When Everything Comes Together

Is “Womanhandle” a Word?

I took a bus again on Monday: Tri-Valley Transit’s “116 Commuter,” at 5:30 behind the Hinesburg Town Hall to the end of the line in Middlebury at 6:20. It’s a mini-bus with seating for 22 passengers (I counted); it resembles a retirement home shuttle, except a bit longer. It’s a free service running mornings and evenings between Burlington and Middlebury five days a week. (Cue the taxpayer whining.)

Public transit is not a big part of the culture around here. It’s not a part at all. It’s a last resort, at best. More likely, it’s not even a consideration. A car is top priority at every age. A necessity; non-negotiable.

Choosing to take a bus, when you have a car—to save on fuel, maintenance, mileage, stress, or environmental impact—is not a common choice. A (hopefully reliable) vehicle, in rural America, is freedom. I’ve heard it said that in some places (urban, but especially non-U.S.), not having to own one is the freedom.

Riding the bus, for me, is about as independent as I can be. Other than taking my chair a mile or so down our dirt road (which shouldn’t be discounted), it’s been the only time I’m out in the world on my own. I would not have gone to C’s on a weekday evening if not for the bus—and, especially, her offer to bring me back home.

A few weeks ago I caught (barely; C had to run from the car to alert the driver) a Saturday bus from Middlebury and the driver was unprepared for a wheelchair. The buses are equipped with a lift (as, I imagine, is required by law)—I double- and triple-checked on their website—but the driver hadn’t encountered one in his four years driving that route, he told us. Everything worked out, if a bit behind schedule and sans seatbelt, but I thought they could use a heads-up this time.

I emailed the week before and, without a response, asked my mom to call Monday morning. (I am not an effective phone-caller, especially initiating the action. The listener never understands me or the nature of my request. I try to rephrase in the fewest possible words, get frustrated and call for help.) I texted her the phone number and a one-sentence script (to make it easier, not be controlling!).

It didn’t work. The driver had no idea. Next time, the word “wheelchair” will be repeated until specifically acknowledged.

About to lift off.

As before, the driver had to fold up a couple of seats and install the four anchors (the same ones my minivan uses) into the floor. Unlike the first bus, this one had two shoulder strap seatbelts mounted to the wall. Unfortunately, it seems that one of those folded seats has to be removed to use one. Locked down in place, the driver asked if my chair has a seatbelt. I think so?, I thought. “I’m not worried about it,” I reassured. (I wonder how many different ways I’ve told people I’m fine, that I don’t need special attention. It’s a reflex.)

(I didn’t have my behemoth Permobil M3, but a little folding powerchair I bought for air travel. [Though it sits by the window to my right, I still don’t know if it’s equipped with a lap belt.] Despite the initial (trip to Los Angeles) impetus for its purchase, the ComfyGo Majestic has proved to be a useful addition to my arsenal. It’s allowed me to go places and do things I otherwise couldn’t. When I visit friends’ houses, because of its weight—and mine—I can be carried up the steps, and once inside, it fits through every doorway (that I’ve found—barely). Its allowed me to ride in vehicles outside of my purpose-built ramp-equipped minivan. For $2,000, it’s literally changed my life. I’ve already incorporated its utility into my base case; it’s hard to go back and imagine my life without it.)

It’s bouncy at the back of the bus; ideally, the tie-down area would be farther forward, but, right across from the lift, logistically, it makes sense. The headrest on the Majestic is not ideal (it’s too far back), and I have to alternate between holding my head perfectly upright and leaning it way back. And logically, I’m sure I was never in any danger, it seemed like I was at risk of tipping over when the driver took a corner. He was more aggressive than his 75-year-old Saturday colleague.

After two departures in Hinesburg (and an unknown but likely limited number beforehand), I was one of five passengers. Two looked like regulars, and two, seemingly a couple, traveled with two bigger-than-a-carry-on traditional suitcases as well as backpacks. Without a phone in my hands, or earbuds in, I have to make use of the passing scenery and fellow passengers for my entertainment.

After taking in more than enough of the Dickie’s and boots, buzzed hair, gnarly-bearded, tatted-up, sunglasses-wearing, manic (extremely manic; birdlike) man a seat ahead of his (and her) luggage, I began to ponder the window- and ceiling-mounted emergency exits. Fortunately, these things don’t bother me—I don’t have intrusive thoughts (of that variety); I don’t catastrophize. If I did, I might become convinced that, if, say, the driver decided to put the bus in a lake—for whatever reason—I’d be quite fucked.

When I’m out like that, in an unfamiliar environment, it often occurs to me that people are seeing me—seeing someone like me. I wonder if they notice. How much do they see? How many people take even ten seconds to ponder what it’s like? I exist. We exist. Sometimes I think I should get out more, so people can see me—so they have to see me.

***

I haven’t shared the reason for my trip: I was visiting a friend. A woman. In the backpack my mom rigged to my chair’s back, I carried two ribeye steaks and an assortment of pre-cut stir fry vegetables. She had a recent birthday, and while I couldn’t cook her dinner as I’d like, I could bring ingredients. (You brought her work?? For her birthday??! I know, I know. We agreed on this over takeout.)

Let me recount the logistics for you. 1. Drive with Mom to the bus stop behind the town hall. 2. Board and ride the bus to Middlebury. 3. Get picked up and brought to C’s house. 4. Drive my chair through the yard and up the prepositioned ramp at the back door. Easy, right? Well, yes, relatively, but only because of a number of fortuitous circumstances.

First is the bus: That it exists and is equipped with a wheelchair lift and accouterments. I’ve already mentioned the second: My chair. Folding and weighing 55 pounds, it can fit in most trunks. It’s also much smaller; the behemoth

Zip tied towel armrest and backpack not included.

can’t fit through many typical doorways. Next is C’s car: She happens to drive a Subaru Outback, just about the ideal vehicle for the circumstances. Unlike the omnipresent trucks and truck-based SUVs, its passenger seat is not so high that I need to be hoisted into it. I can back up to the threshold and (somewhat awkwardly) fall into place, using my feet to push off whatever I can to reposition and get them into the footwell. The Outback also has plenty of room for the folded chair—C doesn’t have to wrangle it into a traditional trunk (as was the case with a rented Kia Forte in Los Angeles), and, again, it’s not crazy high like a full-size truck bed.

And then there’s C’s house. I was disappointed and somewhat mystified when I found out just how impenetrable the typical house with its typical set of front stairs is to the wheelchair user. I thought, surely, a 6-foot ramp would be enough to carry me over a few steps. It’s not; not even close. Picture the ramp tacked onto the front door of that little ranch you drive by (let’s pretend this is a universal experience)—it’s long, like, really long. Even if you purchase something so gargantuan (which I did in a 12-foot variety), it’s that much more difficult to transport, requires that much more strength, and a runway you may not have. Fortunately, C’s has a back entrance with only a couple of steps—easily navigable with my portable 6-foot ramp. (I could not, however, transport it on the bus; it was brought in my van and now lives in C’s garage.)

Lastly, is C herself. There is her ability to awkwardly manhandle (womanhandle?) a 55-pound folded wheelchair into her Outback—an impressive and not-so-common feat—but there’s also her willingness to do so. Her willingness—and maybe, even, I can allow myself to say, desire—to drive up and see me or meet me at the bus stop (it’s not exactly close to her house) and bring me back home. She’s the first and most important piece of the puzzle.

And it is a puzzle. I live within a slim margin; everything—in many areas of my life—has to be just so. Each of my movements—everything I do—has been carefully crafted; it’s even more obvious out in the world—in unfamiliar environments. It’s almost miraculous that everything can fall into place every now and again.

But it can.