In the months leading up to my hip replacement and for some time afterwards, I spent time in a wheelchair.
I am no expert on wheelchairs but it appears to me that, aside from those driven by an electric motor, there are two types. There are those that have circular handrims attached to the rear wheels so that the person in the chair may propel themselves and there are also those without a handrim, such as the type found at airports. They have to be pushed by someone. That’s the kind I like!
I know that it’s a dreadful thing to admit but I have a happy memory of being in Kingston, Jamaica , with the temperature in the mid-eighties and being pushed in a wheelchair, over rough, uneven pavements by Caroline, who was sweating heavily perspiring freely while cursing loudly as she stumbled over every lump and bump. "Travels with a Wheelchair in Jamaica" (Click to see)
People treat users of wheelchairs differently. We become invisible and almost non-human. The first time I became aware of this was at Broward Hospital in Fort Lauderdale shortly before I had the hip replacement in 2009. I had to have my blood tested.
Caroline stood behind me as I “drove” myself to the Receptionist’s counter. Seated, my head was just above counter level.
“Name?” She was looking at Caroline.
“My last name’s Wilton,” I said.
“What’s his name?” she asked, ignoring me and looking at Caroline.
“Terry Wilton,” Caroline told her.
“I just told you that,” I said, a little petulantly.
“Date of birth?” the Receptionist asked Caroline again, still completely disregarding me.
I had become completely non-existent. It was if Caroline had left me parked somewhere and gone to register me on her own. It was a frustrating and a slightly humiliating experience.
It got worse. After registering, we were sitting side by side in the waiting area waiting for my number to be called. A nurse came over, walked past me and stood next to Caroline.
“Is he good with needles?” she asked.
“Ask him.”
The nurse sighed, turned and grudgingly asked me.
Nowadays, back in the UK, I never need a wheelchair except at airports. I can walk quite long distances before I feel any pain but what I can’t do very well, is just stand and wait and we seem to be expected to do a lot of that at airports.
The only real drawback is that on arrival anywhere, I have to wait and be the last to leave the plane. However, that is a price worth paying, as on departure, I am whisked through, past all the queues to my own designated security checking station and then, straight on to the plane. As she is accompanying me, Caroline enjoys that privilege too.
At some airports, Caroline isn’t allowed to be my Pusher. At Heathrow and Miami, only trained and qualified people are entrusted to push. Once, on arriving at Heathrow from Cayman, we had to wait for more than an hour and a half for someone to push my chair. I had a bit of a moan and was upgraded to Business Class on the way back, so that worked out quite nicely.
Like people working in hospitals, I am invisible to airport staff too.
“Is he able to climb the steps to the aircraft?” Caroline was asked by someone at Jersey airport last week, as I sat in a wheelchair next to her.
“Yes, I am,” I shouted up at the woman who, possibly didn’t hear me or was being deliberately rude. Either way, she didn’t make eye contact with me.
“There’ll be someone there to assist, just in case,” she told Caroline, as I realised that I was not only invisible but mute too.
After a forty-minute flight to Luton, there was further indignity to come. A wheelchair was waiting at the bottom of the steps. I sat in it and Caroline began to push.
An attendant in a high-vis vest came running over.
“Hi madam. Leave it to me. I’ll take it off your hands.”
It!!! I hope he meant the chair.
I’m certain he did because I was invisible at the time.
