The Chair

By PABLO DIABLO

Copyright 2018

As I woke this morning, I was hoping affair in my life had changed. I turned my head, wiping the guts from my optic. 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 handgrip on me. I hate this chair with all my being. I can experience my soul growing darker with each day's passing.

My judgment 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 suffer to be stuck in this permanent hell ?

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

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

I hate everything about it. The burnished mocking chrome of its frame. The Amytal of the seat and arm remainder. The total darkness of the galosh tires. The squeak of my body being plunked down into my batting cage, my jail.

I think to myself how people either plow me as someone to be ignored or mortal who can just ‘ number it out for myself ’. However, the ones that give me the horror-stricken look when I do open my mouthpiece and must ask for assistance really set my brain to raging.

After all, I didn't ask for the body to betray me and be so fragile. If I had a time machine, I never would have allowed myself to be in that place when the stroke occurred.

I hate my prison.

I hate my life.

I work my way through my apartment. I bang my hand on that sharp turn into the kitchen. I still curse that the counter acme are too high gear for me. I hate that I must use that grabber twist to get to anything.

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

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

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

As I make myself coffee bean, I dial the strong-arm therapy shoes to check if D'Andre is there. He is scheduled to arrive just a few minutes before my appointment.

I call the ‘ Dial a Ride'service to schedule them to come get me about 10am.

After my coffee, I head to the bathroom to do my morning rite. I hate trying to campaign the cascade to get my chair either into the shower or to get my body to affect from the chair onto the step-bench that rests inside the shower.

I decide to take a ‘ prostitute's bathing tub'as my Grandmother would call off it. Some also call it a ‘ cowman bathroom ’. This goes back to the wild west days when using the water in the horse public treasury was used to clean house up the cattleman coming off the trail.

I brush my teeth. I comb my fuzz. I put on war paint. I want to look undecomposed for D'andre, he is my imaginary number boyfriend.

As time progresses, I see it's almost 10. The handicap drive help is due here within arcminute. I hurry myself to the front porch to expect for them.

They arrive on meter. They are overnice enough, but not very chatty. I like chatty.

We arrive at the physical therapy place. I am enchant to see D'andre waiting outside for me to come. I smile. He always makes me finger good.

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

"How are you today, sunlight ?"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 campaign you through the back gardens afterwards if you would like."

"Um, yes. I think I would really like that. give thanks 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 facial expression from the sweat that has formed from all the hard work.

He takes control condition of my 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 person whom you don't see. I see a beautiful, potent, opinionated fair sex that just needs to transfer her view."

"variety my view ? I hate this chair. 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 older year of high schooling, my nanna had a massive solidus. She lost the power to walk, nigh of her speech, the full use of her whole in good order side. I felt it an laurels to be allowed to press my grandma's wheelchair around. I would argue with my parents, my brothers, anyone who tried to abuse in front of me to push gran in her hot seat. And do you jazz what she called her chair ? ... ... ... .Her Chair-riot…. because of her stroke, she viewed being in a wheelchair as being a roman type Princess in her Chariot. She didn't want commiseration. She took what happened to her and made the Best 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 impudence and whispering"Thank you".