Category: Wheelchair Wisdom

I wish I had the universal answer, the one that applies to all – but, I don’t. Yet, it doesn’t keep me from knowing at least one answer.

For me, acceptance of my wheelchair as a “wheelchair” was always a given, where I always viewed it as a tool of liberation. Nevertheless, I’ve also understood how others can view the physicality of their wheelchair as an object of limitation and resentment in their lives – especially those newly injured – where the literal seat, wheels, and frame are a visual reality of unwanted change and anguish.

Fortunately, most people with disabilities evolve into an understanding and acceptance that a wheelchair is ultimately a tool of mobility – it helps us live more active, independent, satisfying lives, regardless of disability. Yet, some people never grow to such emotional acceptance, holding on to resenting their wheelchairs with every ounce of will, as tightly as they can grip an armrest, refusing to move toward acceptance of having to use a wheelchair under any circumstance.

In my roles over the years, I’ve worked with a host of those with disabilities who simply won’t accept any wheelchair. No, the situation is never as dramatic as one refusing to use his or her wheelchair, telling others to get it out of sight, like a scene from a movie. Rather, the mode is that no wheelchair is ever good enough, that no one can ever do enough to satisfy their mobility needs, that there is simply always something lacking in their wheelchairs – and the frustration indefinitely builds in their lives.

On the surface, there’s some validity to the perspective that a wheelchair is never good enough, never up to the standards expected, never capable of allowing a meaningful, unrestricted life. After all, if you compare a wheelchair to full mobility on your own two legs, it will never prove comfortable enough, maneuverable enough, efficient enough, outdoors enough, or reliable enough – that is, it will always prove frustrating, no matter the technology, no matter how well a provider serves you. But, is that a wheelchair’s fault?

Of course not. With all of their technical advancements, wheelchairs are still wheelchairs, with practical limitations. Wheelchairs can take us farther, faster, but they’re still a seat, with wheels rolling on the ground, and certainly can’t replace one’s fully-functioning legs – and if one intentionally or subconsciously holds a wheelchair to such an impossible expectation as completely compensating for one’s inability to walk, dissatisfaction absolutely endures.

When I encounter users who are on their third brand of wheelchair in as many years, having exhausted a handful of providers, I follow the customer’s-always-right approach to the best of my professionalism and continue the path to resolve whatever technical issues I can – but I strive not to stop there, adding in a dose of understanding and lessons learned.

Disability is complex, with limitations that no one wants, and a wheelchair is the most concrete representation of that. My cerebral palsy is within me – it’s intangible that I can’t see or touch beneath my skin. But, my wheelchair is an unmistakable object. When I roll up to stairs, my wheelchair hits them, not my cerebral palsy; when I get stuck in deep snow, it’s my wheels spinning that are the cause, not my cerebral palsy; and, when my mobility is limited in any way, it’s due to my wheelchair, not my cerebral palsy. Why wouldn’t I – or, anyone – resent a wheelchair till the end?

Because such thinking places a wheelchair in the wrong order of life’s equation, that’s why. It is true that having to rely on a wheelchair for mobility prevents you from doing 1,001 tasks that you could do if you didn’t have a disability – and some of those tasks may have been your most beloved, passionate pursuits.

Yet, the fact is, as a result of your wheelchair, there are 8,999 tasks and goals that you can pursue despite disability, and when you shift your focus from the 1,001 shortcoming of using wheelchair to the 8,999 possibilities in your life, the world opens up, and frustrations disappear.

When I’ve shared this belief with frustrated wheelchair users over the years, some have had miraculous turnarounds in their mobility, where all of their wheelchair issues went away, and they’ve followed up with me a year or more later noting what they’ve subsequently achieved in life. Still, others moved on to other wheelchairs and providers, adding my assistance to their pile of frustrations, refusing to ever accept the limitations of using any wheelchair in life, placing the weight of more anguish directly on their wheelchairs than any one model could ever hold.

No, I don’t have a universal answer to the complex emotions that some project toward their wheelchairs, but I do have an answer: If you focus less on the inherent limitations of a “wheelchair,” and concentrate more on fully living as you are, it will empower your life. A wheelchair in itself can’t evolve – but you can.

If a woman walked up to you in the mall and asked, “I’m shopping for shoes today, and wonder what style you recommend?” how would you answer?

Would you look down at your own shoes on your feet, and tell her to go buy them – especially if you’re wearing men’s boots, or flip-flops, or orthopedic shoes?

Of course not. In fact, before providing a recommendation, the logical person would ask, “What do you need the shoes for – work, dress, recreation, comfort?”

How is it, then, that a wheelchair user can look down at his or her wheelchair model and unequivocally recommend it to another wheelchair user without knowing anything about the person? After all, isn’t a wheelchair keyed to every intimate detail of our individual lives, far more than a pair of shoes, from our body types, to our extents of disability, to our environments, to our transportation, to our careers – to literally hundreds of nuances that vary from one individual to the next?

Absolutely. Yet, it’s interesting how quickly wheelchair users whole-heartedly recommend their personal wheelchair models to another user without knowing anything about the person, especially online. In fact, the chances are that you may have seen posts on the WheelchairJunkie.com message board and others, where someone simply posts, “I’m a mother of 3 needing a powerchair. What kind should I get?” And, people reply by unquestionably advising purchasing the specific powerchairs that they use as individuals.

Now, certainly people are striving to be entirely helpful in their replies, and that’s appreciated by all. Nevertheless, as with recommending shoes, there has to be a more complete, accurate way to help others toward selecting appropriate mobility technology, other than simply pointing to your own wheelchair, right?

And, there is – where the key to more helpful and accurate assistance toward others is in addressing wheelchairs not only as objects, but also within the context of how wheelchairs apply to our individual lives. In this way, a wheelchair isn’t viewed as a universal product, but as highly-tailored device, where each wheelchair model must be assessed in parallel with a user’s very individual needs.

Based on my career roles, people seek my advice daily on wheelchair purchases, and the first conscious effort I make when working with any consumer is to initially rule out my own 33 years of wheelchair use – the considerations have to be entirely about the person’s mobility, not mine. Toward my ultimate suggestions, I want to know about one’s physical condition, past, present, and future; I want to know about one’s living environments; I want to know one’s forms of transportation; I want to know what recreations one enjoys; and, I want to know as much as I can learn about someone within a conversation. As a whole, I want to know the context of ones mobility – the roles it must serve in one’s life – before I mention any category or model of wheelchair for consideration. It’s only by knowing such personal aspects of one’s life that I can truly surmise which type and configuration of wheelchair might meet their needs.

Surely, not every user is an expert on wheelchairs, and may not know what’s available beyond his or her own wheelchair model, not knowing of any others to recommend. However, explaining how one’s wheelchair model serves one’s own needs, through very specific examples, also proves far more helpful to other users than simply recommending a wheelchair because it’s the only one personally known – that is, rather than saying, “I have XYZ wheelchair, and it’s great,” try sharing, “I have XYZ wheelchair, which fits really well in my small apartment and on the bus,” which is constructive feedback.

The next time someone asks you for advice on wheelchair selection, I encourage you to avoid immediately looking toward your own wheelchair, but instead look forward to the person your striving to help, and make an effort to understand their fullest needs before suggesting a particular product, then apply your own experience and knowledge of wheelchair models to suggest which might work best for the individual’s needs. After all, we each of us walk in different shoes – and wheelchairs.

Several times per week, I make the trip from my office near one end of my company’s building, down the back utility hall, clear to the other end of the building, a city block’s length, to our shipping department. I often need to ship an object that’s small enough to fit in my shirt pocket, but more valuable to its recipient than anything purchased on Rodeo Drive, all but irreplaceable: A wheelchair component that someone needs to get his or life back in motion, where such a seemingly mundane piece of metal, or plastic, or wire means the difference between passing finals in college or not taking them, enjoying a vacation or being confined to a hotel room, arriving to work on time or getting laid off, or being mobile to join family in the backyard or being stuck in bed – the difference between truly thriving or merely existing.

I’m reminded of the gentleman who flew from Minnesota to Maui, for the honeymoon he and his wife skipped decades before because of the accident that left him a quadriplegic just weeks prior to their original wedding date. As they rolled him off of the airplane in Maui via an aisle chair, approaching his powerchair on the tarmac of paradise in March, he immediately noticed a glaring omission: The goal-post joystick knob that he needed to drive his powerchair was gone. The difference between independence and dependence on the trip of a lifetime came down to a formed piece of plastic that fit in a shirt pocket, that cost less than a couple of Starbuck coffees to get it to the user within 48 hours, restoring his ability to stroll the walks of Kaanapali Beach with his wife for the following 11 days.

Indeed, some stories tell more cinematic than others, but there’s no difference among them, where the woman who can’t use her powerchair in her house because the joystick cable broke by catching on a doorknob isn’t any less impacted by not having a vital wheelchair component than the young lady set to march in the Rose Parade, who’s puppy got a hold of her charger cord, preventing her from charging her powerchair days before the big event. When life is on hold, there’s no hierarchy, just need. Like loosing the key to one’s house, suddenly not having among the most common wheelchair components can strip one of the aspects of life needed the most.

Sometimes I pause for a moment in our shipping department, watching boxes of many shapes and sizes flowing down they conveyor line, knowing that other wheelchair manufacturers serve similar needs, where the cumulative stories are endless, where I wish I could follow each package out the door, to where somewhere in transit, the seemingly mundane parts in boxes transform into invaluable keys that open lives.

Here we are racing toward fall, the time of the year when the mobility industry debuts many of the new products for the coming year. For some, this is an exciting time, getting a glimpse of what, ideally, is another step in the evolution of mobility products. However, others view this time of year with great skepticism, unconvinced by any new products, unwilling to venture into so-called unproven realms. Indeed, the consumer debate between old and new is clear: Is a new mobility product something to obtain, delivering increased liberation, or should it be avoided, too much of a risk, possibly compromising one’s mobility with unforeseen issues?

The intent of new products is basic, to provide advantages over existing products. Maybe a new product performs better than previous models? Maybe a new product offers comfort beyond competing models? Maybe a new product offers a more cost-effective package than others? Or, maybe a new product offers all of these advantages over current models, with a cool new aesthetic added, as well. Who wouldn’t want a better performing, more comfortable, less expensive, sharper looking mobility product?

Still, with these many advances may come unknowns. Was the new product adequately tested prior to release to prove out any “bugs?” Is there appropriate manufacturer and dealer support for the new product? And, will the new product interface with aftermarket technology, such as seating, vehicle securement systems, and so on? Most certainly one wouldn’t want to place one’s mobility in an unproven product, with questionable support, and poor integration toward existing technology.

The question then becomes, do the potential rewards of purchasing a newly-introduced mobility product outweigh the potential risks of owning a product with an unknown track record?

To answer this question, one must begin by considering the nature of new products. Rarely is a new product entirely new, as they are usually an evolution of technology, building upon the proven and familiar. Specifically in the mobility market, electronics, for example, have a decades-old lineage, where the latest-and-greatest powerchair or scooter controllers aren’t of a technology that is entirely a technological shift or introduction, but rather an improvement and expansion of existing technology (similar to the evolution of personal computers, where we’ve seen a stepping-stone approach toward improvements, ensuring reliability while still consistently advancing technology). The unknowns, therefore, of new technology may not be as profound as one might believe, containing improvements on existing technology to offer both enhanced performance and reliability.

Similarly, a new model doesn’t usually mean unknown product support, and, as a new model, may actually promise more reliability and better support than prior models. Responsible manufacturers, learn and grow over time, improving processes and skills; in this way, a new model may have more knowledge and talent designed into it, ensuring that any enhancements fostered by previous models are automatically placed into new products – put simply, new products often begin where prior products left off, fostering the best of the best.

With some research and understanding, then, the perceived risks of purchasing a new model may not be a risk at all. In fact, purchasing newly-introduced product may prove more sound than remaining with one’s favorite product, making a great product genre even greater — which is the foremost reason one should purchase a new product, to obtain enhanced levels of mobility beyond the present.

Ultimately, there are few areas of life that are more important than one’s mobility. It is true that there is a sense of security in one’s time-proven mobility product. Nevertheless, with life-enhancing technology always evolving, one shouldn’t let the known mobility of today prevent the pursuit of newly-enhanced mobility tomorrow.

When I was six years old, I told my great-grandmother that, more than anything, I wanted new powerchair.

“That’s crazy talk,” she said, standing up from the couch where we both sat, pointing her finger at me. “A little boy should want a bike, not a wheelchair – you shouldn’t want something that you need like a wheelchair.”

While my great-grandmother’s frankness may have been well-meant, it certainly wasn’t accurate in my case, where a new powerchair was number one on my list, ahead of a bike or a room full of toys. What I knew even at that young age was that a new powerchair meant liberation, where improved mobility would take me beyond the present physical limitations of being all but housebound. For me, at that moment, a new powerchair certainly promised the freedom to go outside, away from Great-Granny’s old-world lectures.

As Great-Granny and my parents learned, when it came to my getting a new wheelchair, I was anything but patient, where I tossed and turned at night while waiting the three or four months that it took in those days to get a new powerchair. Time crept by, where I couldn’t think about anything else besides getting my new wheelchair. In school, I’d look out the window at a grassy hill, imagining my new powerchair taking me to the top. At home, I studied the brochure of my forthcoming wheelchair night after night till the pages were crumpled and torn from so much handling. And, during all times in-between, all I thought of was my new wheelchair, envisioning how it would handle in every environment I entered. After all, I wasn’t just getting a new wheelchair; I was hopefully getting a new way of life.

And, I was never disappointed. I remember getting my first powerchair, it taking me across the room like a magic carpet ride. I remember getting my second powerchair that had larger batteries than the first, so that I could stay outside playing longer after school. And, I remember getting my third, fourth, and fifth powerchairs, where painted colors, high-speed motors, and contoured seating propelled me ever farther. With each evolution of technology, each new wheelchair, my life changed, where I could go places previously inaccessible, where I could better interact with my peers in such ways as keeping up with them on their bikes, where the silver-on-black racing stripes and fast speeds made me feel more like a hot-rodder than the only disabled kid in my school. New wheelchairs weren’t simply part of life-long disability, they were tools of inspiration.

Today, I’m touched when a consumer asks me to track the order of his or her new wheelchair, wanting to know when it’s built, when it will ship, when it will arrive at the provider – that is, when it will take him or her across the room like a magic carpet ride. I can feel users’ excitement – I live the excitement – as I, too, can’t wait to see where their new wheelchairs take them.

It’s early Sunday morning, and my buddy, Bryan, and I are driving due north, out of Pennsylvania, and into New York, heading for the motocross national races. I’ve never been in this part of New York, and the still-green, late summer foliage along this country highway reminds me of the California foothills in the spring, which turn wheat brown by this time of year. The sky is translucent blue, a striking contrast to the pouring Northeast rains of yesterday. I’m no expert, but I suspect this is good motocross weather – sun without dust.

As we get within a mile of the race track – transformed grazing land in the seeming middle of nowhere – there’s a policeman directing bumper-to-bumper traffic on the two-lane straightaway. Bryan rolls down the window, and asks the cop for handicapped parking. But, the cop says there isn’t any, and I suggest to Bryan that we keep driving to the next cop that I see at another entrance, a ways down the road. My never-take-no-for-an-answer policy pays off, and the second cop steers us toward parking in Pit Row, among the diesels that haul the race teams and their gear.

Bryan and I unload from my van, and head up toward the track, a bulldozed haven for motocross racers and spectators alike. The size of the venue is awesome, with herds of vendors and stampedes of fans making nature all but obsolete – a traveling carnival at its best, a metropolis constructed overnight.

I’m wide-eyed, both at the grandness of the event and from the excitement of witnessing the sport in person. When you watch motocross racing on television, you see guys on motorcycles riding through dirt, throwing in a jump here and there, and round and round they go. But, in person, the scale is awe-inspiring, with riders defying gravity, roaring at 60mph up and down hills as steep as the most extreme ski slopes, flying several stories in the air, and bathing in eye-blinding mud – it’s like a real life video game. And, for me, the video game analogy plays itself, too, with my powerchair churning in mud as we make our way up the pedestrian paths intertwined with the track, strategically choosing my course amidst the crowd.

My chair’s in good shape, though. I have the widest possible knobbies on the back of my chair, and the biggest balloon casters on the front – a powerchair that I especially configured to run through muck and mire. Every once in a while, I encounter a deep patch of mud, and my wheels spin, but just when I’m about to ask Bryan for a push or tug, I make it through. I am, however, concerned that if the mud doesn’t dry up and clear from my tires by the end of the day, my wife will have my head for tracking mud into our van and house. Nevertheless, as I weave through the increasing crowd of late-morning motocross fans, noting an exceptional mix of busty, scantily-clad motocross babes crossing my sight – eye-to-chest level – I’m less concerned about my muddy tires or homeward fait. Motocross babes are the best, I tell Bryan as I ogle the countless hot chicks on the arms of their bleached-haired, baggy-pants boyfriends.

Bryan and I watch a few amateur races from the infield, then decide to scope out a better spot for the heats of professional racers coming up next. We wind our way back through the muddy paths, past the T-shirt stands and tobacco tents, ending up by the starting line. As the pro’s line up, revving their engines, I scan the 5-person-thick crowd lining the course, and spot amongst them a fence post with handicapped sign and arrow pointing down a narrow, gravel path. I motion for Bryan to follow my lead over the roar of the race bikes, and we end up in a secured area with bleachers, overlooking a prime part of the course, where the racers fly down the hill, straight toward us, bank a turn, jump a double, hit the whoopies, and blast back up the hill. Maybe a wheelchair isn’t always the best seat, but in these instances, it is, guaranteeing a front-row spot. If I could throw a rock, I could probably hit the racers in their helmets as they race by.

With an open throttle and pop of the clutch, the pros shoot out of the starting gate, and crank around the first turn. Just then, I notice two powerchairs and a titanium ultralight chair at the other end of the bleachers – all of the wheelchairs are shiny and spotless, void of the mud and mire that coats my chair. Somehow the other wheelers traveled the same terrain as me, but stayed clean. I look back to the track, and the pro’s are flying down the hill like a swarm of bees, traveling seemingly twice as fast as the previous amateurs who rode the same course, with the same motorcycle technology. I look back at the spotless wheelchairs, then down at my mud-baked tires, then back to the pro’s flying the course – and think, it must be true that it’s not what you ride, but how you ride it.

When I was nine, we were poor. My father had skipped town, my mother was working part time as a schoolbus driver, supporting my brother and me in a tiny duplex on the bad side of town, never having enough of anything – money, education, self-confidence. Yet, what my mother did have was a sense of empathy for others, understanding that the best effort that she could make was toward helping those more in need than us, where, as she often explained, unconditional good deeds would likely come back upon us in meaningful ways if we were ever in dire straights.

And, time and time again, her belief in helping others proved reciprocating, where she often gave our last dollar to someone who needed a hot meal more than we did, and then when our lives were at a breaking point – our car broken down on the side of the road, or an eviction notice stapled to our door – good karma enacted, with another empathetic person stepping in to help us, where an inexplicable chain of events led a kind-hearted mechanic to the car or a resourceful social worker to the door. It seemed that my mother, through generating good karma, had a surefire system of always getting by – by simply helping others. “Things always just work out,” my mother said. “Do the right things for others, and things will eventually come your way, too.”

As an adult, for better or worse, I’m not as secure running solely on faith as my mother was, understanding that education, meaningful career paths, and financial responsibility are surer ways toward everyday security than living on the edge, trusting that between the door and the street, good karma will rescue you. Yet, in the mobility world, my mother’s belief of generating good karma by helping others always proves true, where I’ve witnessed that users who put others’ mobility needs in front of their own always come out with enhanced mobility.

Most recently, I was at a user’s house, setting him up with some wheelchair technology that I thought might enhance his mobility, and I realized that I didn’t see any other wheelchair in his house besides the wheelchair he used. The absence of multiple wheelchairs struck me as odd because usually upon visiting one’s home, I see an array of wheelchairs, at least an old manual chair tucked in a corner for when one’s regular wheelchair needs servicing. But, in this gentleman’s case, I didn’t see an extra wheelchair anywhere.

“Do you have a back-up chair?” I asked, thinking that he would say it was hidden away in the garage or a closet.

“No, I don’t,” he said. “I had one, but I know this guy who’s a double amputee, and his insurance wouldn’t cover a chair, so I figured he needed my old one more than I did, so I gave it to him.”

“How long ago was that?” I asked.

“About two months ago,” he said.

And, it all then made perfect sense to me – that is, he unconditionally gave his back-up wheelchair to someone who truly needed it, and the good deed was then coming back to him in the form of additional mobility technology. The karma of mobility was on his side.

I hear and witness the karma of mobility everyday, where users who help ultimately receive sustained mobility, themselves. Is the karma of mobility an intangible, entirely anecdotal, impossible for anyone to prove – entirely idealistic?

Sure it is. But, I have never seen the karma of mobility fail in practice.

You’ve likely heard the phrase, “It takes a village to raise a child,” expressing the sentiment that community responsibility as a whole is vital when it comes to making a difference in the lives of those around us.

However, that adage, as well intending as it is, doesn’t always prove true. The fact is, it doesn’t “take a village” to facilitate change, to impact the life of another; rather, it takes only one person to facilitate change, one person willing to assume responsibility, one person to accept accountability, one person to come forward and address an issue, to make a difference.

Every evening, via email, I receive newswire articles relating to the word “wheelchair.” Throughout the year, the news stories come and go, from inspirational to absurd to heart wrenching. However, the ones that jump out at me the most are the ones where people are truly in need, where someone’s wheelchair was stolen, destroyed in a fire, or such. The articles’ photos are always the same scene – a person sitting in a hospital-type manual wheelchair that was donated by the community, that’s far too wide, without a cushion, horribly positioned.

My daughter and I read one such article several months ago, of a 15-year-old young man whose manual wheelchair was stolen from his family’s porch. And, there he sat, awkward, in a hospital-type wheelchair that looked three-times his size.

“What’s going to happen to him?” my daughter asked.

“They’ll either find his chair, or they’ll get him a new one,” I replied.

“What if they don’t find his chair or get him a new one?” she asked.

My daughter was on to a key question: What is the ultimate outcome of such stories? How or when does an individual get back into appropriate mobility after such a devastating event, and does community outpouring resolve the situation?

I contacted the reporter, and he explained that it was terrific that the good Samaritans had donated the hospital-type wheelchair, that the young man’s provider was appealing to the insurance company to buy him a new wheelchair. Understandably, the reporter didn’t seem to know the difference between one wheelchair and another, nor did he seem to realize that the young man was in mobility limbo without an appropriate wheelchair for his needs. Through my conversation with the reporter, it sounded like it was the end of the story – that is, the community had donated the hospital-type wheelchair, and the provider was submitting to the insurer for a new wheelchair.

Yet, the boy still lacked appropriate mobility, where everyday without an appropriate wheelchair was a day lost, where one aware person could make all the difference, where one person could likely order a new, appropriate wheelchair, having it delivered within in a few days. Maybe it meant an inspired individual using some of his or her own money to fund a new wheelchair, or maybe it meant quickly collecting cash donations, or maybe it meant calling a wheelchair manufacturer to donate a custom wheelchair. By any means, one tenacious individual could have helped restore the young man’s mobility in a matter of days, not weeks or months. One inspired individual could have immediately taken action, fostering the young man’s mobility and independence, rather than simply closing the newspaper, trusting that the community at large would address the issue.

In the new year, I encourage you to be that one person to make a difference, the one who doesn’t close the newspaper on such stories, the one who makes the phone calls on behalf of your fellow wheelchair user in need, ensuring that his or her mobility isn’t left in limbo, that his or her mobility is properly restored.

Sure, the “village” may seemingly address issues, but it’s up to you to make a true difference.

Every so often, someone comments to me that my work must be harrowing and disheartening. After all, wheelchairs signify the inevitable fact that anyone who needs one has a profound disability, stemming from birth or resulting from a life-changing injury, disease, or illness – that is, exclusively resulting from tragedy, as many would label such circumstances.

Surely, I encounter very difficult life stories everyday, where a wheelchair is a manifestation of a circumstance – disability – that no one wishes to experience or witness upon someone else. It’s impossible to learn the stories that I’ve learned over the years, and not have disheartening moments, from mothers paralyzed by drunk drivers, to children with head injuries caused by parental abuse, to medical doctors ravaged by the very diseases that they specialized in toward hopefully curing others. As a thinking, feeling person, I certainly can’t view these circumstances without a sense of empathy and despair, wondering how good people are taken down such bleak paths?

Yet, among the bleakest paths in life do lead to me and others in the wheelchair industry – or, more literally, a wheelchair – and, from my perspective, it’s at that juncture where an unexpected twist occurs in the road, an unforeseen but promising destination.

Still, the road leading to that destination isn’t a direct route. No one intrinsically wants to have to rely on a wheelchair for mobility. At best, a wheelchair is a device that many learn to value as needed in their lives; and, at worst, it’s a device that’s forever resented by some. However, the reality is, our emotional outlooks truly don’t reflect the inherent nature of a wheelchair when it appears on our horizons: A wheelchair is among the purest forms of liberation that ever enters our lives.

Indeed, we can bring all kinds of emotional and mental baggage to our wheelchairs, lamenting about what we used to be able to do, what we’ve lost, and how we’ve lost it. Yet, very little of it has anything to do with a wheelchair, itself. It’s at this point where my inspiration and passion for wheelchairs defines itself. A wheelchair doesn’t care where you’ve been or why you’re here – it just wants to move you forward in life. From the moment you sit in a wheelchair, its sole purpose is to mobilize you – that’s a powerful, irreplaceable tool.

When I work with those needing wheelchairs, many of their stories are profound. However, as much as I recognize and empathize with the struggles many face, I simply cannot view anyone’s receiving a wheelchair as anything but among the most positive events that he or she will ever experience – I know from my own life that a wheelchair will open up his or her world, even during among the most restrictive times in life.

Now, it’s an especial pleasure whenever a particular user shares my enthusiasm toward his or her new wheelchair, but it’s understandable when others do not. Some users will tell me for as long as they live that receiving a wheelchair was the worst day of their lives. And, many users have outlooks in-between, shifting over time from a view of resentment, to one of value toward their wheelchairs. Nevertheless, no matter what one’s outlook, I am like the wheelchair, itself, merely glad to assist toward enhanced mobility, where I’m most often as thrilled by the process as if receiving my own wheelchair, inspired by the fact that I know how a wheelchair unconditionally changes every person’s life for the better. From rolling across one’s home, to across a graduation stage, a wheelchair always fosters liberation – and it’s a privilege to witness the process.

In this way, the disheartening stories of disabilities that I hear inevitably take a sidebar to among my most passionate, inspired life truths: A wheelchair isn’t about what’s lost; it’s about what’s gained.