Laughing at My Nightmare (12 page)

One of the reasons that I was so against changing wheelchairs was that the able-bodied people who assist in the wheelchair selection and customization process have trouble understanding the intricacies of how I sit. For instance, a big point of contention was the fact that I lean so far to the right and put almost all my body weight on my right rib cage. It was a completely acceptable problem for the therapists and wheelchair representatives to be concerned about. However, and this is a big however, I physically can’t hold my head up or move my arms if my body is adjusted even several inches to the left. When I explained this to them, they essentially ignored me and played the we’re-specialists-so-we-know-better-than-you card. It was extremely frustrating, as they lifted me from one chair to the next, while I knew just by looking at each chair that it wasn’t going to work.

They said things like, “Well maybe if we reclined the chair, your body would naturally rest on the backrest rather than your side. Or maybe we should look into a head strap that will hold your head in place since you can’t hold it up when you’re in the proper position.”

I responded, “But I would literally have to be almost fully reclined all the time, and I can’t drive that way, so that wouldn’t work. Also, I definitely do not want a head strap.” Then came their line that filled me with so much anger that my eyes teared up, “Well, Shane, we might just have to compromise on this one.”

It felt like they were 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 imply that there’s anything wrong with people who are mentally disabled, but honestly, both of these kids consistently smelled like they had atomic bowel movements simmering in their pants, and all they ever talked about was Disney movies. (Don’t get me wrong, I love Disney, but I don’t need to hear the storyline of
Finding Nemo
recounted to me over the course of an hour every single day of the week.) It was difficult for me to be enthusiastic in that situation, especially when my friends relentlessly joked that maybe I belonged in that class.

Gym class has always been a challenge for me. When I was younger, I could safely integrate myself into whatever game our class was playing with only some minor adaptations. My friends always picked me to be on their teams. I never had to experience the trauma of being picked last. If we played a game that was particularly difficult for me, like Frisbee football or gymnastics, I would happily offer to sit out and be the “coach,” which basically just meant sitting on the sidelines heckling and critiquing my friends’ performances. But as we matured and entered high school, the level of play and competitiveness increased significantly. More often than not, I would voluntarily choose to sit out and watch. If I did play, I knew that I would be a weight for my team to carry, ultimately hurting their chances of winning. Losing sucked, and I didn’t want to be the one responsible for it. At the same time, it started to become dangerous for me to participate in fast-paced sports now that my friends were much taller and heavier than me. There were several occasions where I narrowly avoided death when students crashed into the side of my chair.

After a few days of the new adaptive PE class, I got over my distaste because I realized that I would be able to participate a lot more in this class, since I didn’t have to worry about volleyballs or basketballs flying at my face at ninety miles an hour. There were no competitive games in this class. We went bowling and played beanbags and did modified versions of aerobics. Our gym teacher, Mr. Kremus, was an awesome dude who shared my love for sports, so we often chatted about the Phillies while the other students played. My aversion to adaptive gym was further soothed when a few older cheerleaders volunteered to help out in the class. I stopped chatting with Mr. Kremus and spent most of the class talking to them.

On a particularly warm day in October, our gym class decided to go outside. Usually this meant a painfully boring nature walk around the perimeter of the high school, but for whatever reason I asked if we could bring a soccer ball out to mess around with, which is kind of ironic in hindsight, since Mr. Kremus was the only one in the class who could actually kick the ball.

We went to the tennis courts and Mr. Kremus took turns rolling the ball to each one of us. My method of passing the ball back to him involved driving my chair at the ball and bumping it with the front base of my wheelchair. I quickly became bored and asked him to give me some full-court passes that I would attempt to control and then pass all the way back. Piece of cake. All was going well and the cheerleader teacher assistants were impressed with my driving abilities. Then my gym teacher decided to kick me a different ball that we had brought out. This ball was much softer than a normal soccer ball, so by the time it reached me on the other side of the court, it was carrying very little momentum, not enough for me to pass it all the way back to him. I stopped the ball with my wheel and then backed away from it until I was about twenty feet away so I could gather some speed before I made contact with the ball.

In a moment that still seems unreal to me to this day, I drove my chair at top speed (ten miles an hour) towards the ball, but as I made contact, my front right wheel drove up over the ball due to its softness. My chair lurched to the side with a violence that I had never felt in all my years of driving. I lost sense of everything as my body was thrown out of my chair and came crashing down to the tennis court below. Blackness.

I opened my eyes and regained focus from a position that I did not often find myself in. Sprawled in a crumpled mess of atrophied body parts and blood, which was coming from my head, I began to make sense of where I was and what had just happened. I was lying on my side on the rough concrete of the tennis court, in a position pretty similar to how I lie in bed. I laughed uncontrollably as the absurdity of the situation set in, coupled with the delightful realization that I was alive. The laughter faded when I noticed Mr. Kremus sprinting towards me in sheer panic. He was probably also relieved to discover me conscious and alive. I laughed again when he screamed for one of the cheerleaders to go to get help.

“Honestly, I really think I’m okay. What the hell happened? I guess I probably should have put my straps on. No, no, no. You don’t need get anyone. Nothing hurts that bad, except for my head a little bit,” I told him, more concerned with avoiding the embarrassment of having more people see me in this vulnerable position than proceeding cautiously.

“Oh my God! Are you okay? Yeah, your head is bleeding. I don’t really want to move you in case your back is injured. Oh my God. I think we should call an ambulance,” Mr. Kremus said.

“I’m seriously fine,” I said, starting to get frustrated, “I have a metal rod in my back, so I don’t really think it can break. Can you please just roll me onto my back? This concrete is killing my side.” In the distance I saw one of the security guards running towards the tennis courts with the girl who had gone for help. Great, more hoopla.

Dramatic reenactment.

Then the fun began. After arguing with my gym teacher and the security guard for a few minutes, I was able to convince them to lift me back into my chair. Quite possibly the biggest mistake of my life. As Mr. Kremus lifted my legs to maneuver me onto my back, a sharp pain shot through my right knee and radiated throughout the rest of my body. The first step to rolling me is sliding one hand under my knees. When he did this, it caused my legs to move approximately an inch, rising from the pavement to accommodate his hand sliding beneath them. This movement, the absolute slightest of fucking movements, hurt so badly that I shrieked. Literally shrieked. I can’t even describe the sound I made in human words because the letters needed to create them have not been invented yet.

He frantically slid his hand out from under my knees, sending them plummeting from their inch of elevation to the pavement below. Another incomprehensible screech. I gathered myself and said, “I’m fine. I think I might have pulled a muscle in my right knee. Can you just pick me up from my side and put me back in my chair?” I’m an idiot. But apparently I’m a convincing idiot because Mr. Kremus and the security guard only argued with me for several more minutes before agreeing to lift me back into my chair.

Spoiler alert: it was much more than a pulled muscle. My right femur was snapped in half just above my knee. I discovered that broken femurs don’t support weight very well when the two adults hoisted me off the pavement using my knees and shoulders as lifting points. I’m not sure if you’ve ever felt the two sides of a broken bone separate from each other, but I would highly recommend it to anyone who would like to guarantee that they will never experience a sicker pain for the rest of their life. For dessert, I had the pleasure of feeling my bones rearrange themselves once again as my body assumed the sitting position of my wheelchair. Refusing to accept there was anything seriously wrong, I once again reassured the adults that I had only sustained a pulled muscle as we made our way to the nurse’s office to get my bleeding forehead examined.