Hit me with your best shot

Who knew, but apparently today in addition to being Tuesday was also Kill the Kid in the Wheelchair Day.

I was crossing the four-lane road in front of my condo. I made it across lanes 1 and 2 with no problem and was sitting in the median waiting for two cars in lane 4 to pass. Well, the first car slowed for me to stop, but before I could even utter "son of a b," the second car passed the first car and zoomed by in lane 3.

Lest you forget, this was a bad dream of mine.

I wasn't prepared for what happened next.

I got on the sidewalk and was going down the road when I looked up and saw a gal on a mountain bike bearing down on me and Claren. Her teeth were bared and clenched. She rode to the side of the sidewalk but it was like the grass was lava. She wasn't going there.

Finally, I went into the grass and somehow the lava didn't burn me.

No means no, wheelchair!I

I have stumbled backward several times recently, but I haven't fallen. Instead, each time some piece of my wheelchair has caught me … by ramming that piece up my butt.

I don't know which is worse: the bruising after a fall or the feeling of being violated after a "save" by my chair. Can you sue an in animate object for sexual harassment?

Even worse, I am always falling. What if it is not the FA but rather because I am falling because I like being saved by my chair?

Oh geez, I need help.

Calling out the saints

I sent an e-mail to a friend of mine to tell her I was thinking of her and her lake. She lives near Lake Tahoe, which has seen an awful fire recently. She wrote back, "thanks, every little bit helps." I think there was an emoticon in there, too.

It occurred to me, though, that my thoughts should be worth more than a "little bit." I know a lot of people who should be working miracles or at least lobbying the miracle workers. I'm talking about you, St. Matthew. (Yes, I am challenging out my patron saint. If I wake up tomorrow and can walk and run, I'll apologize and build him a reallY kickin' shrine.) But still I am in a chair and getting worse.

I figured if I would ever get a deus ex machina in my life, gram would have gotten it done.

Gram died in October; She had known me my whole life, and if anyone could get God off his duff and working magic, she could.

God might complain that miracles weren't really his thing anymore, but I know gram would have none of it.

She didn't hold to rules. This was woman who "test drove" a red convertible to the beach with her friends when she was young. I put "test drove" in quotation marks because while she said "test drove," others might say "stole." She returned the convertible at the end of the day after the dealer was closed and just left it in the lot with its keys.

I was sure she would wander up to God's house, remind him that she was a loyal customer for 95 years and demand that he fix me and my brother.

I realize I am anthropomorphizing God a bit. God doesn't have a duff, a house, even a he. The magic, though, that's all God. God's like Dumbledore.

I won't lie and say I am not a little disappointed that gram has not hooked me up yet. Or Saint Matthew. I guess maybe gram is taking some time to learn the way of things, maybe she is building up a stash of chits. Maybe one day I'll see her behind the reins of a fiery chariot, and some guy with her will say to me in a mumble, "you're healed." She'll laugh and say: "That's right, Elijah, don't play Russian bank with me."

In throes over my toes

For years, I have blamed my mom for an infection in one of my big toes that eventually spread to my whole body, provoking a fever.

Finally, I had to have a toenail cut out and I fainted during the surgery, which was bad because I was just sitting in my chair.

Anyway, the problem wasn't my mom pooh-poohing my infection; it was my stupid FA.

I put so much pressure on my big toes. If I am just sitting in my chair, things are groovy. But if I am transferring, standing up or anything else, my big toes slam into my shoes.

I need to wear shoes to help dull the crazy reflexes in my feet. But even if I risk it and do something without shoes, my toes slam into the socks, the ground, whatever.

And trying to put a Band-aid on my toe is just a comedy of flying feet, ointment spread everywhere and the Band-aid all squished up.

It may be needless to say, but I have a little sore again. I may or may not let my mom see it.

I'm bad; I'm nationwide

I think I am a bad disabled person.

For one thing, I have very little patience with people who are disabled and are not friends or family.

This morning, we pulled up at a house to pick up another disabled client because the para-transit system is a shared ride service. We waited 15 or 20 minutes before she came out. I was so mad.

I know intimately all the stupid little delays that you can face on a normal day. It didn't matter, though. She made me late.

Part of it is because I get up early enough that all those stupid little delays don't keep me from making my ride on time. Others should do the same.

In my defense, though, you could take the word "disabled" out of the sentence "For one thing, I have very little patience with people who are disabled and are not friends or family" and it would probably be partly true. Maybe I'll get a pass on this one then, and just be allowed to wallow in my misanthropy.

But somehow I suspect the following is going to cost me disability hit points.

After much internal debate, I have decided independence is for suckers.

Sure I can wheel myself up inclines, but it is a whole lot freakin' easier to get a push. Yes I have done my laundry, but I have to stand up to put the clothes in the dryer, so why shouldn't I let my folks wash my clothes for me. Plus, my mom can fold in 10 minutes clothes that would take me 10 hours and it actually looks folded, not like someone was trying to make an origami snowball.

What I am hoping is that I'll get drummed out of the ranks of the disabled. Then I could walk!