In 2001 when my mom was dying of cancer of the pancreas, my brother decided to buy a wheelchair for her instead of rent one. “Someone will need it someday,” he insisted. I didn’t get the point, she she was dying from the moment they found the cancer. But we went on many walks around the neighborhood looking for robins and buds and enjoying the sunshine, together.
Even while I was getting the hang of operating it, she still had her sense of humor. I wheeled her forward over the lips and curbs, instead of backwards.
“Are you trying to kill me?”
“Nope, just trying to add a little excitement to your day.”
Although his appearance may fill you with fear, it was my husband who did the most damage.
“We are going to have to remodel, honey,” my husband said as he banged into every corner–from the couch I have become one with–to the bathroom that is smaller than a trash can.
I don’t want to remodel. Nor do I want to need a wheelchair. This treatment makes my joints lock, hurt and swell. I keep blacking out when I try to stand and even if I could, I don’t have the breath capacity to make it across the house. But it’s hella better than the firefighter’s carry. Yeah. That wasn’t working at all. I weigh more than he does, and frankly, he isn’t as strong as he thinks he is.
I never thought I’d really need a wheelchair. If I skip my meds tonight, I might not even need it tomorrow. Such is the nature of lyme disease. If I keep a sense of humor about it. . it’s okay. It gets me to and fro. Those missing pieces of plaster on the edges of the walls and doors? Someday, we’ll tell these stories and laugh.