Light Relief

I mentioned before that travelling around on wheels at night (or even in the daylight, which we're getting to be a bit short of now, of course) can be a bit scary when you either have to take to the road or cross one.

Bloody boy racers.

And then, of course, there are the pedestrian lights, which also seem nearly always timed for boy racers. Or fit sprinters, anyway. It can be unnerving even if you're crossing slowly on crutches; some drivers seem to think they're F1 racers, and somehow, if they're not shooting forward the second the lights change they'll miss out on the fizzy stuff.

And I've discovered being in a wheelchair can be worse. I've become used to pedestrians not seeing me in a wheelchair. Especially all those busily chattering on their mobiles, focus fixed somewhere dead ahead at normal chin height. Which means they simply don't seem to be able to see someone sitting down,  even when they're right in front of them. I've become quite adept lately at making crash stops to avoid breaking their ankles with my footrests.

But any other kind of crash I've become nervous about. There's so much in the way of reconstructing pavements going on in London now you simply have to take to the road instead of the pavement often. And if you're invisible to half the pedestrian world when you're in a wheelchair, the same is even more true of motorists.

So, since I'm intending to be out and about at night—I don't see why I should be restricted to daylight just to make myself more visible—I've been adding lights to my wheelchair, so it now looks like a Christmas tree.

Red bicycle rear lights; bright LED bike front lights. The latter a new idea, since I'd become very twitchy about not being seen side-on crossing streets and I thought bicycle reflectors on the wheels might not really be bright enough. I found some that can be seen from the side, as well as the front. Cheap, too; a quid each from Poundland.

And a fancy touch, just for fun. Although I got them because I did want to be visible from the side when crossing roads. A thin red (I wanted orange, but they sent red) optical fibre tube that flashes and I've fixed under the armrests and around the side panels.

Overkill, maybe. A bit flashy even, you might say. But nobody will be able to say they didn't see me coming. Or going.

Next step, of course, should be sponsored neon advertising on the backpack fixed to the back of my seat. Any offers, Heineken?

Transports of Delight . . .Part III

That trip to the Barbican Centre . . .was a bit of a disaster. Again.

We abandoned the Tube after the last attempt, and went for the bus instead. The bus from Paddington towards the Barbican is run, it would appear, by Stagecoach. 'Nuff said. Well, no, I've quite a bit to say about them . . .

As comedy is all about timing, voyaging in a wheelchair is about planning. As comedians can never have enough jokes, if you're taking a trip on public transport, you can never have enough maps.

We thought we'd recognise the nearest stop . . .We didn't. Somehow, we ended up going round in circles. Literally. Around Finsbury Square. Twice. Passers-by were helpful . . .sort of. A young couple, though, suggested heading for Liverpool Street station. Been there, done that. Twice as far away from the Barbican as we thought we were. and no, you can't get a wheelchair on the Tube from Liverpool Street to Barbican Station as they suggested, though admittedly they couldn't really be expected to know that.

Another directed us to Moorgate station; which we found, eventually. But then, confused by roadworks and dug-up pavements, which of course, neither an A-Z nor Google Maps on a smartphone had any knowledge of, took a wrong turning and ended up at Finsbury Square. Again.

Still, we did make it eventually.

But the way back . . .I'm going to abandon the 205 route. The buses are old . . .obviously recycled from somewhere near a scrapheap. My spine felt every damn jolt. And we had to catch two buses; one abandoned its struggle for life somewhere around Baker Street. And the ramp had stopped functioning.

At least the driver was ready to help, and came round to lift the wheelchair off; he was actually ready to lift me off in it as well, but I can at least stand and walk a bit, so I managed to save him from the kind of spinal injury that put me in a wheelchair in the first place . . .

And the second's wheelchair space was obviously an afterthought. I've never seen a bus quite like it: the exit door and ramp were almost next to the front door, and the wheelchair space a metre away from it. Not an easy manoeuvre to get into.  Or out of. People had to get out of their seats and stand so I could get in.

Stagecoach, eh? Wild horses are not going to get me onto one of their damn buses again.

Perchance to Sleep

Ben Mattlin, in the New York Times, on an 'assisted suicide' proposal in Massachusetts:

"I learned how easy it is to be perceived as someone whose quality of life is untenable, even or perhaps especially by doctors. Indeed, I hear it from them all the time — “How have you survived so long? Wow, you must put up with a lot!” — even during routine office visits, when all I’ve asked for is an antibiotic for a sinus infection. Strangers don’t treat me this way, but doctors feel entitled to render judgments and voice their opinions. To them, I suppose, I must represent a failure of their profession, which is shortsighted. I am more than my diagnosis and my prognosis.

"This is but one of many invisible forces of coercion. Others include that certain look of exhaustion in a loved one’s eyes, or the way nurses and friends sigh in your presence while you’re zoned out in a hospital bed. All these can cast a dangerous cloud of depression upon even the most cheery of optimists, a situation clinicians might misread since, to them, it seems perfectly rational.

"And in a sense, it is rational, given the dearth of alternatives. If nobody wants you at the party, why should you stay? Advocates of Death With Dignity laws who say that patients themselves should decide whether to live or die are fantasizing. Who chooses suicide in a vacuum? We are inexorably affected by our immediate environment. The deck is stacked."

. . . .

"To be sure, there are noble intentions behind the “assisted death” proposals, but I can’t help wondering why we’re in such a hurry to ensure the right to die before we’ve done all we can to ensure that those of us with severe, untreatable, life-threatening conditions are given the same open-hearted welcome, the same open-minded respect and the same open-ended opportunities due everyone else."

I'm on record as being generally supportive of one's right to choose when to jump off this mortal coil. Not that I myself am yet in the sort of situation where I might want to take it. But Mattlin puts his finger directly on the reasons for the reservations I have about it too. I would want to choose for my own reasons.

Of course, that's selfish, in a way. But I do not want to find the society around me forcing me into that choice, as, in the UK, government policies increasingly may. To make your own choice as to whether or not you live or die should depend on the society around you—whether it's friends, relatives, or the broader society of local or national government—having done all it can for you.

So that your own decision is one that is in fact entirely your own.

But that is not the way I see things going. Mattlin is absolutely right in wondering why societies often seem to be keener on ridding themselves of 'useless mouths' in as brutal and coercive a fashion as the commanders of besieged towns in the 15th and 16th centuries did, instead of giving them the wherewithal to live.