The Chair

By PABLO DIABLO

copyright 2018

As I woke this morning, I was hoping things in my life had changed. I turned my headspring, wiping the backbone 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 clutch on me. I hate this chair with all my being. I can feel my mortal growing darker with each day's passing.

My idea furor on. Why did sprightliness have to be so cruel ? Why can't I find the felicity that others seem to have ? Why do I possess to be stuck in this permanent hell ?

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

As I struggle to move my legs from the affectionateness of my bed, I swing them in unison over the edge. Using my cane, I pull on the wheelchair's arm to bring my jailer finisher to me.

I hate everything about it. The glazed mocking chrome of its frame. The blue of the keister and arm repose. The blackness of the rubber tyre. The squeaker of my body being plunked down into my batting cage, my jail.

I think to myself how mass either handle me as someone to be ignored or individual who can just ‘ pattern it out for myself ’. However, the ones that give me the horrified look when I do open my mouth and must ask for help 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 meter machine, I never would have allowed myself to be in that place 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 turn into the kitchen. I still curse that the replication crown are too high gear for me. I hate that I must use that grabber device to reach anything.

Today is Thomas More of what I dread. Another strong-arm therapy fitting.

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

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

As I make myself coffee, I dial the strong-arm therapy place to train if D'Andre is there. He is scheduled to go far just a few minute of arc before my appointment.

I call the ‘ dial a Ride'divine service to schedule them to fare get me about 10am.

After my coffee berry, I head to the bathroom to do my morning rite. I hate trying to fight the shower to get my professorship either into the shower or to get my trunk to move from the chair onto the step-bench that rests inside the shower.

I decide to demand a ‘ whore's tub'as my granny would call it. Some also call it a ‘ cowherd bath ’. This goes back to the wild west twenty-four hour period when using the water in the horse troughs was used to clean up the cowboys coming off the trail.

I brush my teeth. I comb my hair. I put on composition. I want to look good for D'andre, he is my imaginary number boyfriend.

As clock time progresses, I see it's almost 10. The impediment drive service is due here within minutes. I hurry myself to the forepart porch to await for them.

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

We arrive at the physical therapy place. I am delighted to see D'andre waiting outside for me to arrive. I smile. He always makes me find ripe.

He helps the drive Robert William Service person unload me and he takes position behind my chair pushing me to the therapy room.

"How are you today, Sunshine ?"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 push you through the backrest gardens afterwards if you would like."

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

I am put through my pattern use. I don't believe that any of this is helping, not one shit 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 happy 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 hard work.

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

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

"Of course."

"Why are you always here, helping me ?"

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

"alteration my view ? I hate this death chair. This is a prison house 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 senior class of high school, my grandmother had a massive virgule. She lost the ability to walk, near of her spoken communication, the total use of her whole right position. I felt it an honor to be allowed to push my Granny's wheelchair around. I would argue with my parents, my brother, anyone who tried to step in front of me to push Granny in her chairwoman. And do you acknowledge what she called her chairman ? ... ... ... .Her Chair-riot…. because of her apoplexy, 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 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 cheek and whispering"Thank you".