Sebastian got his first wheelchair on Tuesday afternoon. It was supposed to be this exciting event, but I just wanted to cry. But I didn’t. Not until Sebastian was watching Sesame Street and I was making dinner in the kitchen, telling his dad about our adventure that afternoon. Getting the wheelchair in and out of our car was less than to be desired. It seemed ridiculous to get a mini-van when we were car shopping with only one child. Not so much anymore. Ali helped me find the best/easiest way to get the wheelchair in and out of the car the next morning before school. We did ok.
Sebastian feels good in the chair. It helps him sit up straight and gives him the support he needs. I know that he will be able to do more with hands; which is so important for play, communication and even self-care like eating and brushing his teeth. I know that he will feel more independent. I know that it will help his back grow straight. I know that his neck muscles will get strong from holding his head up and lifting it back into place when it falls forward. I know all of these things. So why do I want to cry when I’m pushing him into school for the first time in his new chair? Why do I want to cry when I have to explain to one of his classmates why he has this new chair to sit in instead of his stroller?
It’s true, I’m a bit emotional these days. It’s kind of a rough month for our family with the anniversaries of Josh’s birth and death. Not to mention other life events. It is difficult not to see the obstacles of a wheelchair. Like stairs. And cars and homes that aren’t the right size. I’ve always been one to overcome obstacles, so I put on a happy face and reserve the swelling of tears for my quiet moments, alone. And they pass. And I’m happy again and I see the good things. Like living in a place (ie. Canada) that can help us take care of Sebastian’s needs. And all of the things Sebastian CAN do with a wheelchair. I’m thankful for my husband who works so hard and took a job here, so that he could take care of us. And we celebrate life, for all that it is. And isn’t.