismay (I just wanted to be in a normal class with my friends). This class consisted of two mentally challenged students and me. Not to
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