Yesterday I used a toilet for the disabled and as I washed then dried my hands using the hand dryer I remembered the distress involved in doing the same in hospital.... ...I balance the weight of my body on the sink edge while I stretch across to grab paper towels. With dry hands I look around me and spy the bin. It has a pedal. To lift the lid I need to raise my foot off the ground. 1. I can't lift either foot high enough to squash a fly as I walk. 2. Neither of my feet have the power to squash the fly let alone press a foot pedal. 3. I consider lifting the lid with my hands but years of working in infection control set my hand contamination alarm bells ringing. 4. The lids here are hands free so lifting the lid is impossible.
I look around while still hanging on to the sink edge like an abseiler about to launch off the edge of a cliff. Horror claws as I realise I will have to leave the paper towels on the side of the sink. I would like to say I scurry off; but crutch, foot, crutch, foot, crutch, foot is all I can manage. Back by the side of my bed it dawns on me that the policy to implement foot operated bins is all encompassing. The possibility that people cannot press the pedal is not in the plans on the assumption that the bins will only be used by mobile staff. Nowadays when I visit the hospital I know why the disabled toilet with a foot operated bin has paper towels all over the floor. I chat about this with a friend who uses a wheelchair full time. He too has encountered the same problem in hospitals and resorts to trying to press the pedal with his grabber, often to no avail... Patient involvement in healthcare services development is vital but I now know that involvement of wheelchair/mobility aid users needs to reach the core of every decision.
My teeth rattle as the wheels rumble along the uneven paths, bums and backs swarm like bees hunting pollen. I glimpse flowers, trees and grass between legs, a bit of stone path, rectangular shrubs, iron art work; like a jigsaw without the picture I am unable to piece the gardens together. I stand from the wheelchair and see a tree surrounded by flowers but moving further is thwarted as others vie for my space. Mr H is anxious I will tumble and persuades me to sit back in my throne on wheels. When Mr H manages to secure us a spot, I snap at eye level flowers and sculptures hanging from the sky. Macro photography is my passion so not being able to see the bigger picture matters less. As we trundle along Mr H plants sweet kisses on my head as he describes the water features, buildings and sculptures he sees from up high. Share my day in this pictorial video blog: (have the sound on)
Thick clotted cream oozing from warm scones lathered with lemon curd and strawberry jam devoured after pale finger sandwiches followed by more cake than Mr Kipling could imagine; finishes off our wonderful trip to London. A Christmas present cream tea in a five star hotel from our dear friends.
I am packing for an adventure; we are off to the 'Centenary Chelsea Flower Show', My last visit was five years ago before BT, this visit I have a wheelchair on standby. I search among my shoes for Converse and flat boots as distant memories of high heels stamp into my mind. My first recollection is of clip clopping around our Cul-de-sac dragging a pair of Moms' winkle pickers along on my tiny feet as I pushed my dolls pram. I stood tall as my clip clop, scrape, clip clop, scrape made the pavements tremble. I couldn't chase the boys when they stole my pram, the shoes were my jewels. As I grew up I wore flatties from Clarkes; comfort was my game. Frustrated with my individual style my sister, an avid follower of fashion, insisted my new school shoes had heels. We walked into the shoe shop and Mandy took charge: Try these on No I don't like them TRRRRY them on Shoes shoved onto my feet, Mandy insisted I have them, even though I was like the leaning tower of Pisa. My eyes lingered on the rail of flat shoes; as an inexperienced stilt walker I peered down at the two inch heeled brown shoes. I stumbled out and like a circus clown clung onto the window ledge of Woolworths as I shuffled along sidewards, snarling at Mandy: I hate them, I hate them Back in control I wore flat shoes on the wards, but off duty my heels got higher and higher, in 1982 a black pair of winkle pickers became the centre of my world. After the brain surgery my neighbour bought me a pair of ugly, functional navy lace ups to wear over my foot splints. My high heels were redundant but I knew it was only a matter of time before I would be clip clopping again. At home I worked my lazy foot and ankle, I shouted at them, willed them to move, pulled them with a scarf, drove Mr H bonkers each evening when I squealed: Look I think it moved; watch me, WATCH me... Eighteen months later I dragged all my heels out onto the floor, staring longingly at each pair I slowly dropped them into a black bin bag. Like a sad pass the parcel the shoe bag was offered to the girls next door then Mandy and Lois; the remaining pairs were re-homed in St. Peter's hospice charity shop. As we plan for Chelsea my collection of shoes has re-grown and like the flowers we will see, I have shoes of every colour. I hope my 'Hotters' and 'Converse' attract a Gold Medal and Best in Show!
