- I became paralyzed when I was 16 and have been in a wheelchair since.
- Traveling by air makes me feel vulnerable, stuck in a seat without my wheelchair.
For the whole of my life and many travels, I've never quite considered the unwavering vulnerability of such a moment as the one I recently was in. Although having been in that position time and time again, I never actually allowed myself the total realization of it. The complexity of it. Until now.
I was sitting in the middle of a full-passenger airplane, strangers all around me, and I couldn't go anywhere.
Claustrophobia kicked in. I was stuck in that seat because the only way I could get up was with the use of my wheelchair. The very same wheelchair that was being treated as luggage by the airport staff — akin to all the folded underwear and even someone's new leather flip-flops for vacationing. Thrown into the bottom cargo with everyone else's travel bags. This is no leisure for me.
I have to put so much trust in strangers
Being a passenger on an airplane when you are a wheelchair user is giving up all reigns of mobility and independence.
It's like taking away your legs and expecting you not to say a word about it. This is taken as what's expected if you ever want to go anywhere as a wheelchair user, though.
It's putting trust in those strangers around you to take care of you and your chair when the unfortunate event might arise and even more trust in the universe itself to get everything where you are going and in one piece. Yet, it's an ominous reality that dozens of wheelchairs are damaged beyond repair each day by the airlines and their staff. I've been one of the lucky ones so far because mine has survived my travels.
I've been paralyzed since I was 16
Having been paralyzed for nearly 27 years, I have spent many vulnerable moments relying on trust and growth. I have both intentionally and quite unintentionally made choices to either take in the occasion wholly, feel the fear of it hugged tightly to my heart, or simply let it go because it doesn't serve me.
After sustaining a spinal cord injury at 16, I was immediately thrown into a whirlwind of growth and reflection, the sort typically reserved for adults who've lived full and complex lives, not pimply teenagers.
A tragic car accident left me with scars that'd last my lifetime, both physical and otherwise. Paramedics weren't even sure if I'd make it to the hospital that night, let alone travel across oceans more than half a century later, typing out my woes as I make my way to the City of Lights. Having overcome so much from that night, it was merely the start of things to come. As a teenager, I was to learn that I would never walk again. Or swim. Or dance. Or, so I thought.
Yet, I chose not to believe any of it. I wanted to swim. I wanted to dance. If I were to make it in this life, I was going to approach it from a world with this perpetual sense of overcoming. And it is how I see this world is exactly what I will feel about living. And I will say, in a sing-songy voice even: My life is good.
I love my wheelchair
Yet there I sat, intertwined among others who didn't see me board, don't know why I won't stand to get out of their way as they worm their way in from the aisle. I'm stuck and look like a boorish crab, shoulder-to-shoulder, in a stationary seat that was never designed with me in mind.
Being a wheelchair user has been complicated and even unfair at times. But I have an immense appreciation for my wheelchair, love it even — for it has given me the ability to be a part of the world and truly be me. When children, and even their grown-ups, remark on how terrible a life from a wheelchair must be, I simply remind them, and myself, of the alternative.
When I fly, and I'm stuck on a different chair, 20F, all I can do is breathe. I breathe it all in and know that the only thing I can do is trust it will be all right. It's really the most important thing I've learned in this life.