Fucking wheelchair

One of my uncle sang a song when we were little. It was called I'm mad or something and featured a verse about taking someone down to the riverside and holding them under the water as the bubbles came up, then the bubbles stopped. (Lest you think my uncle is some crazy soiopath, it is John Lee Hooker's I'm bad like Jesse James.)

I was trying to remember the song this afternoon because I was so damn mad.

I was driving into the van tonight at work and I misjudged the ramp and got stuck half-on, half-off. Mom went to get the guard, but he had to stay at his post. He called for help, but it was close to half-an-hour before someone came. He helped.

First, he helped me out of the chair. Then he pulled it free. He did not make fun of me for my falling-down pants. He helped me back in the chair, waited till I got in the car and wouldn't take any cash for helping. Awesome.


But that was about the only good thing. I was furious that:

• My wheelchair is bigger than my previous one. I would swear the wheelchair guy said the ne chair's footprint was smaller, but it is wider and longer. Nothing to do about it really. It's the reality.
• Even after four months in the chair, I still can't drive it properly. I turn poorly all the time.
• No one in the garage stopped to see if I needed help. Maybe they didn't notice, but it surprised me.
• I was not strong enough to move the chair. Another illusion melts away.

Oh well.