Getting home was a bit of a mission. Firstly because, until the ramps were in place, I couldn't get into the house. Hubby kindly offered to back my wheelchair into the garage and throw a blanket over me at night but I politely declined.
Secondly, once I was in the house, until the doors (and one door frame) were removed I would have been trapped in the kitchen and laundry. The fact I can't cook (not because of the accident…I just can't cook) would have made this a complete waste of time. Nor can I reach into the washing machine – which as you can imagine is a devastating blow.
Then there was the small issue of transport. I did a trial run of getting into my 4WD. It's a bit tall. In fact, without ropes and pulleys there was no chance I was getting into that vehicle.
I had a brainwave and decided if I could pull myself into the boot, then scoot into a seat…the attempt gained a few sideways looks from passers-by but it was not a huge success vehicle-entry wise.
Hubby claimed his ute was shorter and I'd be able to hoist myself into that. It wasn't and I couldn't so he offered to put me chair and all on the back and tie me down with a couple of strops. Again I politely declined.
So a new vehicle had to be obtained. A short one with enough room in the boot to fit the chair. That done I enlisted a handy daughter to drive it – and me. I handed over the keys and have barely seen her or the car since…although I think she has vroomed past my place laughing and yelling "wheeeee" a couple of times.
So – home it is and the cats and dogs are pleased to see me, or rather pleased to have a permanently available lap.
Mungo the chihuahua has appointed himself navigator in chief, parking himself on my knee as I wheel about, his ears pricked, alert for obstacles. Unfortunately he doesn't warn me about them so he tends to fly off when I hit something.
The grandkids like the new ramp. It is steel and makes a wonderful noise when they run up and down it (the wonderfulness of the noise is subjective and I suspect age has influence on how much you like it).
Simonne the cat likes the wheelchair, as it has a comfy cushion. Every time I vacate my wheeled seat Simonne colonises it and I have to brave her teeth and claws to reclaim it.
Since being home I have managed to make my way to the paddock gate and feed a carrot to my little black horse Bryn…who took one bite, took fright at the crunching noise and ran away.
I've got stranded trying to wheel over to look at the garden, which is just as well as the weeds would have engulfed me and I am yet to get an orange bike flag to put on my chair to make me locatable.
I have realised I can't see in the bathroom mirror, or reach the light switches in the lounge. I can pour a cup of coffee but then have to drink it at the bench because carrying something while propelling a wheelchair is problematical. Wheelchairs need cupholders. They also need to make a beeping sound when they back up, to warn small animals and grandchildren.
But I have also found that when I go to town, kind strangers stop to let me cross the road (sorry to all the kind strangers that didn't realise I would take an age to get across…I'm still an amateur. I hope you weren't in a hurry).
And to top it all off, today I noticed that my bath chair has a special indentation to hold my bar of soap. It truly is the little things that count.
*Rachel Wise is associate editor of Hawke's Bay Today.
