Wheelchairs

Wheelchairs Weren't Built For Two
By Gillian Thomas, Freelance Writer

I woke up one morning early in Spring 1994 filled with a wild urge to travel. Where to? My initial choice was Tuscany. Rent a villa, rent a car and stay for three weeks. Nevertheless, overcome with love (and guilt) for my brother whom I had not seen in five years, I felt it was only right for me to pack up hubby Jack and board a plane for Dublin.

Convincing my boss at work was easy. I had privileged information about his last holiday – a little oops let’s say in his marital affiliations. It was convincing Jack that was hard. The plan of persuasion I used was we both needed to connect with our families. Being a woman of intuition, I had to follow my urge. I took to relating my dreams to him the moment I woke. Naturally, conveniently, my dreams reflected what I intuitively felt. I wore away at Jack’s hatred to fly. And so within three months, accompanied by two very large suitcases and Jack, we were at Lester B. Pearson Airport in Toronto, breakfasting before boarding Flight 202.

It was uneventful. The whole flight over the Atlantic. I got my pre-selected aisle seat in the bulkhead; the plane left on time; Jack fell asleep after three martinis and snored, I with my impatient bladder only had to wait in line once for the toilet, and the plane landed on time.

So when did things begin to go awry? When Jack had to visit the washroom while we were waiting for the baggage to swirl on to and around the carousel. That left me to man – no- woman the arrival of our luggage. And there they came. Very lucky for me as the two were together. Smiling with my luck, I flexed my very ample arms and prepared. With (as is said), a felled swoop, I captured both the unmatched red and bright blue cases. With pride, I stepped back, heaving them over the rubber edge of the carousel. I then plunked them down, safe and sound, less than an eighth of an inch from my shoe.

While resisting the urge to look around to receive an applause, I spotted a young woman on crutches with one leg in a cast. The young woman, I could see, was working out how to grab her travel stuff while keeping hold of her crutches. Buoyant with my recent success, I signaled to the poor young woman that I would fetch her bags. Pointing to confirm the right bags and receiving an affirmative, relieved smile, I bore down on the two-matched khaki-colored, super-sized baggage. One on wheels and one a backpack. Again with a felled swoop, I grabbed, lifted and swung. That’s when my balance failed me, as well as the sturdy heel of my left shoe. Which failed first, I couldn’t say. But what I did say – had to say- was “Sorry! Sorry!” after I landed bum first into the lap of a fellow traveler as she sat docile and elderly in her wheelchair, being looked after by her daughter.

Now, I didn’t tell you before – I wanted to be politically correct – and I just gave a polite hint of it when I spoke about my arms. But to give you a clearer picture of the scene, I must go further. Here goes (and I apologize to anyone whose feelings I hurt):

I am a very big person, bum and all. Not only tall but wide. That’s why I wanted an aisle seat in the bulkhead. No, it wasn’t only because of the impatient bladder. When you meet me, you never miss me; though people pretend not to see me (and then take surreptitious glances to check if I’m for real).

So do you have a clearer image of me tumbled over into the lap of this unsuspecting, frail, elderly person? Somebody else’s bags thrown helter-skelter?

The woman yelped bug-eyed. I yelped, also bug-eyed and couldn’t regain my feet. Four men dashed to the rescue. Without direction they each grabbed a part of me and heaved simultaneously. Thinking I was safely on my feet and really more concerned for the old woman who was in tears and shock, they let go of me. Well, I toppled again. This time on the carousel. All in front of the eyes of jetlagged, stunned travelers. Just as I noisily approached the black, rubberized flaps that hang at the exit opening on carousels, I saw Jack reappear.

The bruise stayed with me throughout the visit, reaching a height of varied, sickening colors and soreness on the third day of my receiving it. My whole left side. Shoulder, elbow, hip, thigh and ankle. I wore none of the side-slitted dresses, sleeveless tops or shorts that I had brought. I grimaced with every hug, but thought I pulled it off fine by making it look like a very emotional smile. You see, I had sworn Jack to secrecy. Not a word to my brother or any of the relatives. Not a word of how the porters had to ring for whomever the operator is to stop the carousel and pull me off. I made him swear to not even mention it to me ever again. I just wanted to obliterate from my memory the picture of me in my dress, bought especially for the flight, with my legs all skewed up showing my knickers (not bought especially for the flight). I can’t even begin to describe the face of the poor woman with the crutches – as opposed to me, the newer poor woman. I do remember catching a glimpse of her face, aghast though I have a feeling that she laughed when she got home. Maybe everyone did. And the woman in the wheel chair? I don’t know. Maybe they had to call the ambulance.

After that, our trip was like a dream. Lots of reminiscing and catching up.

My intuition was right.