The wheeled view

>>>The wheeled view

I saw Marcus* out of the corner of my eye, stopped at the crossroads, obviously waiting for us.

Kaitlyn and I were headed over to the cafeteria for lunch.** It’s a bit of a long haul for me, since there’s a steep incline on both ends of long, meandering sidewalk. I haven’t been able to do it yet without needing a friendly push.

I’m getting better at it; each time I make the trip I go just a leeeeeetle bit farther up that hill. One day I’ll make it, but in the meantime, it’s a good to have friends with strong backs.

My goal today had been to get all the way up to the cafeteria patio on my own. But Marcus stood there, watching me.

“May I give you a push?” he asked, shyly.

Marcus is a sweet guy who delivers mail and does odd errands around the office. He speaks slowly, shaping his words with effort, and his motor skills are maybe not the best. He may not get there as fast as the next guy, but it’s a happy, determined journey.

“Well, sure, that would be very very nice of you! How thoughtful!” I exclaimed. His mouth turned up at the corners in a smile that never reached his eyes. Without saying a word, he grabbed the handles of my wheelchair and started to push.

Kaitlyn and I made desultory chat about the weather, the vagaries of wheelchairs, how grateful I was for thoughtful wheelchair pushers.

Marcus kept silent as he pushed me along the sidewalk, beside a pondful of geese, past the gazebo, up the steep part of the walk that I never can make all by myself.

We got to the cafeteria door, and I took over–there’s an inch-high threshold that’s tricky to maneuver if you don’t hit it just right. I hit it wrong once and shot out of that chair like I’d been stung, ending up perched on the good leg like a Russian dancing the trepak.

I thanked Marcus profusely, wished there was something I could do to return his kindness.

Wheelchairs are funny things. At my crankiest, stark naked with a flamethrower, I couldn’t clear a room as fast as I can in my wheelchair. Leg fully extended in the brace, I have the turning radius of a Prius. When I start doing 360s and sweeping that leg around, people get out of the way, fast.

Hmmmm. Wheelchair as weapon, maybe.

Just about everyone’s taller when you’re in a wheelchair, which bothers a few of my fellow “bone clinic” attendees who come to have their wounds checked, their bones x-rayed. “I hate looking up to people I always looked down on,” grumbled one.

Doesn’t bother me. I wasn’t all that tall to begin with, so I guess I don’t have as much to lose.

So maybe…wheelchair as equalizer? In this wheelchair, I always have the best seat in the house, and people scramble to hold doors open. Someone’s always there to give me a push if I need it; a stranger doesn’t stay that way for long.

Take Marcus. I’ve greeted him near-daily for six years without so much as a grunt. Yet today, he sees me. Or maybe sees the wheelchair.

Wheelchair as conversation piece: Wherever I go, someone wants the story of my wheelchair and The Leg. It’s quite an icebreaker.

“I worked as an orthopedic nurse for 8 years,” said my driver this morning, “and yours is the second worst leg injury I’ve seen. I’m amazed you have such a positive attitude.”

“Only the second?” I said dryly, “What happened to the first?”

“Amputation,” he said gaily, “But he got right back on his surfboard and he’s doing just fine. You will, too.”

Gee, thanks. I think.

Wheelchair as perspective-changer: Suddenly, I understand the importance of accessibility. The terrifying presence of a one-inch threshold. The near-insult of the well-meaning. You wouldn’t believe the number of people who automatically raise their voices and slow their speech when when they speak to me in this chair.

Uhm, dudes? Broke leg, not head. I speak English and…everything.

Wheelchair as guilt trip: The delivery guy brings a big, heavy box to my mom’s house, drops it in the driveway, tries to drive off. Mom stops him, but he refuses to bring it the rest of the way into the house. Not his job, he says.

I wheel slowly into his view. “My mom’s XX years old,***” I say, quietly, “And as you can see, I’m not exactly running marathons. Are you sure you can’t bring that box into the house?”

He brought the box into the house.

Don’t get me wrong: I want OUT of this chair in the worst way. I dream of walking, of impulsively dashing across the street just to see what’s on the other side. Taking the stairs two at a time. Being normal.

I’ve stopped putting my life on hold, waiting for Elmo and The Leg to kiss and make up. I’m making plans: I’m headed to BeCON in June, a cloisonne class in October, and nothing–especially NOT a wheelchair–is gonna stop me.

But does that mean I can’t appreciate the gifts bestowed by four wheels and an upholstered seat?

Marcus gave me a small wave and walked off to his own lunch, my thanks echoing behind him.


* Not his real name

**And yes, I started back to work while I was still in hospital with my busted leg. My employer (very kindly) lets me work from home (well, Mom’s house) most of the time. Lately, though, I’ve been getting Lyfts and going into the office about once a week. It’s not a trivial exercise, since the total commute time is 2-3.5 hours and costs about $150 and a fair amount of exhaustion…but I love it. 

***In reality, my mom does the work of ten strong men in a third of the time, but he didn’t need to know that.


The Saving Elmo series covers my adventures after crashing to the ground on Elmo, my replacement knee, sustaining an “open, comminuted fracture of the left femoral shaft.” It’s a tad more dire than it sounds; if my bone doesn’t grow completely back and return me to normal function, there’s a new, more painful, less effective femoral replacement in my future…with eventual amputation.

If you want to follow along on the journey, try these posts:

Mantis lessons

November 14th, 2017|10 Comments

Mischief managed

November 8th, 2017|19 Comments

Surgery musings and kudos to Marriott

October 15th, 2017|22 Comments

I think I’m in love…with my bathroom

October 10th, 2017|8 Comments

Chirurgia interruptus

September 28th, 2017|11 Comments

Happy Crashiversary, Elmo

September 18th, 2017|19 Comments

So how did you break your leg?

August 10th, 2017|2 Comments

View from the mountain

August 4th, 2017|4 Comments

The ravell’d sleeve of care…

July 26th, 2017|6 Comments

Test: Can you spot the cripple?

July 22nd, 2017|14 Comments

Zeroing in and leveling out

July 20th, 2017|34 Comments

Femurs, accessibility, and Utah: Saving Elmo II

July 16th, 2017|14 Comments

Tripping the light surgical: Saving Elmo II

July 14th, 2017|12 Comments

Wheelchair traveler…

July 12th, 2017|7 Comments

Filling up on sweetness, with fragility

July 6th, 2017|8 Comments

Saving Elmo: Sometimes the bear eats you

June 26th, 2017|17 Comments

No place like it…

June 12th, 2017|6 Comments

Driving Miz Cynthia, Part Two

June 5th, 2017|9 Comments

Drivin’ Miz Cynthia

June 1st, 2017|5 Comments

Home-ward bound

May 29th, 2017|10 Comments

Room 15: Paying it forward

April 3rd, 2017|12 Comments

Whippersnapper

April 1st, 2017|5 Comments

The Fortress

March 25th, 2017|9 Comments

On the bone again…

March 10th, 2017|14 Comments

Moonlight at sunrise, with jitters

March 8th, 2017|8 Comments

The wheeled view

March 2nd, 2017|10 Comments

Elmo, Beorn, and the Ferengi’s ears

January 30th, 2017|12 Comments

Cliffhangers, clues, and claying around

November 28th, 2016|7 Comments

8 weeks: Patience for the unvirtuous

November 16th, 2016|12 Comments

2017-07-03T14:24:23+00:00

10 Comments

  1. Bob Heath March 3, 2017 at 5:18 pm - Reply

    Another great post Cynthia. Speaking of getting back to normal, I have a new glass studio you haven’t ever seen yet and it’s wheelchair friendly, for the most part. The bathroom might be a bit of a challenge. If you feel the need to break some glass sometime, you’re welcome to come do so here. I might even be able to provide transportation, but don’t know if you can maneuver in and out of a Prius. (I hear they have the turning radius of a wheelchair).

  2. Gail Northness March 3, 2017 at 12:50 pm - Reply

    Cynthia, I have thoroughly enjoyed reading your sequential stories about Elmo. Wishing you the best, and hopefully, least painful recovery. I look forward to more stories! Gail

  3. ellen abbott March 3, 2017 at 5:56 am - Reply

    Yay, getting on with life and getting out. we can only wallow so long, right?

  4. kathryncecelia March 2, 2017 at 10:00 pm - Reply

    Everyone who’s commented above I agree with. Your turn of a phrase, your observations and perspective are entertaining, insightful and always worth reading. I wish I earned outside money… I’d love to go to BeCON. Perhaps you can write about it? I still plan to come down to Portland/Vancouver and meet you. You are inspiring and, if you don’t mind, I have questions about casting glass.

  5. Gordon Yutzy March 2, 2017 at 7:34 pm - Reply

    Cynthia, you don’t know me and I don’t know you, but I have read your writing for nearly five years. I am a fused glass artist (and engineer) and my wife is an accomplished professional metal clay artist. I really enjoy your attitude when it comes to glass. I totally appreciate the way you experiment with technique, always asking the question, ” Wonder what happens if I try this?”
    The ordeal with Elmo must be humbling, terrifying, and uplifting all at the same time. Honestly, I check my email hoping that we will see another blog on your progress. I really enjoy the subjects that you write about and the way you present them. Carry on.

    Gordon Yutzy

    • cynthia March 3, 2017 at 4:37 pm - Reply

      Well thanks, Gordon. Metal clay and enamel are my current exasperations-of-choice, since glass sculpture is not exactly a portable hobby. I’d love to see what your wife does.

      I’ve got to admit, every time I start a blogpost I think, “ANOTHER one about your leg? Don’t you have anything interesting to write about?” I have a lot of unfinished posts, so it’s fun to see that people actually like to read these things. 😉

  6. Diana tillotson March 2, 2017 at 3:38 pm - Reply

    Your spirit is amazing. Glad you’re doing more and going to BeCon.

  7. Susan March 2, 2017 at 9:04 am - Reply

    Hang in there, Cynthia? Love, Susan

  8. sandi uhlman March 2, 2017 at 7:15 am - Reply

    You always manage to make me smile and look at life a new way!! I got knee replacement 5 weeks ago and I named her Nina.Next one next year ( if I still have health coverage) and his name will be Neal! Thanks for smiles…I think of you and send you healing wishes Sandi

Comments welcome! (thanks)

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