It’s taken over a year to conceive, organize, and plan, but yesterday, I was able to leave the house on my own.
I even checked that I had my house keys on me as, in theory, I could now also get in on my own.
This is not strictly true: I would be coming back from work, where I can’t take my power chair. The club I work at is in a basement, and there’s nowhere to store such a behemoth that wouldn’t break every fire regulation.
I also do not have the physical power to get up the incline of the drive on my own, but I had a cunning plan. My regular taxi driver, Simon, would be happy to push me up to the front door when we returned.
The drive won’t be completely finished for a few days, and there’s still the final meeting to sort out any remaining snags on the whole job. (We renovated the house both inside and out.)
Now, I have a wet room downstairs that is wheelchair accessible. I had one before that was completely inaccessible for a wheelchair. I could get to it with massive help but had absolutely no chance of using it on my own.
This whole process has taken a long time. I thought that by now I would be able to nip out on my own and do such normal things as buy a pint of milk!
Actually, we’re still in the European Union, so if I go out on my own for milk this week, the smallest container I can come back with will be a half liter.
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