The adventures of a crip in bed

After that title I know you'll all probably be expecting some kind of sexual content in this post but I'm afraid there will be none. Sorry to disappoint.

I took the day off work last Monday, had some stuff to do and my back right driving wheel was making a fairly disturbing noise. Rather than risk an impromptu breakdown at what is always an inopportune time, I thought I should get it looked at. A lengthy cab ride and four hours of sitting in a mobility aid show room later, I was back on the road. The lovely boys at the wheelchair shop (one of whom is a total spunk) replaced gearboxes in both wheels, so the theory was that I'd continue to be perfectly mobile, minus the death rattle. Yeah, right.

About 8.30pm that evening I was pottering around my flat when I noticed a really severe jerk in the very same wheel that had just had it's death rattle attended to. My first thought was "where the hell is my mobile phone?", which is always my first thought when something is about to happen that could potentially leave me stranded. I managed to drive this strange new version of my chair, with said wheel only responding when it seemed to be in the mood to get my mobile, and open my front door. I figured if I was going to need rescuing, I was going to need to at least have my door open so someone could get in. Luckily, the wheel didn't become completely unresponsive until this point, at which I called my lovely upstairs neighbour Rosanna and she came down to assess the situation. We both took one look at what was happening, agreed that my chair was totally wanked and the best thing was for me to simply turn in for the night until I could call someone with an actual clue about how to fix it. Being completely non-ambulant, I’m totally stuffed without my chair. I do have a manual one, but I can't use it by myself. As soon as I put any weight on the footplates to transfer into or out of it, the whole bloody thing tips over. We decided that Rosanna would take my keys and I'd have the repairperson ring her doorbell in the morning so she could let them in. Between me driving my left wheel and her hauling the right side of my chair, we managed to get me close enough to my bed for me to climb in. Where I stayed. For 15 hours.

Now I know it sounds pretty horrendous, which it was, but there were a number of things about the situation that were actually really fortunate:

∑ I was already in my pyjamas and pretty much ready to turn in for the night anyway (I’d even been to the bathroom)
∑ Rosanna was home and able to stay home from work a little longer in the morning to let the repair guy in
∑ Watching morning television lifestyle programs did wonders for my self esteem – no matter how crap you are, there’s always someone way more hideous than you
∑ They DIDN’T send the spunky repair guy to find me in my pyjamas and more than slightly dishevelled from sleep (he was middle-aged and bald)

Oh and for the technically minded among you, the actual problem with the wheel turned out to be something to do with the bearings and couplings in the motors, or something.