In the Hapless Wheelchair: Talk To Me When You're Talking To Me!

It was a recent HBO limited series called The Newsroom. Starring Jeff Daniels as Will McAvoy, a cantankerous insomniac and often narcissistic news anchor, he became involved in a scuffle with the producer (Thomas Sadowski) who calls Will a scumbag (not exactly his words--worse even), but the producer addressed Charlie Skinner (Sam Waterston), the news director, instead of Will, and Charlie said, "Talk to him when you're talking to him."


You got all that? It's very important that you do because of the next part of my story. If not, re-read.

So this is what happened yesterday, but it's sort of the same story that happens every time since I had the stroke. Sitting in the wheelchair doesn't help, but for long trips like Walmart or the supermarket, it's a necessity. A man or woman addresses my Personal Assistant, who travels with me because I am disabled and cannot drive. But this crystal clear-thinking woman--me--is ignored. Somehow, I become invisible, a ghost, or I am addressed in the third party.

The woman in Kohl's says, "What is it she's looking for?"

The man in Dollar Tree says, "Does she want red or blue?"

The teenager at the check-out window in Dunkin' Donuts says, "Should I make her tea iced or hot?"

"Hello," I said to myself silently. "I'm right here."

Ultimately, I got tired of the ghost role and this is how I empowered myself to do something. Big time.

I was in the Department of Motor Vehicles to inquire about the status of my identification card, aka my non-driver driver's license, which never arrived in the mail. We went up to the window and, because I was sitting in the wheelchair, my PA, who was eye level with the representative, asked about its whereabouts. The line behind us was extensive.

"I don't know. Let me check. Do you know when she applied?" asked the man.

"Three weeks ago," my PA said.

"Oh. Here it is. There was some quirk in the system and it wasn't sent out. Let me try again. Here's an Oregon certificate of residency [which I didn't have anymore] that should help her out if she's needing it. But she shouldn't. You're her driver, aren't you? And she's not going out of the country," he chuckled.

That was it. The crushing chuckle, bordering on guffaw. With the seemingly endless line in back of us, and with the wheelchair locked, I stood up straight at my full 5', 5", tired of being a ghost any longer. I turned a bit to broadcast the message.

"As a matter of fact, I am going out of the country," I lied and shouted with unabashed glee. "I'm the Goodwill Ambassador for Russian Diplomatic Affairs, appointed by the president himself. I'm leaving Friday," I said, taking the first country that came in my mind a la Trump and the title I made up as I went along, leaving the first 10 people behind me looking with a newfound admiration.

I added, "And by the way, talk to me when you're talking to me."

I sat down in the still-locked wheelchair, looking serious as ever. She unlocked my brakes and we turned and left. I was proud of my exuberant bullshit, even prouder that I advocated for myself. I willing to say that man learned a lesson. But then again, maybe not. Either way, I was overjoyed at my newfound readiness for extemporaneous speech which I didn't have ever after my stroke.