By Aneurin Bosley
I have modest goals today: Get a cup of coffee, some money out of the bank machine, pick up a few groceries, check out the new releases at a video store, and buy a magazine or newspaper.
Ordinary tasks for a chilly Saturday afternoon. Except for the wheelchair.
I know I can’t possibly learn what it’s like to live in a wheelchair in a few short hours. But I can find out what it’s like to get around in one, and that Centretown is not an easy place to do it.
I’m not even out the door of my apartment when I make the unpleasant discovery that my building, near the corner of Metcalfe and Maclaren streets, is not wheelchair-friendly. It’s a struggle to get over the threshold and into the hall. The door to the foyer is even worse. It opens inward, so I have to reach out and tug on it. But it sticks and the marble floor is slick, leaving me with almost no purchase. The only way to get the door open is to hang on to the wall with my right hand, while I yank at the round brass doorknob with my left. In all, I have to struggle with five doors before I’m out onto the icy streets.
My first destination is the Second Cup coffee shop on the corner of Somerset and Bank streets. A walk that would take me two or three minutes has already taken more than 10, and I’m barely 20 metres from my door, stuck on the sidewalk, my wheelchair wedged between pieces of ice. With no traction at all I’m just spinning my wheels. Here’s where I get the first offer of help.
“Can I give you a hand?” asks a man in his thirties with short-cropped blond hair.
“I think I’ve got it, thank you,” I reply, finding some grip and backing the wheelchair up to a driveway.
I steer the chair down the curb and onto Maclaren. I’ve got to stay fairly close to the middle of the street because of the ice along its sides. Between Bank and O’Connor ice-free road is scarce, so I head north on O’Connor and west on Somerset to avoid upsetting too many drivers. I’m quickly changing my opinion of the patterns of red brick inlaid every few metres along Somerset’s sidewalk. Yesterday, they were a lively touch in an otherwise dull stretch of grey concrete. Today, they are little rock quarries that grab the front wheels of the chair, turning it in unpredictable directions and sapping it of the little momentum I’ve managed to build up.
The entrance to Second Cup is just slightly above street level, the concrete gradually sloping up to the door. But the very last part of it has eroded, leaving a small vertical barrier I’d never noticed before. The only way over it is to push the chair so hard the front wheels pop up and over the edge. (Somebody has to hold the door open for this.) Manoeuvering the chair inside the shop is like trying to park an old Buick in the Market on a Sunday. The tables by the window are out of the question, but the passageway by the coffee counter is wide enough to get through. (Note to self: Don’t bother putting your wallet in your back pocket — it’s way too hard to get at.)
Getting out of the store is more difficult. The big glass door is heavy, and I can’t get close enough to give it a good shove. I’ve tried three times before a passer-by offers to hold the door open.
Thankfully, the Royal Bank machines beside Second Cup have automatic doors, but again I have to contend with Mother Nature. A ridge of ice has built up along the sidewalk right in front of the door opener. After two failed attempts, I back the chair up a couple metres, build up some speed and roll over the ice. (This is not a task for the elderly or infirm.)
The bank machine is accessible, except for one thing: I can’t see the bottom item in the list of transaction options. The only reason I can answer “no” when the machine asks whether I want to do another transaction is that I could operate it with my eyes closed.
Down on the next block, the doors to Hartman’s are fully automatic. But predictably, many items are impossible to reach. My cat likes Pounce cat treats, but she won’t be getting any today because they’re on the top shelf, though I’m sure if I waited around long enough I could ask somebody to reach them for me.
With a few items in the basket perched on my lap, I head to the checkout counter.
“It should fit,” says the woman at the cash register who has observed me struggling to get through the checkout lane. “People come through here in wheelchairs all the time.”
I can only assume they were using narrower chairs, because there’s no way I’m getting through. So I pay for my groceries (though not with Interac, since I can’t get to the machine), back up and circle around all the checkout counters to pick them up and put them in the knapsack I’d strapped to rear of the chair.
I’m starting to hate Centretown’s intersections. Most of the lowered curbs are a bit higher than both the sidewalk and the road, making them more like barricades. And the sloped parts are narrow. If anybody is standing in them I have to call out and ask them to move, preferably before I reach the curb so I don’t have to slow down before I hit the ridge.
Getting into the Rogers Video store is no worse than the Second Cup, and I’m getting a little better at pulling doors open and using them as leverage. Most of the video shelves are low, so only the top row of new releases is out of reach. But some of the isles are too narrow for me to get through. One employee says the store is going to be renovated to rectify this problem.
Once back out onto the street, I head north on Bank, east on Laurier, and south on Elgin. By the time I hit Laurier I’ve got to stop and put on some gloves, partly because it is quite cold but also because the balls of my hands are very sore. I notice that one of my knuckles is bleeding, though I don’t know exactly which scrape caused it.
Mags & Fags is my final destination. Same old struggle getting through the door and over the metal ridge. I’m happy for the rest once inside, as my forearms are killing me. As with the other stores, many of the magazines are out of reach, and I’m starting to wonder how different my buying habits might be if I were in a wheelchair permanently.
On the way out the store I get jammed in the doorway because I didn’t hit the ridge straight-on. A passer-by holds the door for me while I fight the fatigue in my arms and straighten the chair.
I’ve only been out for about three hours and I feel like a wimp because I can hardly wait to get home.
My hands are cramped, my arms are sore and I’m tired of navigating bumpy intersections, icy streets and potholes that feel like craters.
And I’d swear the threshold at the entrance to my apartment got larger while I was gone.