The Tough Go Shopping

by Dean Kramer
April, 2006

You have people coming for dinner. You’re making a dish you are so familiar with that you could concoct it blindfolded. But, OOPS, you forgot to buy an onion at the grocery store. You can’t substitute onion powder. You can’t forego the onion. You have to go get one.

One of the quintessential privileges of being an American is that you can hop into your car at any hour of the day or night, pop into a store, and purchase almost anything you require. Or, in a devolution of the frontier mentality, you can go just to see what they have.

I have secondary/progressive MS. I cannot hop or pop anywhere. And suppose I need more than an onion?

On a good day a while back I could hobble to the car using a cane and clinging to landscaping features as I went. I can still do that, but the walk from the accessible parking space to the store has become more than I can do with a cane.

I have a heavy Danish walker with wheels. Though it folds, it does not do so gracefully. As a result, it is always inconveniently taking up space where I don’t need it and is almost never accessible when I do. I can walk very slowly to the car with it provided my poorly coordinated feet don’t get caught by the large, swiveling wheels. When that happens I fall like an Argentine calf tangled by bolos. Folded, the walker is cumbersome and difficult to lift into the car. The detachable basket is, quite frankly, a pain in the butt since it doesn’t hold enough for shopping, at least not American shopping, but is too large to be tucked away discreetly anywhere except, perhaps, in a Danish fjord.

I have a lightweight manual wheelchair that I dearly love. It is well balanced and comfortable. I can easily lift it into and out of the car. I can store it in the car. I could stagger to the car, park in an accessible space, unload the chair, roll into the store, and discover that you cannot push a manual wheelchair and a shopping cart unless you have four arms. I have tried.

I have tried pushing the cart with my feet while pushing myself with my arms. As far as other shoppers are concerned I have been both entertaining and threatening. I have tried holding one of the store’s small baskets on my lap, filling it, racing to the service desk to drop it off, grabbing another basket, filling it, racing to the service desk, etc. etc. Yes, shopping is an important American pastime. But it is not yet a sporting event. Besides, if I had the energy and strength to shop that way who would believe I have MS?

I could park my manual chair and lock it with a bicycle lock. Then I could use the store’s convenient electric scooters. But many stores don’t have them. And many of the stores that do have them are also places I’d prefer not to have to shop. And several times I have had store’s scooters dysfunction while I was, fortunately, close enough to the corral to saddle up another, but one day there was a man stuck in the frozen foods aisle with no one to help him. I offered to put him up behind me but he didn’t want to abandon his treasure. “That’s okay,” he said, “you ride on ahead. I’m old, and I’ve had a good run.” He glanced fondly down at his basket full of groceries. “If I don’t make it out, well, at least I’ll die with a full belly.” I never saw him again.

For a while I had a small scooter of my own. The dealer who sold it to me touted its convenience. If you had the strength of a pipe fitter and the manual dexterity of a neurosurgeon, it was easily disassembled and stored in the trunk of a car, provided you drove a crown Vic. I had a convenient lift installed to make it possible for me to independently exercise my right as an American. But the lift had its own importunate requirements. Part of it had to be assembled for use, then disassembled and stored. You had to park on a flat surface. No one could park behind you. The nylon lift belts had to be watched carefully for wear and tear caused by the inevitable twisting and snagging.

And you couldn’t take your car to an automatic car wash because the permanent lift deck on your bumper would snag the washer’s brushes. So, the car had to be washed by hand. Whenever you see the word “convenient” appended to an ad for a product for the disabled, be afraid. Be very afraid.

It began to look as if my shopping days (at least non-virtual ones) were through. I felt an unaccustomed reluctance to just go see what they have. And when shopping was absolutely necessary I did it with discipline, but joylessly. I’d lost my groove.

Recently, though, all those difficulties have receded in the rearview mirror of my driving and shopping life. Technology has begun keeping up with the discerning demands of an aging population. I’m so grateful to be a cripple as the Boomers start to age! There are newly designed, truly lightweight scooters out there. Dubbed “travel scooters,” they are relatively inexpensive (and insurance-reimbursable if you’re lucky that way). I did some research and got me one.

My new scooter breaks down into 4 well-balanced pieces that weigh, approximately, the same amount. That approximate weight is 24 lbs. There are no wires to disconnect. Plug and Play has arrived for the disabled. Each piece has a handle to make lifting easy. The battery pack can be brought into the house for off-board charging without bringing the entire scooter into the house.

I am once again eager to go out. I am excited to be going anywhere, even to get an onion. I am actively seeking places to go and reasons to go there. But, hey, it’s my right as an American! I don’t need a reason. I can go just to see what they have.

[Lightweight travel scooters are available from Spinife www.spinlife.com, Sportaid www.sportaid.com or any number of online dealers. You can also find them, more expensively, at your local durable medical equipment dealer.]