Viewfromachair’s Weblog
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Holiday season is upon us once again. But ‘Disabled travel’ is a whole new ball game. I think that it may possibly be an oxymoron(?)
Since being in a wheelchair the world has suddenly become smaller. Adventure holidays, beach partying, hitching around Europe and swimming in Olympic-sized swimming pools are out. The thought of having to be manhandled onto a hoist and lowered slowly into a pool, I think is akin to the ritual ‘Witch Dunking Trials’ of the16th century! An analogy my brothers might see as fitting, considering I was born on Halloween.
Traveling by plane has become a complete nightmare. The last time I flew was to New York in 2003. I was a little more mobile then and could walk very short distances with the aid of a stick. This is why preparation for our trip was extensive and begun two months prior to our departure. Constant calls to the airline reassured me that I’d be fine, with the use of a wheelchair (if need be), and a seat situated near the toilets, flying was a possibility once more.
We checked in as normal and queried the whereabouts of the wheelchair. Blank faces said it all, but never mind they could find one for me anyway in order that I could travel the considerable distance to the departure gate.
You can only imagine my amazement when an airport attendant came to retrieve the chair once I’d reached the gate, which left me standing looking down at the winding slope to the tarmac and waiting plane. As if things weren’t bizarre enough, an air hostess rushed up with a tiny black strap in her hand which I had dropped on my way over. Puzzled, I took it, and then realised it was only one of my bra straps, which must have pinged off while I stiffly rose from the chair! Could it get any worse? Yes, That was just the beginning.
Once I’d reached the bottom of the incline I was faced with a flight of about 20 steps to board the plane. I was shattered. I turned to my husband and sighed, ‘They must be joking, there’s absolutely no way I can get up those!’
With no choice, I positioned myself on my husband’s back, and as I did, all the stewards and hostesses backed away, obviously not wanting to be landed with the law suit I’d file after I came tumbling down and lay in a broken heap at their feet. Skirt hitched in a very unladylike fashion, I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. It was hardly the light-footed carefree picture of Astrid Gilberto climbing the steps to her private jet circa ‘64 image I would have liked. At the top, I straightened myself up and was greeted by a sea of passenger faces, horrified at what they had just witnessed.
So now you understand why travel will never be the same again. I continually surprise myself at my rhinoceros-like exterior which somehow manages to protect me from turning into a dithering wreck. Always at the back of my mind is the picture of a starving child, war or extreme poverty which really does make me appreciate how lucky I am. On that rather worthy yet thought provoking note, I close this week’s column.
Getting about
It must be 3 years ago this June that I finally realised that tottering around with two walking sticks wasn’t cutting the mustard, nor getting me around quick enough
It was no good, I was going to have to enter a new realm, that of the Mobility Shop. If I could just get past the Zimmer frames, hoists, and toilet attachments, I’m sure that I could pluck up the courage to try one of those new fangled Electric Scooters. It would require a whole different mind set, but, more importantly, it would mean a return to some kind of independence. With the help of my husband, I did it.
My wheels were bought, and that was it for a year, as it sat covered up, unused, outside my house. I’d done the easy part; the psychological side was going to prove more of a challenge.
After a futile hypnotherapy session, friend’s words of encouragement, and a £200 bill for new scooter batteries, (I think they had died due to under use) I finally realised that I was going to have to actually ‘get on it’ to regain this independence. Oli was born. I know, I know, I can’t believe it either; I gave an inanimate object a name. So much for me sneering when I found out a friend had named her tartan shawl ‘Margo’. Surely giving possessions a name should have ended when I left infant school. An act, which some might say, is on par with having an imaginary friend.
Oli, I reasoned with my friends and family, was the name I’d given my scooter because I so wanted the image of Jamie Oliver whizzing around the back streets of Notting Hill, to pop up in their minds. Rather than the one of Thora (RIP) getting her prescription filled at the local pharmacist.
It took some getting used to. At first I only used him on short journeys, during the times of the day when I knew not many people would be out. So, at the crack of dawn and the dead of night I ventured out armed with the mantra that I really didn’t care what anyone thought. Let’s face it; the only other option would be to stay in the house looking at people going about their everyday business, while I watched on behind twitching net curtains. But to my surprise, no one looked at me. It was as if I was invisible. This I found very disconcerting, doesn’t anyone wonder why such a stylish young lady with both legs obviously present and even facing in the same direction is doing driving a golf cart around town? I’m not sure what I was expecting but I needed some kind of recognition.
Since then I think I’ve cracked it. It doesn’t bother me anymore I’ve learnt that with a positive mind, you really can do anything.
Two years down the line, Oli has given up the ghost but his replacement is even better and faster! I toyed with names that rhymed with Oli, but have finally settled on O2, that’s Oli Mark II.
What not to wear?
I’m sorry, but no matter which angle you look at yourself from, how subtle the lighting, it makes no difference, the clothes just don’t ‘do it’ anymore, permanently seated on a chair. Not any old chair you understand, but a wheelchair.
Fashion for wheelchair users? Not very 2007. I’m not sure what Trinny and Susannah would make of me. There would be no squeezing these cheeks! Not sure my panties could be naughtily teased from under my skirt, there’s the footrest to contend with after all, and I very much doubt the cupboard-sized changing room, with the 360 degree mirror would be accessible.
But hey, that’s not going to stop me striving to cut it with the rest of them. I’ve not spent the best part of 20 years hand stitching, dying, learning to knit, pattern cutting, studying Fashion/Textiles on a prestigious fashion course, and working in TV wardrobe departments, only to end up dressed in a yellow waterproof cape trying to get from A to B unnoticed! Move over Thora Hird, (may she rest in peace) there’s a new girl on the block, and she ain’t going down quietly.
I am the girl, who at the age of 13, saved up all her miserly weekly £3 paper round money and meticulously calculated the exact date that I could afford to buy those FU’S pinstriped drainpipes (or rather, they would be drainpipes, once I’d got my Singer onto them). When you are sitting 24-7 , your midriff tends to disappear (which, in one respect, is fine, as it can now hide a multitude of sins). But the reality is; I didn’t have any sins to hide pre-wheelchair, which accounts for my belly button piercing in 95.
So, with no waistline on show, side buttons too fiddly, belts completely pointless and any figure-flattering darts or seams a waste of time. That doesn’t leave room for anything more stylish than a sack. You can forget the Vivienne Westwood bustle, Matthew Williamson pocket embroidery, McQueen studs, or any features that can be admired from behind. My size 10 butt is redundant. I imagine that in time sitting for twelve hours a day should put pay to those dimensions, anyway.
I’ve discovered hats are a definite no-no. On a scooter they tend to age you, make you stand out even more, and are impossible to keep on when you’re speeding along at a blistering 4mph.The chin strap is definitely not this year’s style, or any other year for that matter. The hat is something I do miss, as I’ve worn, the Baker Boy cap, the Stetson, the Beanie, and, of course, the Pirate Bandana.
I’ve learnt to keep it simple. Any creativity in my wardrobe comes from bags, shoes (although here again there are enormous limitations, it’s flats, flats and yet more flats) and necklaces which can add a nice touch, but I’ve never been one to wear a lot of jewellery, at least not since ‘Like a Virgin’ was number one.
All I hope now is that as I enter Madonna’s decade in age, I don’t just disappear completely into the faceless world of wheelchair users, but remain stylish enough to turn heads for the right reason.
Since writing this piece I’ve noticed there are websites out there which cater for the disabled/elderly’s clothing needs. Unfortunately it looks like the ‘disabled/elderly’ count as one group! Not sure this problem has been solved.
