My extended family is visiting and I'm meeting them for lunch at the mall. I've arrived early and I stop at the restroom in a luxury department store. No one else is in the bathroom.
As I'm wheeling back out of the stall, I suddenly flip my wheelchair over backwards. My purse, with my cell phone in it, flies three stalls over. I'm now on my back in the middle of the bathroom, still attached to my wheelchair. My skirt has flown up near my neck. My legs, and the feet and legs of my wheelchair are in the air.
I look to my side and realize the floor I've landed on is made of ceramic tile. Luckily, the plastic travel box of hand wipes in my backpack has cushioned my head, preventing me from splitting it wide open. After more than three decades of using a wheelchair, I've never been in this situation. I see stars.
Lying on the floor, I contemplate how I'm going to help myself. I can't pull myself upright on my own. I'm afraid to move at all in my wheelchair, fearing injury. My husband works nearby and I need to call him.
From my perspective on the floor, upside down, everything looks different. I try to get my bearings. There's no way I can reach my cell phone. I wonder how long it will be before someone enters the bathroom. I yell for help, without success. I lie there, assessing my predicament.
Fifteen minutes pass, and the first woman finally comes in. She's very pregnant and also has a baby in a sling on her chest. I say hello to her right away and ask her to get help. She looks at me, starts screaming and runs out of the bathroom. She never returns -- nor does help.
Another woman enters, steps over me and says she's "gotta pee." I think to myself that she's eventually going to help, but she doesn't. She leaves, no help arrives.
The third woman comes in and seeing me, says, "Bummer, I bet you wish you weren't wearing a skirt today." I smile, thinking she's being funny, and ask her to reach my cell phone. She says instead that she'll rush to get help. She's gone -- and no help appears.
The fourth woman kneels down next to my head and speaks very kindly to me. I'm encouraged. She asks me, "Would you like me to start CPR on you?" Now I'm terrified. I say, "No, thank you" and plead for her to call my husband, 911 or to find my cell phone. As she leaves, I hear her on her phone with my husband. "There's been an accident. Your wife is on the floor in the women's restroom, upside down like a bug, come quickly. I tried to give her CPR." I feel bad for him. She barely tells him which bathroom I'm in. Of course, he'll be alarmed.
In the meantime, more women enter the bathroom. I tell them my husband is on his way, to pull down my skirt, find my purse and cell phone and to get the store manager.
An elderly woman waits at my side. "How long ago did you flip over, dear?" she asks. When I tell her she gasps. "This could happen to any of us. We could be alone in here and have a heart attack, a seizure, black out or just not feel well. "
Finally, my husband, extended family and the store manager arrive. Thankfully, I'm not really hurt. I am stunned, however. What I just experienced seems surreal. Why didn't people listen to how I needed help?
Later that night, just before falling asleep, I remember a recent television interview with renowned educator and author, Parker Palmer. Palmer has spoken extensively about his personal experience with clinical depression. In addition to professional help, what was most helpful for him was "sharing." He didn't mean the unhelpful sharing people often extend: "Let me tell you a similar bad experience I had or that of someone I know."
By sharing, Parker means that the other person is not afraid to share our journey with us -- no quick fixes or saves -- but to be fully present, to really see us, ride it out with us, to be quietly and profoundly helpful, to really listen and not push our way onto another.
This type of help allows us to show our need without shame.
Like Palmer, I know I found my true independence through my disability. I know I'm dependent, independent and interdependent. We all are.
Susan Odgers, a resident of Traverse City for the past 21 years, has used a wheelchair for 32 years. She is a faculty member at Northwestern Michigan College and Grand Valley State University. She can be reached via the Record-Eagle, 120 W. Front St., Traverse City MI 49684.
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