Riding the Chairlift

Last Wednesday was a momentous day in our house. After what seemed like forever (but was in actuality about six weeks) our accessibility contractor installed a stairlift. Chairlift? Stairchair? Whatever we end up calling it, it’s changed everything at home.

First, and probably foremost in his mind, Arthur now has a fun way to get upstairs. A fun, incredibly slow, way to get upstairs. The lift takes about two minutes to traverse the 19 stairs, four turns, and eleven feet between the entryway and the upstairs hall. An eternity when Arthur has been asked to quickly run upstairs to get his shoes because Cielo is here to pick him up for school. But it‘s also helping him understand the limitations I experience as I go about my day.

Second, it has enforced a tidier front entry. I’m no longer moving random kid shoes and school bags around to navigate the entryway—I can roll right to the chair and head upstairs.

Which brings me to the third and most emotional (for me) change. I can now get to my bedroom and FINALLY sleep in my own bed. Wednesday night was the first time I’d slept in my own bed, next to Dacia, since January 24th. It was also the first night that I was able to brush my teeth at my sink. And the first time I’ve been able to take a shower since leaving rehab back in March.

As I mentioned, this was all extremely emotional. Any change to my routine is a new chance for falls or injuries, every transfer takes longer as I familiarize myself with new surfaces (my bed, the shower chair) and figure out how to manage my trunk instability, and all of this just shoots my anxiety through the roof. But Dacia and I have a mantra for every new element to my routine: “this is the hardest this will ever be.” And sure enough—after a week it feels normal and even easy at times.