by Michael P. Murphy
Acouple years ago, my folks and I were taking a walk around the block when a neighbor spotted me in my newest wheelchair and said, “Hey, Mike, I like your new black Caddie!”
Caddie? Caddie It’s a good thing I couldn’t raise a fist, because these were fighting words! I said, “Hey, I’m a Ford man, like my Dad! What we have here is a Mustang, just like the one Steve McQueen drove in ‘Bullitt.’”
I’ve never been able to understand why the able-bodied look upon wheelchairs as symbols of confinement and a loss of dignity when, in fact, nothing could be further from the truth. Every chair I’ve ever had was unique and important to a different phase of my life. Just as some people have fond memories of the cars they’ve owned through the years, for me, each wheelchair was not so much a vehicle as an extension of myself. After all, if it weren’t for wheelchairs, my whole physical existence would probably extend no further than four walls and a ceiling.
I was measured for my first wheelchair when I was around 4 or 5, and was excited finally to be graduating from a stroller. Almost immediately upon my chair’s arrival, my brother, sister and I plastered it with decals of everything from Evel Knievel to the Rolling Stones to Pink Floyd — this was the 1970s, remember. I had a
ball in that chair. It was the chair that my brother and I used to tear around the local gravel pit, pretending to be stunt drivers. We barely made it home alive. It was the chair that my sister and I used to hide from “ gawkers” — children who openly, rudely stared at me when we’d go to the mall.
Before my tracheostomy, on our last long-range family trip, this chair carried me around Disney World, and my poor mom got stuck guarding it while my dad carried me on all the accessible rides. I was also in this chair when I joined the Boy Scouts, quit the Boy Scouts, went fishing with my mom and dad, saw the original “Star Wars” trilogy for the first time, attended my brother’s wedding, became an uncle (twice), learned to play Dungeons & Dragons, graduated from high school, and attended my first science fiction convention — all from this same seat.
I had a real attachment to that first chair — you never forget your first love — but by my late teens, I required a ventilator 24/7, and my back had become so weak that I was no longer able to sit up. Even though it pained me to have to part with an old friend, I finally accepted the fact that it was time to upgrade to a reclining chair that also could carry a ventilator.
I was most comfortable lying on
my side with my legs supported, so that I looked more like I was on a gurney than in a wheelchair. The only problem was that this new model was narrow, in case I ever regained enough strength to sit up. This meant that I felt as if I were strapped to a 2x4-foot board, causing me to nickname it “the Widow Maker.” Just getting in and out of the thing was an adventure in itself, since I always felt as if I was about to roll off the edge at the slightest bump, even though I was buckled in.
Still, there are so many good memories attached to this chair that I can’t quite bring myself to hate it. It served me through the publication of my first four novels, my sister’s wedding, moving to a new house, my first date, and several more science fiction conventions.
All in all, the Widow Maker wasn’t too bad a chair, but after 20 years of balancing on a seat that no longer suited my needs, I decided it was time for another improvement, so it was so long to the Widow Maker! What came next kept me from feeling too sentimental.
My newest chair, the Bullitt, was custom built for my reclined position, with plenty of room to stretch. The first time I ever tried it out with a grateful sigh, I was reminded of the poor British tank crews of World War II who spent the early years of
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