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Keeping one piece of what I had six or so months ago meant something. I had to at least temporarily give up things that weren’t so easy to leave behind. It may be nonsensical, but the one thing I desperately wanted to keep was my car. In some weird way I feel it’s tied to my identity. As it turned out, the shape and size of my Beetle was close enough to perfect for both my wheelchair and me. A couple of months ago I felt ready, itching for independence.
Much like everything in life, getting back behind the wheel wasn’t easy. It was a process. Before I could even think about getting adaptive equipment installed I had to pass a driver’s test using hand controls, and before doing that receive an adequate amount of training on how to use them.
Feeling scared or anxious going through these motions was something I expected. There was a time when I thought that simply being in a moving vehicle would send me into a kind of panic. Somehow none of that’s happened. Yes, there are times when it gets unsettling and a little tense, but I can’t let those feelings stop me from what I want. Independence.
Three weeks after beginning the process, and a whole lot of waiting later, my Bug was all set. Though it may be naïve, prior to my injury I didn’t know driving without your feet was possible. I didn’t know a lot was possible, but fortunately for me, driving is. Thanks to just two pieces of equipment, I can hit the road all by myself. Wait. What? How? That’s the reaction I get and had firsthand. I still have my car. Nothing less, just a couple of additions. A hand lever connects to both the gas and brake pedal. A simple push applies the brake, and a pull accelerates. Because I’m steering with one hand, a spinner knob is attached to my steering wheel. The part that has some onlookers gawking in confusion is how I get into that driver’s seat. It’s a transfer across, which is how I move my body to any new surface. Buckled in, I take my wheelchair down to the bits. Both wheels come off with a button release. The cushion goes safely in the floor board sheltered from any damage. The back of the wheelchair collapses down. I’m left with four pieces, all of which I lift across my body into various spots of the interior. Yes, it’s heavy, but I do what I have to do. I’ve been driving for over a month now. At one time, this loading process took me around six minutes. Sweating, struggling, surviving. That’s how it felt at first. Today is takes me about two minutes. Improving, simplifying, living. That’s how it feels now.
I’m working with less than the majority, and I’m doing just fine. There isn’t a day when it’s easy. Some are just less troublesome than others. Some days don’t seem like the beginning more than the end. For me this is sort of a beginning. The first big step in a so called “plan” to get me back leading my own life. And this first step has me feeling like maybe it really is going to be more than okay after all. Maybe the positives will outweigh the negatives. Maybe after I start over I can exist to embrace all the things life can give. One day. Eventually. That’s what I hold out for.
For now I take moments I have throughout the day to relish in something. Recently it’s been me and my car. Singing to the music blaring on the radio. Feeling the sun on my face and seeing the open road ahead. These moments are solitary. It’s just me. Before learning to drive again, someone always had to take me where I needed or wanted to go. The amount of guilt that developed for needing to rely on so many others, taking time out of everyone’s busy days, began to bear a heavy weight. Having the freedom to go places independently, not extraordinary places, but anywhere really, is something I took for granted before. It’s something I didn’t think could be taken away from me. It still is, in a way. I’m not able to get anywhere with stairs and no elevator, or hallways too narrow, but that’s beside the point and out of my control. What I can control in a way is my recovery, my battle back. Some roads of life may be frightening, but I can’t let that get in my way. I can use that fear to be better. I’ve also learned that laughter is a better substitute for fear. Just a short time ago I was afraid to go places on my own, afraid to try things in my wheelchair I hadn’t done before, afraid to do anything outside of my new comfort zone. Since then, I’ve spent an entire afternoon in and out of places by myself, taking on the world with wheels. And you know what? It was great.
Nothing is ever as it seems, or appears to be. Glancing at me through my car window, you wouldn’t think that I can’t get around as easily as most. You wouldn’t think that I can’t just push the gas pedal. You wouldn’t think it takes me minutes, instead of seconds, to hop in and out of the car. Instead of seeing me and my paralysis, you just see me. That’s all. No wheels. Just a girl getting anywhere and everywhere she needs to go.