Mother told me there
would be days like this!
by Sissy Freeborn
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Well, some days it just doesn't
pay to get out of bed. I was invited to a dinner theater, by my club. The
President, all smiles, asked me to go and I told her I would be glad to
come, if I were well.
She replied ,obviously insulted,"You
feel fine now! Why would you feel bad tomorrow?" (Sigh!!) You all
know the answer to that. After nine years with MS, I have learned that
I can never know, in advance, if it will be a "good" day or a
"bad" day. I try to explain to her, but I just dig myself deeper.
It takes my aunt to smooth things over. But I am still invited.
So, I find myself feeling well that
day and I am off. But perhaps I should have stayed home.
My daughter drives me to the place
and we see that there is a handicap space open next to the door, but next
to the handicap parking is a UPS truck. It was parked so close that, while
I could get in the space, I would not be able to open my door, much less
get out my wheelchair. So, we must park in the back handicap spaces and
wheel up to the door. I squeeze by the truck with my chair (the UPS truck
also blocks the path from the parking lot).
I go around the building to the
front door that has a ramp, also. This going back and forth makes me dizzy.
The doors open outward, so I back up and almost go down the ramp backwards.
Saved by my daughter's quick grab, she holds me there, as four people come
out, look at us and walk on.
We go into the restaurant. It is
crowded and I run over a few toes, as I am led into the main dining room.
I hold my breath as I enter. Sure enough, I do cause a stir as I come in.
Funny--once, when I was younger, I would have loved to have caused such
a stir upon my entrance, but now I long for anonymity.
Well, I get up to the table and
my chair is lower than the table, so I feel like a little kid at the grown
up table. I have two choices! One is to transfer to a regular chair (but
then what will I do with my wheelchair?), or keep up with an eye level
look at my plate. Fortunately, our waitress has an answer...a pillow! Great,
it was for the kids but it works and I try to laugh it off. After all,
I was the only one who had a sign hanging from her seat that read "child
seat".
Well, my day was not done! I had
to go to the bathroom. Well, yes, of course, they had handicap bathrooms.
So, I was all set, right? I got to the door and found it had a second door
on a sharp right turn. Smack! I scrape my hand on the tight wall, but I
get in. They DO have a large stall for a wheelchair. Great, right? Wrong!
The door is too narrow to let me in with the chair. But, I had to go! So,
I get out of my chair and get a dirty look from a woman, who must think
I am faking my dependence on my wheelchair. If she only knew!
All cleaned up, I go back through
the double door and finish my dinner and watch the show. While I am eating,
I spot a sign that says "Handicapped Exit". It looks like it
goes right out to the back parking lot, where my car is. So, when it is
over, I head for the "Handicapped Exit". But, it is through the
kitchen!
As I proceed toward the exit, a
waiter crashes into me and his order goes everywhere. He looks at me with
"where did you come from eyes?". He must be having a bad day,
so I point to the sign "Handicapped Exit". He sighs and picks
himself up from the baked manicotti. I wonder if I should help him but
decide it is better I get out of there, as I narrowly avoid two other waiters
with full trays.
I finally make it out the door and
there is my daughter and our car, right in front of me and, yes, 15 feet
down! I look over the balcony and remind myself that a woman with no balance
should never look over a balcony, especially with a full stomach. "There
must be a ramp here somewhere", I think and I finally find it. It
is so steep Evil Keneval would not take it. But, I am not going back through
kitchen!
So, with help from my daughter,
we lower me down the ramp and she tears her silk blouse in the process.
Terry, my granddaughter, is up on my lap in an instant, then pulls something
out from her seat. My daughter asks, in astonishment, "Why do you
have a manicotti on your lap, Mother?"
When we get home, my daughter has
a ripped blouse, I look like I was in a food fight and Terry has tomato
sauce all over her back. My husband stares at us and asks, "What do
you REALLY do at those club meetings?"
It is all too much for me and I
begin to laugh untill my sides hurt. At such times, we must either cry
or laugh at our situation and I believe laughter is the best medicine.
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