The Injury (Part Two)
I've never been on crutches before. In fact, I had never broken a bone before. I really believed that I would go through my life having never broken a bone. But, as I made my way back to the car, on crutches for the first time in my life, reality set in: I'm old, my bones are brittle, and I should start taking calcium supplements immediately. I did, along with some soft-serve ice cream and a healthy dose of laughter.
I was well taken care of in Seattle, with friends and co-workers making sure I had everything I needed. However, my time of relaxation and recuperation was quickly ticking away, as my flight to Vancouver was rapidly approaching and I would then be alone, on my own in a strange land for the next week on crutches and basically immobile relying on the kindness of strangers for everything. I considered cancelling the trip altogether and either staying in Seattle to let those that were used to waiting on me continue to build their skill set, or return to Boston and let my roommates carry the burden. But neither of these options seemed viable. I had worked too hard to get to the conference and had invested too much time and energy to make sure it happened. I was going to have to suck it up and just fucking do it.
I'm not good at asking for help. And when you are stuck on crutches, you often have no choice but to just ask for help. Or at least accept help when it is offered to you (and everyone wants to help a poor gimp on crutches--if you don't then you are a heartless bastard). I'm also not good at accepting help when it is offered to me. I didn't realize this about myself until I was at the airport, checking in, exhausted from just crutching my way to the counter (a good 100 feet or so). It occured to me at this point, that I was just going to have to let people help me out, like it or not.
If you have never gone through the airport process in a wheelchair, don't. It fucking sucks. I hate the process when I have two good legs. It's even worse on wheels. Security was a nightmare. I had to go to the special line. The attendant wheeling me got in a fight with security. Instead of going through the metal detector I had to be frisked by a nervous male who kept saying "Sensitive area with the back of my hand, back of my hand" every time he would go near my ass or crotch, drawing even more attention to the embarrassing situation. The ride to the actual plane (a small puddle jumper in the middle of the tarmack that maybe seated 25 people) was quite interesting. I was wheeled down sketchy looking corridors and ushered onto secretive elevators, brushed through airline equipment and orange cones before arriving at the foot of the plane where my crutches had to be checked as they were too big to go on board with me (that is how small this plane was).
The flight was beautiful. It was evening on the west coast. The sun was just beginning to set as we reached our cruising altitude (which wasn't very high as the plane was powered by two propellers--one at the front of each wing) casting a beautiful soft light over the small droplets of islands scattered throughout the sea. It was barely light when the 45 minute flight came to an end and I was greeted by a very lovely Canadian woman positioned behind yet another wheelchair, ready to escort me through customs (up to this point I had forgotten that Canada is, in fact, a foreign country). As she wheeled me across the Vancouver airport and helped me get into a cab, I thanked her profusely, trying to make up for the incovnvenience that was myself. As it turned out, her husband had broken his ankle just a few weeks ago, and she was well practiced at the service and equally as happy to perform it for me.
She ushered me through customs, to the currency exchange (to get some pretty colourful Canadian money in exchange for my boring US bills), and to the cab stand where I was easily transported in a huge yellow van, to the apartment in the West End of Vancouver. Safe and sound I was able to shower for the first time since the accident, delicately standing on one foot the entire time.
I was well taken care of in Seattle, with friends and co-workers making sure I had everything I needed. However, my time of relaxation and recuperation was quickly ticking away, as my flight to Vancouver was rapidly approaching and I would then be alone, on my own in a strange land for the next week on crutches and basically immobile relying on the kindness of strangers for everything. I considered cancelling the trip altogether and either staying in Seattle to let those that were used to waiting on me continue to build their skill set, or return to Boston and let my roommates carry the burden. But neither of these options seemed viable. I had worked too hard to get to the conference and had invested too much time and energy to make sure it happened. I was going to have to suck it up and just fucking do it.
I'm not good at asking for help. And when you are stuck on crutches, you often have no choice but to just ask for help. Or at least accept help when it is offered to you (and everyone wants to help a poor gimp on crutches--if you don't then you are a heartless bastard). I'm also not good at accepting help when it is offered to me. I didn't realize this about myself until I was at the airport, checking in, exhausted from just crutching my way to the counter (a good 100 feet or so). It occured to me at this point, that I was just going to have to let people help me out, like it or not.
If you have never gone through the airport process in a wheelchair, don't. It fucking sucks. I hate the process when I have two good legs. It's even worse on wheels. Security was a nightmare. I had to go to the special line. The attendant wheeling me got in a fight with security. Instead of going through the metal detector I had to be frisked by a nervous male who kept saying "Sensitive area with the back of my hand, back of my hand" every time he would go near my ass or crotch, drawing even more attention to the embarrassing situation. The ride to the actual plane (a small puddle jumper in the middle of the tarmack that maybe seated 25 people) was quite interesting. I was wheeled down sketchy looking corridors and ushered onto secretive elevators, brushed through airline equipment and orange cones before arriving at the foot of the plane where my crutches had to be checked as they were too big to go on board with me (that is how small this plane was).
The flight was beautiful. It was evening on the west coast. The sun was just beginning to set as we reached our cruising altitude (which wasn't very high as the plane was powered by two propellers--one at the front of each wing) casting a beautiful soft light over the small droplets of islands scattered throughout the sea. It was barely light when the 45 minute flight came to an end and I was greeted by a very lovely Canadian woman positioned behind yet another wheelchair, ready to escort me through customs (up to this point I had forgotten that Canada is, in fact, a foreign country). As she wheeled me across the Vancouver airport and helped me get into a cab, I thanked her profusely, trying to make up for the incovnvenience that was myself. As it turned out, her husband had broken his ankle just a few weeks ago, and she was well practiced at the service and equally as happy to perform it for me.
She ushered me through customs, to the currency exchange (to get some pretty colourful Canadian money in exchange for my boring US bills), and to the cab stand where I was easily transported in a huge yellow van, to the apartment in the West End of Vancouver. Safe and sound I was able to shower for the first time since the accident, delicately standing on one foot the entire time.
posted by Howard at 9:58 PM
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