Free Slave to the Rhythm by Jane Harvey-Berrick

said to the empty room.
    Lame Laney—that’s what they called me at school. I wanted a boyfriend, not a babysitter.
    Collin was right in one way. There’s nothing simple about traveling with a wheelchair. I had to be organized, planning ahead for every eventuality. How many other people pack a puncture repair kit when they travel? Other than cyclists, obviously.
    I had to pay for my general practitioner to issue a ‘fit to travel’ letter because I was having to change my travel plans. I had to hire a cab that could accommodate my chair, one with a ramp or a pneumatic lift. I needed to organize assistance at the airport—and then hope that it was in the right place at the right time. I could have asked my friends or family to help me, but that wasn’t the point. I was 29 years old, an independent woman. I didn’t want to be reliant on others if I could avoid.
    But it helped to choose an airline that would be sympathetic—laws and legislation were often inadequate, no matter what anyone tells you. Goodwill means as much, if not more.
    I had to notify the airline service team about the nature of my disability and the kind of wheelchair I used. Hand-propelled ones were simpler than electric chairs, where batteries caused the carrier a headache. Each part of the wheelchair had to be marked with my name in case anything went missing, although I hoped to take the cushion onto the plane with me. And at least I could request a gate check whereby my wheelchair could be directly loaded to the plane’s fuselage.
    I spent two hours changing my travel arrangements, wincing at the cost even though I had insurance. And I’d learned by experience not to rely on emails; talking to a human being usually produced better results, although not always.
    “Ma’am, are you able to walk a short distance?”
    The airline’s employee was polite, going through her checklist of questions.
    “Not today,” I sighed.
    “That’s fine, ma’am. We’ll pre-board you. If you could be at the airport three hours before your flight.”
    I hoped that the airline would upgrade me. Sometimes they did. But if they didn’t, I’d requested a window seat. It might seem easier to have an aisle seat . . . right up to the moment the person by the window needs to get up to visit the bathroom and has to climb over you.
    I’d also learned that a window seat gives you something extra to brace against during the landing.
    Next, I contacted the hotel to check if a disabled room was available.
    “On the lowest floor possible, please.”
    Elevators are shut down in the event of a fire.
    And because I was careful, prepared, I asked the hotel about the width of the doors on their disabled rooms, including the bathroom. There was no point checking in and finding your chair didn’t fit through the door.
    So far, so good. But although they had a roll-in shower, they weren’t sure if a shower wheelchair was available. I politely requested that they enquire, then packed several garbage bags in my suitcase. If necessary, I could wrap my seat cushion and chair back in plastic and make do. It wasn’t ideal: garbage bags are slippery to sit on. You might even call it an accident waiting to happen.
    And finally, I packed a spare pair of pushing gloves; it’s surprising how quickly they wear out from all the extra work.
    With my suitcase half full already, I thought about the clothes that a Vegas trip required.
    I’d planned to wear my favorite skinny jeans, but loose clothing is far more comfortable when you’re sitting all day.
    It got boring being sensible.
    I didn’t always have to use a wheelchair, only on the days (or weeks, or sometimes months) when I had a flare-up. On those days I couldn’t walk. On those days, it could hurt to breathe.
    Today, I was somewhere in the middle: walking was painful. Even rising to my feet took several minutes while tears streamed down my cheeks, and I gasped in oxygen, willing the burning in my joints to recede, praying for