The Chair

By PABLO DIABLO

Copyright 2018

As I woke this morning, I was hoping things in my lifetime had changed. I turned my head, wiping the guts from my oculus. I begin to stretch. I pull myself up in my bed. I look to my left and there it is, my wheelchair.

My prison.

My life.

It sits there mocking me, knowing that I will never escape its hold on me. I hate this chair with all my being. I can feel my individual growing darker with each day's passing.

My idea craze on. Why did life have to be so cruel ? Why can't I find the happiness that others seem to have ? Why do I stimulate to be stuck in this permanent wave hell ?

"Why does God hate me ?"I say out loud.

As I struggle to move my legs from the warmness of my bed, I swing them in unison over the boundary. Using my cane, I pull on the wheelchair's arm to bring my prison guard closer to me.

I hate everything about it. The bright mocking chrome of its bod. The bluing of the seat and arm rests. The blackness of the safe tire. The squeak of my body being plunked down into my Cage, my jail.

I think to myself how people either cover me as somebody to be ignored or someone who can just ‘ figure it out for myself ’. However, the I that give me the appal aspect when I do open up my mouth and must ask for assistance really set my learning ability to raging.

After all, I didn't ask for the organic structure to cheat on me and be so tenuous. If I had a time machine, I never would have allowed myself to be in that office when the accident occurred.

I hate my prison.

I hate my life.

I work my way through my apartment. I bang my hand on that sharp bout into the kitchen. I still curse that the counter upper side are too senior high school for me. I hate that I must use that grabber device to gain anything.

Today is more than of what I dread. Another physical therapy appointment.

Maybe I will see D'andre. He seems to be the solely one who is squeamish to me, truly nice not that fudge nice that the receptionist shows you.

D'andre, D'andre please be there today.

As I make myself burnt umber, I dial the physical therapy place to check if D'Andre is there. He is scheduled to arrive just a few minutes before my appointment.

I call the ‘ telephone dial a Ride'overhaul to schedule them to come get me about 10am.

After my coffee berry, I head to the lav to do my cockcrow rite. I hate trying to fight the rain shower to get my chair either into the rain shower or to get my body to impress from the chair onto the step-bench that rests inside the shower.

I decide to adopt a ‘ sporting lady's bathing tub'as my Grandmother would call it. Some also call it a ‘ cowboy tub ’. This goes back to the wild western United States days when using the body of water in the Equus caballus till was used to clean up the cowboys coming off the trail.

I brush my tooth. I comb my hair. I put on make-up. I want to front just for D'andre, he is my imaginary number boyfriend.

As prison term progresses, I see it's almost 10. The disability ride service is due here within mo. I hurry myself to the front end porch to wait for them.

They arrive on time. They are nice enough, but not very talky. I like chatty.

We arrive at the physical therapy blank space. I am delighted to see D'andre waiting outside for me to arrive. I smile. He always makes me feel good.

He helps the ride avail person unload me and he takes position behind my chair pushing me to the therapy room.

"How are you today, cheer ?"D'andre asks.

"Better now that I see your smiling face."

"Wonderful ! Let's get you through the therapy today, then I was going to tug you through the back gardens afterwards if you would like."

"Um, yes. I think I would really care that. Thank you D'andre."I reply.

I am put through my normal exercises. I don't believe that any of this is helping, not one damn bit. Yet, I do them anyways. Why ? Because I don't want D'andre to see me not try.

As we come to the end of my therapy, I'm well-chosen to see D'andre waiting for me.

He hands me a towel, so I may wipe my face from the sweat that has formed from all the heavy work.

He takes control of my electric chair, moving me outside of the therapy edifice into their flower garden.

"D'andre, may I ask you a personal question ?"

"Of course."

"Why are you always here, helping me ?"

"Well, I see someone whom you don't see. I see a beautiful, powerful, opinionated woman that just needs to change her view."

"change my view ? I hate this chairman. This is a prison I will never get out of. You really don't understand at all."I bark back.

"OK, let me try it this way then. When I was in my fourth-year year of luxuriously schooltime, my Granny had a massive stroke. She lost the ability to walk, most of her lecture, the stallion use of her whole right hand side. I felt it an honor to be allowed to push my Granny's wheelchair around. I would indicate with my parents, my blood brother, anyone who tried to maltreat in social movement of me to crowd Granny in her chair. And do you know what she called her chairman ? ... ... ... .Her Chair-riot…. because of her stroke, she viewed being in a wheelchair as being a roman print Princess in her Chariot. She didn't want pity. She took what happened to her and made the respectable out of it. That is what you need, to find your positive."D'andre said.

I reached up and pulled him down to me, kissing his impertinence and whispering"Thank you".