Breath & Shadow

ESSAY

SHARON WACHSLER

Bringing Down the House

I've been feeling like a failure as a disabled person. I moved into my Beautiful New Home — with its cathedral arch and south–facing floor–to–ceiling windows — and promptly began wrecking it. I chip walls. I gouge doors. I smash my cabinets' ceramic doorknobs into dust. And the only consolation I receive is my partner saying, "We could buy some plastic corner protectors," as she rubs at a black smear on a formerly unblemished white wall.

You see, I recently became a full–time wheelie. Before my move, I mostly used my powerchair outside, which is famous for its lack of walls and furniture to run into. Plus, it was my landlord's problem when I had little maneuvering accidents, like ripping the front door off its hinges.

Other wheelchair users I see seem competent, coordinated. It doesn't seem as if their dogs — and friends — jump up in panic when they hear the powerchair go on. Every wheelie's home can't resemble a scene from The Money Pit, can it?

Everybody notices. On her first visit since I moved in, my mother surveyed the splintered trim around the linen closet. "You know, they make plastic protectors for corners like this," she said.

My fantasy of being a Real Adult, furnishing my Lovely New Home with Tasteful Decor has been dashed. But the house is asking for it. It's wearing a short skirt.

Alright, I admit it: I blame the house for my new full–time wheelie status. While the halls and doorways are so narrow that my wheelchair can't squeeze through without taking off parts of the jambs, the rest of the house is ridiculously spacious. Sure, spaciousness seemed like a selling point when it was being sold to me. But after I moved in I realized how I'd relied on bed, fridge, and couch being just steps apart in my cozy one–room rental. Now, when nature calls, I can't just wander a few steps from the couch. (Well, I could, but then I'd ruin the shiny wood floors.) Plus, the strain of the move itself has thrown me into a relapse of worsened exhaustion, dizziness, and impaired balance.

The irony is, I went to great lengths to prevent my service dog from destroying the house. I started trimming Gadget's nails more often to preserve the floors. I installed mar–resistant Plexiglas on the buttery maple doors — no more scratches when Gadget opens and shuts them. I trained him to use switch extenders so he can turn off the lights with a gentle nose nudge instead of jumping up.

Eventually I tearily confided my loser status to my friend Heidi.

"But I run into things all the time!" she responded. "I've broken my scooter's base."

Wow.

"And Lisa used to ram into people," she revealed about a friend who was the epitome of flair and style. "She didn't care. They apologized to her."

When I emailed my friend Karyn, a lifelong chair user who lives in a disabled housing complex, and she replied, "I shattered the Plexiglas on my door once," I felt even better.

"Plus, they have those plastic corner protectors everywhere here," she added.

Sharon Wachsler dedicates this story to the memory of Lisa Maisels, who apparently still has things to teach her and who remains a sparkly, sassy inspiration. Unrelatedly, Sharon encourages everyone to rent The Money Pit and to watch for the line, "They test missiles here, or what?"

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Heidi Friedman and Nick Reingold
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Victor Schwartzman
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Doris Wachsler
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