My daughter Syona?s school bus pulled up in front of our house late afternoon. The driver deployed the lift, unlatched Syona?s wheelchair, and pushed my daughter to me. As the bus pulled away, I opened the back door to our minivan and turned Syona?s wheelchair to face the open van. Then I climbed into the van and took my seat on the floor, so we could face each other to have a snack. It was December in our north-Toronto suburb, and it was cold?not an ideal time for a picnic in the garage. But there was a good reason we were not hurrying inside?I could no longer lift my daughter out of her chair by myself.
I worried that Syona would get cold, which would make her muscles ache. I felt guilty she was not in our living room already, stretching out her limbs. But I reminded myself that this situation was only temporary?hopefully just the occasional hour, for the last two trimesters of my pregnancy, when none of our friends or family members were available to help out. Having borderline placenta previa and a history of early labour, I had been told my pregnancy was high-risk and that I must not lift my daughter and her equipment. Syona has cerebral palsy, meaning the signals her brain sends to her muscles are misunderstood, causing tightness and spasticity. She uses either a wheelchair or a walker to get around and needs adults?strong adults?to lift her for transfers between these pieces of equipment, when she wants to move around our home and tackle stairs.
I’d anticipated...