In The Bleak Midwinter, Frosty Gimps May Roll

Well here we are at the final entry of the year. With Christmas just around the corner, the streets are lit up with decorations and supermarkets are desperately trying to bring every potential customer to tears with their diabetes inducing 'Spirit of Christmas' commercials. So I thought I'd do my bit and make an attempt at a festive post to put everyone in the holiday mood. But after spending several days pondering what part of Christmas I could awkwardly crowbar a disability angle into, I was forced to admit defeat and will instead fall back onto that most British of conversation topics and something which has been even more prominent over the last week or so than Santa's impending arrival: The weather!

I'd like to begin by saying that, for a country whose weather throughout the year can more often than not be described as 'bleak', we don't seem overly prepared for it when it arrives and it really doesn't take a lot to send people into blind panic. Within the next couple of months we can look forward to witnessing the entire country grind to a halt as the customary quarter inch of snow dusts the streets. And currently half the country seems to either be underwater or in ruins following the onslaught of Storm Desmond! I'll be honest with you, it's not the most menacing of names, but I presume those are specially reserved for hurricanes, earthquakes and locust plagues. I wasn't even aware storms warranted being anthropomorphised. Before long the Met Office will be warning people to stay indoors lest they run the risk of getting their hair ruffled by Strong Breeze Rupert! But I digress...

I wanted to use this post to talk about the varied effects the weather can have on people with disabilities. However I've just realised that I spent the entire last paragraph mocking people for not being able to cope with a bit of harsh weather but am now, rather sheepishly, going to talk about how perilous that same weather can be for people such as myself. I therefore apologise for the glaring irony and double standards. I know, it's all 'me me me'!

The truth is though that the weather can quite often be one of the biggest issues in a disabled person's plans. I drove up to Edinburgh for a couple of days last week to do some shopping on Princes Street, look round the Christmas market etc. The day I arrived seemed to coincide with the start of Scottish monsoon season and it wasn't long before I was sat in a squishy puddle where my cushion once was, my sodden jeans gripping to me like a wrestler's leotard, as my swollen gloves squelched against the black rubber pushrims either side of me. And these pushrims, so grippy when dry, suddenly become bars of soap in your hands as soon as the rain hits, leaving you cold, wet and moving with all the grace and coordination of Bambi on ice! If only there were some way of staying dry whilst retaining one's dignity...

Gimp In A Bag - The must have Christmas accessory!

The second day in Edinburgh was almost completely rain free and after having wrung out and dried my jeans overnight, I was ready to hit the shops again, but as I soon found out, the wind was ready to hit me harder! In all honesty though, I don't have much of a problem with the wind. I mean sure, it can slow me down (or speed me up depending on its direction), turn me into a human wind sock if I forget to do my jacket up, or try to amputate my leg by slamming the car door on it as I'm trying to assemble my chair, but I'll take that over rain any day. Anything is preferable to rain, that is except...

...Snow and Ice: the bane of the disabled!

Yes, cover the paths and pavements in a few inches of the white stuff and wheelchair users quickly become prisoners in their own homes, especially if, like me, the car park is located a hundred metres from your front door! Of course we've attempted the journey, us wheelers aren't cowards you know, and for a few victorious seconds it can almost seem as though we're making progress, take that Mother Nature! Alas, with the next push you feel the wheels spin forwards whilst you however, remain rooted to the spot. You try again and again, with the same result, until you find you've carved yourself a neat, little wheelchair treadmill where you can spend hours in the same spot, pushing at various speeds from the comfort of your own street! Ice can be just as tricky and even more devious, the invisible assassin! At least when it snows you can see the danger and prepare for it. When there's ice on the paths, half the time you don't even realise it until you find yourself questioning why, instead of going forwards in the direction you're pushing, you are in fact sliding sideways towards a particularly univiting-looking bush! And every transfer in and out of the car becomes a life or death struggle, as your chair takes on a mind of its own and mid-transfer decides to glide a couple of feet in any given direction, as you desperately try to rein it in whilst flailing mid-air! Yes, if you wish to venture out safely in the snow and ice, there really is only one solution:

To Waitrose Jeeves and step on it!

So in conclusion, I'm not saying that as soon as the temperature drops into single figures I lock the doors and stare longingly out of the window until the first blossom of spring emerges, but I certainly wouldn't complain if the government saw fit to introduce a scheme whereby all wheelchair users were airlifted to warmer climates for the winter months...but not too warm mind you, some of us can't sweat to cool ourselves down! I know, there's just no pleasing some people.

Right, that's me done. You'll be distraught relieved to hear that I shall return in the new year, about six kilos heavier and loaded with more rambling tales of obscurity. In the meantime, enjoy the holidays: eat, drink, be merry! And in the event of a snowfall, if you see a person in a wheelchair struggling, before offering to help, why not follow the example of my friend and get your phone out for a quick picture! You never know, it could make for a cracking, politically incorrect Christmas card next year:

Laughing Photographer: Charlotte. Freezing Model: Gareth.

 G

The I In Team

Sport is something that is enjoyed by billions of people across the world, whether it be playing, coaching or simply watching. Sport is about more than just keeping fit and the desire to win; it brings people together from all walks of life; it unites them regardless of ethnicity, gender, religious belief or sexual orientation. Put two golf fans from completely different backgrounds in a room together, stick the Ryder Cup on television and a few hours later they will emerge as best friends. Stick two rival football fans in a room during a derby match and a few hours later they probably wouldn't emerge at all, but that's beside the point! The recent Rugby World Cup saw fans of opposing teams congregate together: drinking, singing, laughing and bonding. On the pitch were players from opposing teams, each desperate to beat the other, but at the same time holding complete respect and admiration for their fellow athlete. And of course there was the famous Christmas Truce of World War I that saw enemy soldiers on both sides of the trenches put down their guns and engage in a friendly game of football in no mans land. Last Sunday I returned from Leicester where our team had taken part in the opening wheelchair rugby league weekend of the season, so I thought now was as good a time as any to talk about disability sport and the profound effect it can have on an individual.

I've briefly spoken about disability sport before, in particular wheelchair rugby, something I've been mastering (in much the same way a turkey masters flying!) for the past decade. It's something that I tried out at the Spinal Games whilst still in hospital and began playing as soon as I was discharged. I was drawn to it because you get to smash into people and tip them out of their chairs it is a team orientated sport with a strong physical aspect, the only full contact wheelchair sport, specifically designed for people who have a disability in all four limbs. As a quadriplegic who had previously enjoyed playing football and rugby at school, along with the occasional manly wrestle at university (I was frustrated and single okay, don't judge me!), wheelchair rugby, formerly known as murderball, sounded right up my street! And I've said it before, so I'll say it again: it was one of the best decisions I've made since the injury...

...unlike this hairstyle!

 It's by no means just wheelchair rugby that's out there either. There are dozens upon dozens of sports and activities on offer to people of varying levels of disability, from basketball to boccia, visually impaired football to powerchair football, table tennis to er...tennis tennis! And the number is just going up. Next year at the Rio Paralympics nearly 4,500 athletes from around the world will compete in 22 unique sports. At home in the UK, disability sports clubs are sprouting up all over the place and there really is something for everyone, no matter your level of disability, thanks to the numerous companies that provide sporting adaptions and aids (looking at you Active Hands). Yet there are still those who suffer debilitating injuries, who come out of hospital and then simply go home, unsure of the next step, their lives on permanent pause. There is no doubt in my mind that if I hadn't taken up sport post injury, I wouldn't have acquired the mental and physical strength required to live an independent life, and I cannot adequately verbalise the significance of this.

Yet as important as it is to find an activity that gives you muscle fitness, lung fitness and exercise goals to aim for, the physical benefits aren't even the most significant aspect, at least not to me. Imagine the shock at suffering a spinal injury: a large part of your body is no longer willing to do what you tell it, your legs won't move, you can't feel your feet, you're unsure of even when you need to go to the bathroom, and this is just the tip of the iceberg! You will have questions that you don't feel like your pre-injury friends and family would be able to help you with, and you will likely experience problems or incidents that you would feel embarrassed talking to them about. Well this is where the friends and connections you make through sporting activities come in. The vast majority of them will have had the same queries or suffered similar embarrassments to you and so you feel at ease to open up and discuss these things, often in horrendous detail, but almost always ending up in fits of laughter as you take turns recounting the horrors you've seen and experienced, each trying to one-up the other. And then everything feels okay. What may have initially felt like a cataclysmic event that had left you praying for the ground to swallow you up, was now a trivial source of laughter because you were surrounded by people who'd gone through it all before and you no longer felt alone or ashamed. And it is this sense of camaraderie that is the most important thing I have got out of sport since the injury.

Without the people I have met through sport, in particular my wheelchair rugby teammates, I wouldn't have the confidence I do now, I wouldn't have the independence and ability I do now, I certainly wouldn't have the emotional strength and mental willpower I do now, and I wouldn't have travelled anywhere near as much as I have during my time in a chair; whether it be for rugby tournaments around the UK and abroad, gigs, music festivals or other social events. In fact even as I type, tickets are being bought and flights and accommodation are being booked to watch the Paralympics in Rio next year, because lord knows, I'm not going to get there off the back of my ability on a rugby court!

And before I start getting accused of going all sentimental and coming across overly saccharine whilst painting a nauseating an idyllic picture of a bunch of guys who are 100% supportive and emotionally in tune with one another, I should point out that the vast majority of our interactions involve mercilessly ripping the piss out of each other to such an extent that in any other circumstance, we would be under investigation by social services! And don't even get me started on tipping each other out of our chairs...

Hitting the deck in 3...2...1...

Man down!

 So that, in a rather bloated nutshell, is why sport has been so important to me post injury and why I implore people of all abilities and disabilities: Give sport a go. Even if you don't think it's for you. Take a deep breath and jump into the action. You never know, it might end up surprising you and you might end up surprising yourself!

G

The Hope Slope

It's been a relatively slow few weeks since summer officially packed its bags and did a runner, taking with it the festivals, the trips across the UK and abroad, as well as any form of enticement to get out of bed early on a morning. Sure, I've started back working at college again and I'm still doing the weekly cinema, pub quiz, night out, gym and rugby training stuff, but that's all fairly routine by now and I like to branch out every now and then and do something that keeps me on my toes...poor choice of phrasing! On Wednesday I'm getting the steroid injection that I hope will sort my shoulder problem out and a couple of weeks after that the wheelchair rugby season kicks tips off and I hope we win all our games. Speaking of which, I hope you all tuned-in to ITV4 at 5pm during the week to watch live coverage of the World Wheelchair Rugby Challenge tournament from London, where sadly GB emulated their able-bodied English compatriots and went out at the group stage! I repeatedly used the word 'hope' right now because I don't know for sure that these things will happen but I'd certainly like it if they did.

Hope is almost unanimously seen as a positive thing, the desire for something accompanied by the belief that it could genuinely happen. "I hope I win the lottery", "I hope I pass my exams", "I hope no embarrassing pictures of me from last night end up on Facebook!" And as the tagline from The Shawshank Redemption states, 'Fear can hold you prisoner. Hope can set you free.' But is this always the case?

There's no denying that suffering a spinal injury is an unpleasant affair. It is a life-changing moment, and as you are lying in a hospital bed, more or less unable to move, a million thoughts frantically colliding inside your head, it is difficult to see how anything good could ever come of it. I remember bursting into tears on my first night on the rehab ward as all my fellow inmates chanted "FRESH FISH! FRESH FISH!" in unison...wait...sorry, still thinking about The Shawshank Redemption, what a film! No, the reason I burst into tears was because I was now completely off my hallucinogenic pain meds, allowing the reality of what had happened and the extent of my injury to finally sink in. And at that moment, as far as I was concerned, I had destroyed my life and nothing was ever going to be good again. Because if you can't walk and have full control of your body then what's the point right?! And that's when I began to hope, for the holy grail of spinal injuries: The Cure.

Few realise that the original title of their 1992 hit was in fact, Friday I'm Incompletely Paralysed!

I think every spinally injured person, especially at the beginning when all feels lost, will have at least entertained the thought of, "What if they develop a cure?" It certainly doesn't seem outside the realms of possibility, especially when friends and family excitedly bombard you with newspaper cuttings, magazine articles and webpages all declaring that the cure for paralysis is at hand! Before the accident, I didn't exactly home-in on articles to do with paralysis so I couldn't say whether it's always been like this, but it seems that barely a week has gone by in the last decade where there hasn't been a 'breakthrough' in the hunt for a cure for spinal injuries! Whether it be via stem cells, electrical wiring, electrical stimulation, ancient Chinese remedies, spine transplant, or even head transplant (?!), it feels as though we are never more than a few years away from cracking it.

I'm sure there's a fitting metaphor here somewhere...

During the initial months after injury, I don't think there's anything wrong with buying into these stories and daring to dream. In fact, I think it can be a healthy coping method, telling yourself that this is all just temporary, so soldier on and you'll be back on your feet as soon as scientists have perfected their formula. Whilst in rehab I swore to myself that I would never accept the injury and I left hospital in that same mindframe. This 'broken existence' was not going to be my life, it had to be fixable.

But then something inside me changed.

It didn't happen suddenly, I didn't go to sleep in one mindframe and wake up in another. More, it was something that came about gradually, over time and without me noticing. The feelings of anger, denial and hatred towards my situation, coupled with the desperate hopes for a miracle that had been a permanent fixture in my thoughts for months, began to dissipate. This continued until one day I realised that, despite my initial protestations to the contrary and without my knowledge, I had come to terms with what had happened. I was okay with it. I had unwittingly crafted a wholly enjoyable life, full of opportunities, with friends and family I tolerated loved.

And that is pretty much how I've felt every day since. Of course, I get days where I don't feel great about myself but then everyone has those, regardless of circumstance. Now my main source of regret is that I didn't embrace the possibilities that come with spinal injury sooner: the travelling, the multitude of disability sports available, the ease of rolling down to the pub on a Saturday afternoon followed several hours later by the blurry, uphill slog home!

But I doubt any of this would have happened if I'd continued to get carried away with the media buzz and paused my life as I clung onto the hope of walking again. As far as spinal injuries are concerned, I don't think there's anything more dangerous or more damaging than refusing to accept what has happened and instead becoming fixated on reversing the effects. It will consume you and it will end up stopping you from having the life you wanted far more than the injury itself ever would have. Fear can indeed hold you prisoner, but then sometimes so can hope. I'm not, by any means, saying hope is a terrible thing and should be completely abandoned! Hope can be (and more often than not is) a fantastic thing but you should never allow it to put blinkers on you and stop you from seeing all the potential that life has to offer.

My mum, to this day, still brings articles round about the latest developments, and I'll politely skim through them and pass comment, "I see the Daily Mail believes the cure lies in draining the blood of asylum seekers!" I'm sure that one day in the not too distant future, spinal cord damage will be reversable, and that will be an incredible breakthrough for the newly injured. However, after over a decade of being more or less permanently sat on my arse, throwing myself on/off and in/out of various things, as well as regularly catheterising and irrigating myself (the less detail I go into with these the better, trust me!), the mere thought of suddenly regaining full sensation is enough to send a shiver down my spine!

G

To Ask or Not To Ask, That is The Question...

Recently I've noticed a fair few articles have popped up online that have all been along the lines of, "What Not To Say To/Ask Someone In A Wheelchair" and has then laid out a list of verbal taboos when conversing with a gimp (Taboo No.1: Don't refer to them as a gimp!) So I dutifully read through and processed these lists, coming to the conclusion that, on the one hand, I can understand how certain topics of conversation or actions during conversation may upset or offend certain people (disabled or otherwise), but on the other hand, able-bodied people shouldn't have to feel on edge and be constantly wary of what they're saying around someone with a disability. And part of me can't help but think that reading multiple articles where you are told, "you must make eye contact at all times" and "whatever you do, don't mention their disability" are going to make people terrified of even starting a conversation with a disabled person lest they offend them and be branded a wascally wheelchair wacist by judgemental onlookers (who, for purely alliterative purposes, all talk like Elmer Fudd)! Personally, I've always been terrible at making eye contact when talking to strangers, but this has nothing to do them and everything to do with me being a somewhat socially awkward soul. And as far as not mentioning their disability or ailment goes, I'm of the firm belief that if you've gotten off on the wrong foot with someone then try and lighten the mood by throwing in a bit of humour. Hell, what's the worst that could happen?!

Joking aside, I can honestly say that, in all the years I've been in a wheelchair, I can't think of a single instance where someone has offended me with anything they've said or asked. Don't get me wrong, there are certain things that I won't *ahem* stand for, and if someone were to grab the back of my chair and start pushing me without my permission then they're liable to lose some fingers. But as far as conversation topics are concerned, anything goes really. Certain topics and questions come up on a fairly regular basis, but every now and then a curve ball is thrown in to spice things up! Children are especially entertaining to chat to, as without hesitation, they will ask the first thing that comes into their heads, often as adults look on in embarrassed horror!

So with that in mind I thought I'd create a list of my favourite insert number when finished twelve questions/utterances that have been directed towards me during my time in a chair. For the full, immersive experience, click 'Play' on the video below before continuing:

1) Do you mind if I ask/Can I ask you something?

By far the most common thing I hear when talking to someone for the first time, and it's always building up to the same follow-up question. So instead of having them wait for my permission to awkwardly ask with a sympathetic look, the inevitable "how did you end up in a wheelchair?", I now cut-out the middle man completely and just say, "car crash". Cue the other person staring in amazement, as if I'd made a deal with the devil, sacrificing leg movement for telepathy. (I totally did!)

2) What's wrong with your legs?

If the first question was the most common thing I get asked by adults, then this question is the most common thing I get asked specifically by children. What follows is me trying to explain the complex intricacies of the human spinal cord, what happens if you damage part of it and how, in fact there is nothing wrong with my legs at all, as the child nods in bemused bewilderment!

 3) How do you go to the toilet?

I was asked this a few years ago by a primary school boy and it's still the only time I've ever been asked it but it stuck in my head as I thought it was a fairly profound question. As far as that child was concerned, all guys pee standing up, but if you can't stand up then how the hell do you go?! Obviously I couldn't answer it without immediately getting hauled off by social services to sign a certain register but kudos for the astute enquiry wee man!

4) Do you sleep in your chair?

That all depends on how much I've had to drink!

5) Can you still drive? How does that work?

Pretty common questions among both children and adults which, if I'm in the car at the time, will result in me giving a little demo, revving the engine with the push/pull hand control lever, and if I'm not in the car, will result in me explaining how it works whilst poorly miming the actions!


6) Are you actually disabled then?

I got asked this corker a couple of months ago by someone in the pub, so I told them, "not really no, I'm only in this for the parking spot". You could argue that alcohol played a factor in this question, but seeing as this took place around lunchtime, it must've been one hell of an early start!

7) How fast does that thing go?

The wheelchair equivolent of pointing at someone's legs and asking, "so how fast do they go?"

8) Driving and texting, you could lose your licence! (Whilst pushing and using a mobile)

9) So who looks after you during the day?

A guy randomly asked me this stonker a few weeks ago and if it hadn't been early morning (I am not a morning person!) I probably would have burst out laughing! Instead I fell back on sarcasm and replied that, "surprisingly I manage to look after myself!" I wasn't particularly upset or annoyed, more amused at the assumption being made. The London Paralympic legacy was obviously lost on him!

10) Can you, you know, have sex?

I'm usually asked this question under hushed breath, the other person leaning in whilst gesturing downwards, as if being in a wheelchair so long had made me lose track of where my penis had got to! Yes, people in wheelchairs can have sex, although *flicks through Kama Sutra* the er...Lustful Leg and Suspended Scissors are probably out of the question!


11) Besides your wheelchair, what's the one piece of kit that you couldn't be without? 

Oh the number of times I've been asked this, and yet my answer always remains the same: "Why the multi-purpose Active Hands gripping aids of course!" *nod nod wink wink*

And finally...

12) I really admire you and/or I couldn't do what you do.

Ah this old chestnut. In truth, it's not something you really think about before it happens, "how would I cope if I was in a wheelchair?" But regardless of whether you think you'd be totally fine with it or whether you think you'd be immediately booking a one-way ticket to Switzerland, the reality is that the human body and mind have an amazing survival instinct and you will naturally, often without realising it, adapt to and overcome whatever obstacles life throws at you, no matter how insummountable they may seem from the outside. So don't admire me for living, admire me for being a snazzy dresser with razor sharp wit!

G

Shouldering The Pain

Quick anecdote before I get going today: A few days ago my computer died. Well, not so much died as coughed and spluttered before repeatedly going into cardiac arrest, which I believe in technical terms is referred to as crashing. So I bit the bullet and formatted the hard drive so I could reinstall Windows which resulted in me losing years' worth of porn everything I hadn't already backed up. But it would all be worth it in order to stop the constant computer meltdowns and subsequent spike in my blood pressure. And sure enough, after hours of rebooting and reinstalling through the night, it roared back into life and stayed that way for a good couple of hours before crashing again! Expletives were uttered. So now I find myself nervously tapping away at the keys whilst glancing up at the screen every few seconds and frantically hitting 'Save' at the end of every sentence, wondering when the next blue screen of death will strike! And as far as fixing the computer goes, apparently the next step involves removing cables and parts, in which case it'll be on with the trusty, general purpose Active Hands Grip and out with the tools! And if it still doesn't work after all that, my patience will have well and truly run out, and there will be only one thing for it: (Warning: Music accompanying video is NSFW).

 

Anyway, moving on. I've been in a chair now for a little over 10 years and in all that time I've never really had any issues with bodily wear and tear. Sure, I've suffered through the occasional pressure mark, UTI and dreaded stomach bug, and my waist could definitely do with being a couple of inches slimmer, but my body has held itself together remarkably well, all things considered. Until recently that is, when the first (possibly overdue) crack in the armour appeared in the form of a shooting pain in my left shoulder.

At first I thought nothing of it, that I must have just tweaked a muscle or trapped a nerve during wheelchair rugby training. But after it not only persisted for weeks, but also worsened, I decided to make an appointment with a specialist at the hospital. And after an x-ray, an ultrasound and some complimentary NHS poking and jabbing I was told that I had weakened my rotator cuff and had some fluid trapped in a bursar up there which was the cause of the pain I was feeling. I was put on a waiting list for an anti-inflammatory injection, given some gentle exercises to help strengthen the area and told to rest my shoulder as much as possible. And therein lies the issue...

If I'd been told this BC (before crippling) then it would've been a simple case of laying off the football, badminton and any other arm-related exercises (minds out of the gutter!) for a few weeks whilst it healed. But being spinally injured, especially at an independent, quadriplegic level, means that you rely on your shoulders and use them more than any other part of your body, so resting them completely isn't really an option. Your legs are made for constant use and weight bearing, hence the thickness of the bones and size of the muscles, your arms and shoulders are not (this is about as anatomically in-depth as I get). The basic actions and movements required to get out of bed, get washed and get dressed on a morning are enough to put your shoulders under some serious strain, and that's before you even start pushing your chair about and transferring in and out of vehicles! The only thing you can do, bar shipping in carers, a hoist and an electric wheelchair, is cut back on any sporting activities you do and hope that's enough.

So I took a few weeks off training, only going on the gym handbike once or twice a week at a low level of resistance, and did my daily shoulder exercises. I don't know if this weakened rotator cuff is completely fixable or whether the exercises and injections are simply going to be quick fixes and this is something I'm now stuck with. I guess only time will tell. My real fear is that this is the start of gradual deterioration in my shoulder which will eventually lead to loss of strength and ability. As someone who went from lying in a hospital bed, relying on people to wash, dress and feed him, to someone who lives almost completely independently (I never have and probably never will be able to get to grips with ironing clothes!), I think my biggest fear would be going back to being dependent on others, and I'm sure I can't be the only one who feels like this. I'm aware that eventually I probably will lose some strength and ability, and I may need to accept more help at that point, as many able-bodied people do as they advance in years. But I'm hoping I can delay that as long as possible, at least until my hair has started greying, a substantial number of wrinkles have formed and a couple of marbles have rolled out of the bag!

I do think that whatever happens though, it's important to remain positive throughout. I would like to think that with a strategically placed injection or two, coupled with continued exercises, my shoulder will be pain free and back to full working order in a month or so. But if the worst comes to the worst and it continues to deteriorate, well I'll just have to adapt to the situation. Hell, it's not like I (and countless others) haven't adapted to a heck of a lot worse! If you've suffered a spinal cord or similarly life changing injury, battled through the hard times and come out stronger on the other side, then you can pretty much handle anything life has to throw at you.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to pop some ibuprofen, get the side of this computer off and start poking around with terrified confusion akin to a binman carrying out open heart surgery!

G

The Accommodation Conundrum

So it's been a good few weeks since my last post, certainly a longer gap than I would have liked (though possibly not as long a gap as some of you reading may have preferred)! But it's been an unusually hectic month that's seen me shoot down to London, up to Glasgow, back down to London, across to Spain and next week back up to Glasgow, using a variety of planes, trains and automobiles (though sadly without the company of a lovable shower-curtain-ring salesman with a heart of gold). In fact, over the course of the last month, I've doubtless spent more time aimlessly roaming cities whilst living out of a suitcase in a random hotel room than I have in my own flat, in the process becoming a wheelchair nomad, a disabled vagrant...the cripplest hobo!

I now however find myself in the enviable position of being back home with a few days to spare before my next trip away (I can almost hear Lenny Henry softly beckoning my name to the Premier Inn reception desk...), so I thought I'd take advantage of this free time and update people on what the devil I've been up to. It's more interesting than it sounds...I hope swear!

The main reason I've been shooting up and down to London is that I got offered a place on a television sport production course which would mean me moving to the Big Smoke and working full time for a year at a production company. It took me by complete surprise as although I'd knowingly applied and interviewed for the place, I was fairly certain I didn't stand a spack in hells chance of actually getting on it! And as soon as I found out I had a place on the course, my usual blasé, happy-go-lucky attitude was replaced by one of equal parts dizzy excitement, blind panic and abject terror, as I realised I had a matter of weeks to upend my entire life and shift it down south! Not only that, but I would have to find accommodation in London within 6-8 weeks and give up my flat in the north which had taken me 16-18 months to find. And therein lay the issue...

Finding reasonably priced accommodation in London is no mean feat in itself, but finding reasonably priced, wheelchair accessible accommodation in London with a built-in wet room that is vacant and ready to be moved into is the housing equivalent of winning the Lotto and Euro Millions jackpots in the same week! The other problem was that I was already in a property up here that met my needs and requirements and so my applications for accessible housing weren't deemed as urgent and I was plonked bottom of the list. And I can fully appreciate why this was, as I wouldn't have been best pleased had I been in desperate need of accessible accommodation and had lost out on an ideal property because some guy needed it for a job. Nevertheless, it was still somewhat frustrating and once again highlights the enormously broad spectrum that is disability/accessibility, ie. an accessible property for one person's disability needs could be completely inaccessible for another person's. I remember one housing association worker helpfully advising me to move down there first and then put myself on the list, and another telling me that once I was on the list I could sit back, relax and look forward to moving into my new property within 7-10 years. Fabulous!

Alas, it was not to be, and my dream of becoming an all-powerful television mogul has had to be put on hold for now. I could rant about the north/south divide and how there just aren't the opportunities up here that there are down there. I could rant about how wet rooms should be standard in all housing association and council properties, and what an utter nightmare it is to find truly wheelchair accessible accommodation. I could rant about how it's gone 1pm and the guy who bought my TV off eBay was supposed to pick it up at 12pm. However I'd rather just be proud of at least making it as far as I did, no matter how raw the disappointment may feel currently. And besides, I can always save up the rants for a slow news day!

"But Gareth, tell us why you were in Spain?!" I can hear absolutely no one you all asking. Well, for the third year in a succession, I was at FIB, a music festival (not a Thunderbirds/Men in Black mash-up) on the east coast of Spain, in the town of Benicàssim.

Before the accident I had been to a couple of British festivals and had had the time of my life. One neck break later however and the idea of navigating fields in a wheelchair whilst likely intoxicated was somewhat less appealing. Plus, if it rains (and this is the UK so who are we kidding) then the Glastonbury Formula dictates that: field + people + rain = bog. And then your chair quickly becomes an immovable object and it's game over unless you happen to have your own man-horse:

"Hodor!"

In contrast, FIB is almost entirely on tarmac, meaning that you can glide with ease from stage to bar to stage, ensuring that on the very rare occasion it does rain, the ground doesn't become instant quicksand. You won't even need to bring your own Hodor! On top of that you've got guaranteed glorious weather, beaches and promenades to wander down and a great mix of British/American/Spanish bands. In fact, the sun is so powerful during the day that the bands don't start until around 6pm, and then run until around 6am. I cannot recommend it highly enough, especially if you're a wheelchair user looking for an accessible festival. I do have a small confession to make however *takes a deep breath and looks down at the floor*: I am a glamper. That's right, I stay in a hotel with air conditioning, a bed, a shower and a pool, a true festival fraud! However in my defence, this is almost entirely due to the intensity of the Spanish heat, coupled with a week of hangovers and my inability to sweat below the neck: a potent combination that would likely result in my being found on the last morning, melted in a pool on the canvas of my tent!

Another successful year of camping at FIB!

 And that's pretty much that. I'm hoping it's been a healthy balance of informative and amusing, and not just nine paragraphs of droning piffle. But then I've never been the best judge of my own abilities: at school I used to think I could become a professional goalkeeper and maybe even one day represent England. I was 5'8" at the time of injury, I think I may actually be taller sitting down!

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Wheeling On A Jet Plane

As anyone who has read slogged through my previous posts will have noticed, I have a tendency to get carried away, go off on tangents and waffle on to my hearts content. This results in every entry being the length of your average War and Peace chapter, and I'm not entirely sure that's what people are looking for when they sit down to read a blog, especially not one as dubiously written as this! I'm aiming to write a snappy, light-hearted and entertaining take on life with a spinal injury as opposed to a huge tome of the trials and tribulations I endure every day, this is not Game of Thrones. True story: I am a massive fan of ancient history and fantasy, so Game of Thrones, or GoT as nerds in the know would say, is pretty much my idea of a perfect show. However, I had to stop watching it, as seeing virtually all of my favourite characters die whilst the villainous ones largely got off scot free was leaving me emotionally scarred! Anyway, with all that in mind, I am going to try my damnedest to make this entry shorter and thus hopefully more accessible, although spending the middle section of the opening paragraph talking about a TV show with dwarfs and dragons is probably not the the most succinct way of beginning!

Last weekend I had the pleasure of flying to Amsterdam and back on a plane (or metal dragon if I wanted to desperately try and tie it in with my opening paragraph)! And this meant going through the delightful process of airport check-in and airplane boarding, wheelchair style! In truth, I can't fully recall what it was like to do all this before I was in a chair, so many aspects may be more or less identical. But hell, I've started so I'll damn well finish!

The first thing you need to be aware of is when they suggest you arrive at the airport two hours before your flight so all the necessaries can be carried out, this is the bare minimum you need to give. Granted I was traveling in a herd and we all had rugby chairs with us but, good grief, there is a lot of umming and erring when it comes to getting a group of gimps off the ground! Do we have a Mr Dave Isabled here? Is this your sports chair? Do the wheels come off? Does the backrest fold down? How much does it weigh? What's in that bag? If Jimmy sets off from home at 8:20am and drives at an average of 40mph, at what time will he reach work, 16 miles away? Why are you crying? Just a few examples of questions you can expect upon arrival (though sometimes Jimmy is replaced with Selam to show gender and ethnic diversity, this is the 21st century after all)! If you are smart enough to pass these tests then all your cases and equipment will get tagged, even the chair you're sitting in, so you get to spend the rest of the time in the airport rolling around like an escaped piece of luggage!

After this comes the pat down. Due to the fact that pretty much all wheelchairs contain some form of metal, there is no way in hell you are going to make it through the metal detector without setting the alarms off. This means that you have about as much chance of getting through airport security untouched as a gentleman of Arabic descent on September 11th. So you get politely taken aside and legally fondled by a security guard, much to the amusement of any able bodied folk you may be traveling with! This normally consists of a quick brush over of your torso, arms and legs, followed by a scan with something that resembles (and could well be) a toilet brush. This last time however, the guard went slightly higher up my leg than I was expecting and made contact with my own personal WMD, though it was cleared as being of no real danger to anyone. *Weeps silently*. Oh and if you happen to be catheterised and leg-bagged, have fun explaining all that to them!

So after a good couple of hours shooting around looking for the right check-in desk, the oversized baggage area, the correct boarding gate and most importantly the toilet (good luck if you need to go mid-flight), all the while thrusting your passport and boarding pass at every member of airport staff you come across, you are finally ready to board the aircraft. And that means surrendering your dignity and transferring onto...The Aisle Chair!

*Note: The Ferrari red version above is only available when traveling Virgin business class

Once on this part wheelchair/part wheelbarrow hybrid, men in luminous vests securely pin you down with straps and you are instructed to fold your arms across your chest, make peace with your god and above all pray that the rest of the passengers aren't on board to witness this. You are then tipped onto the back casters, pulled backwards onto the aircraft and down the aisle to your seat like one of the FBI's recently apprehended, most wanted criminals. After this however, the rest should be more or less 'plane sailing' *boom boom*.

"Our in-flight meal today is liver served with fava beans and a nice chianti."

So there, in a nutshell, are some of the things you can look forward to when winging it in a wheelchair! And despite all the palaver, it is completely worth it when you end up in another country, 300 miles away, in less than an hour! Just keep your fingers crossed that none of your vital medical gear or Active Hands products (don't travel without them folks!) get lost in transit, but that's a whole other story...

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With Great Sponsorship, Comes Great Advertising!

I know in the last post I started off by complaining about my Monday night insomnia, but nothing will make you appreciate your own bed more than spending 10 solid nights in several of the nation's finest 0.5 star Travelodges. Fancy sleeping in a bed the width of a lap tray, with a sandpaper-like undersheet? You got it! It's a catchy enough slogan and would fit in nicely with Premier Inn's 'Everything's premier but the hotel!' Harking back to the Travelodge anorexic bed widths though, as a disabled guy who uses the bed to get dressed on, the act of rolling from side to side whilst pulling ones trousers up becomes a matter of life or death. Roll slightly too far either side and you could topple over the edge, plummeting a gargantuan two feet to the ground and making half-naked body contact with the sticky, stained, swamp that is the Travelodge carpet. And trust me, there is no amount of showering that will get that dirt off! Speaking of showering, one of the Travelodges was equipped with the smallest shower seat I have ever seen, it really was quite impressive, especially when you think that someone must have designed this, looked at it and thought, "Yes, I can see an average disabled adult who doesn't possess the balancing skills of a tightrope walker being able to perch on this with ease!" God knows what would've happened if a larger person/average American had attempted it, a 24 Hours in A&E special most likely! And so it came to be that for three consecutive mornings I would have my danger-wash, teetering on the brink of disaster, one buttock on one buttock off, washing myself with one hand and holding on for dear life to whatever shower fitting I could grasp with the other, knowing that the next spasm I had could be my last! Okay, so I maybe wouldn't have died if I'd fallen off it, but I would most likely have had to pull the emergency cord and summon the hotel rescue team to scoop me, butt naked and wringing wet, off the floor and onto the sandpaper bed, which I think we can all agree wouldn't be the most dignified way to start the day!

I really shouldn't complain though, as I had a very enjoyable time in London and then Glasgow, with the Travelodges only really being used as a wash and sleep stop. And besides, if I really wanted to complain about something (and it would seem that I do!), then I'd just have to bring up the potholed minefield that is Glasgow's roads and pavements. Good luck navigating those in a chair! 

On the plus side however, I surprised even myself when down in London, by being able to navigate my way from one part of the city to another using a combination of buses, trains and tubes, all without a single screw up. This may not seem like an overly impressive feat, but bear in mind that I hadn't been to London since I was a child and my sense of direction is so bad that I practically need a satnav to find my way around the flat I live in! It has to be said though, as a wheelchaired chap, the London buses were fairly epic. When one pulls up, you signal to the driver that you want to get on and he waves you towards the back of the bus where the secondary entrance/exit is. They then push a button and a ramp slides out from the doorway to the pavement, and you roll straight on! Granted I think I've only used a bus on one other occasion since the accident so this ingenious invention may be more widespread than just London, but even so: Mind. Blown. And did I mention that in London, buses are free for wheelchair users?? Is this common practice throughout the UK?! I've lived a sheltered life if so! And as far as spaccessibility on The Underground goes, I'm going to make a sweeping generalisation here and say that, as long as you stick to the Jubilee Line you should more often than not be fine. Any other line however and you're on your own!

The London Underground pocket map, for when you've grown bored of cracking the enigma code

Right, I've once again wandered off track and got lost in my own waffling. As I said at the end of my last post, I want to spend a bit of time talking about Active Hands, how they link to this blog and what made me start writing a blog in the first place, and like a Hercule Poirot case, you'll soon see that all the events link together...

Pretty much ever since the injury, people have been saying I should start a blog. Not masses of people (my ego isn't that big), just a few people every now and then, doubtless tired of me ranting at them about whatever's on my mind that day and desperately seeking a way of helping me channel my nonsensical ramblings elsewhere. It always sounded pretty appealing, but I always seemed to find a reason not to, whether it be I felt too busy at that time, I wasn't sure how to get started, or I just plain didn't think anyone would want to read what I had to say (jury's still out on that)! I did, for a time, do some wee film reviews on Facebook, films being one of my main interests. I called it The Crip Review, and I'd rate the film I'd just seen from 1-5 Wheelchairs (cos, you know, I'm disabled, what else am I going to rate it in, stars?! Pah!). I did quite enjoy doing that and it gave me an outlet for some of my creativity in a way but in the end I think I felt a bit silly/arrogant, bombarding people on Facebook with my personal film reviews. And I think it's safe to say that Mark Kermode wasn't feeling overly threatened by me!

So yeah, I did my little film reviews and continued making excuses when anyone mentioned blogging, up until this year that is. That's when I got an email from a guy I used to play wheelchair rugby with and who now represents GB in track racing, Rob Smith. As well as competing all over the world in track, Rob is also the founder of Active Hands, a gripping aids company that pretty much every quadriplegic in the UK will have heard of and purchased from at some point. Rob was interested in me doing a blog about my life, the things I get up to (within reason!) and how the Active Hands aids that I own contribute to my independence and general well-being. He was under the, hopefully not mistaken, impression that this may be something that would prove of interest to Active Hands followers on Facebook and Twitter, and this also meant I'd be getting sponsored (ie. paid) to do it. Well suddenly the idea of writing a blog became infinitely more appealing and I began feverishly looking into sites to host it, like the shamefully money-driven whore that I am!

In all honesty though, if you're going to get sponsored to write a blog, far better to be sponsored by a company whose aim it is to help people, than by one whose sole purpose is to extract money from your wallet. And that's what Active Hands is...the good one, not the evil, corporate America one! So, if you haven't already then go, check out the Active Hands website, watch the gym workout video, and see the kind of products they make and the benefits they offer people like myself!

Yes, I'm aware that was a shameless bit of advertising and product placement there, but as my Uncle Ben always used to tell me, 'With great sponsorship, comes great advertising'. And there will of course be more nods and nudges in the direction of Active Hands in future posts, but you have my word that this will only ever be done whilst I'm dressed to the nines in my finest pimping gear: White suit, fedora, diamond earring, gold dollar sign chain, bling rings, stogie clenched between my teeth. The works!

This finally concludes my trilogy of background, scene setting posts and brings us about up to date with where I am currently in my life. I will likely delve back into the past if I feel it's relevant to what I'm writing about at the time, or if I just fancy dragging you on a merry trip down memory lane. But I hope to remain more grounded in the present for at least the next few posts, providing of course that there are enough interesting occurrences for me to blog about. I don't think anyone wants to hear me regale my daily shower and skin care routine...right? I mean, I could, you know, if people wanted. Wheelchair washing with Gareth, you gotta admit, it's catchy! Guys? Hello...??

Dammit.

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The Last 10 Years...

Ah how I love my Monday night insomnia. Every Monday night I get into bed and every Monday I find myself lying awake in the early hours of Tuesday, which doesn't even make sense! It's not that I have a problem falling asleep, in fact it's the complete opposite. As soon as I'm lying vertically with my head on a pillow, my body begins going into 'Power Saver' mode, something that: a) Makes it more or less impossible to watch anything in bed, and b) Means that, if by some small miracle, I have a girl with me, I really do only have a finite amount of time to 'entertain' her (or at the very least trick her into staying)! So yeah, as soon as I'm in bed, it's lights out, and pretty much every night I'll more or less sleep through, with the occasional adjustment of position if my legs start getting sore or my arm goes dead. But not on a Monday night. On that special weeknight I'll go to bed around 10:30pm and can be pretty much guaranteed to wake up somewhere between 1am and 4am. Then I'll just lie there like a tortoise on its back, a multitude of different thoughts bouncing around in my head, and I'll grow more and more frustrated at my state of consciousness which in turn makes me feel more and more awake. And more often than not, this is how I'll remain until my alarm goes off at 6:30am and it's time to get up. Of course, by lunchtime that day I'll be a drained wreck, a wheelchair zombie, the rolling dead. My eyes will start feeling heavy and my body will tell me to find a nice, quiet spot to curl up in and hibernate. But it's too late by then, I'm at school and I don't think the children would appreciate discovering one of the teaching assistants (albeit a voluntary one) asleep in the cloakroom, atop a pile of their coats! And in a roundabout sort of way, that leads me onto what I had initially planned on posting about this time. Namely, what I've been doing AD (After Disability) and what made me start writing a blog...

The initial couple of years after swapping legs for wheels were definitely transition years, I needed time to process what had happened and how best to move forward with my life. And the first step, if you'll excuse the ironic choice of wordage, was to find a place of my own. I'd had to move back home after being discharged from hospital, and as much as I love my parents, they rather thoughtlessly hadn't considered, when purchasing their house some 25 years previously, that their (at that time unborn and unconceived) son may one day lose the use of his legs and thus require a downstairs bathroom, shame on them! So, after a year of daily bed baths and bed bowels (which are as unpleasant as they sound) I decided it was time to fly the nest...again, and after 6 months of form filling and house hunting, I moved into the ground floor flat, complete with wet room, that I currently still inhabit some 8 years later.

Another important push in the right direction was getting an adapted car I could drive. Losing the use of my legs definitely made it feel as though it was now going to be harder for me to get out and go places, plus the lack of strength in my arms and grip in my hands meant I was finding it tiring to push long distances. But when I got a car, it felt as though I had regained some of the freedom I thought lost. I was now able to jump, well...slide, into the driver's seat, disassemble my chair, put it next to me, and then I could essentially go anywhere I wanted which was a massive deal after having spent the best part of a year needing to rely on other people's schedules to fit me in. The hand controls certainly took a while to get used to however (for all those that don't know, it's basically a lever to the right of the steering wheel that you pull towards you to accelerate and push away from you to brake). There was a period of a good couple of weeks where I was jolting forwards when accelerating and then practically headbutting the steering wheel due to every instance of braking becoming an emergency stop! It was reminiscent of when I started to learn to drive using my legs really, not knowing how much pressure to put on the pedals and ending up lurching forwards 2 metres at a time as my mother looked to the heavens in silent prayer from the passenger seat. Motability didn't just throw a car at me and wave me on my merry way though I should probably point out. I had to do an assessment at a disability driving centre in Newcastle first, home to some of the more disorganised and patience testing people I've met since the injury. They seemed breathtakingly unprepared for a quadriplegic, firstly expecting me to just hop out of my chair and onto, what was basically, a stool, and then, once in a test car, finding they didn't have a steering grip that would fit the wheel properly, resulting in it coming loose from the wheel and losing control at regular intervals like something out of a Carry On film! They assessed me and told me I'd need a car that was part-Transformer, part-KITT, with a computer console from which I could operate lights, indicators, ignition etc, and a robot arm to grab my chair and then drag it into the boot! Oh and best of all was when they told me I'd need a harness seat-belt which would be really cool because it would, "make you feel like a racing driver"! It was so patronising I half expected them to pat me on the head and feed me a sugar cube for being good and not dribbling on the upholstery! Fortunately they can only advise you as to what adaptations you should have, so I was free to thank them for their advice, ignore it completely and get a car with a push/pull lever, a steering aid (one that fit this time), and nothing else!

During the transition period I had also begun to play wheelchair rugby. Did I mention this in my previous post? *Quickly scans* Bloody goldfish-like memory, I can see this becoming more of an issue the more I post. Anyway, my involvement in wheelchair rugby came about after a couple of members of the local club, the North East Bulls, visited me in hospital and essentially press-ganged me into playing! And it is probably the best 'forced' decision I have made post paralysis. It's a sport that is exclusively played by those with disability in all 4 limbs, be it through illness, injury or birth defect. Can we still say 'birth defect' or have the P.C. police ruled that out and changed it to something cosier like 'birth difference' or 'birth uniqueness'? Anyway, I'll doubtless talk about that more in future posts (wheelchair rugby as opposed to birth defects!), so for now let's just say that I've been playing for the North East Bulls for nearly 10 years, it keeps me fit, gives me opportunities to travel, and is something I really enjoy, even though lord knows I have no idea what I'm doing! Also, up until *checks watch* 12 hours ago, I was in charge of our Facebook page. However, one too many expletive-peppered, tongue-in-cheek swipes at various people and aspects of the game have landed me in hot water with GBWR (Great Britain Wheelchair Rugby duh!) and I fear that my trouble-making, hell-blazing period may now be over. And don't worry guys, the only C-bomb I'll be dropping here is the occasional 'cripple', this is strictly PG-13 shiz for the kidz aight *swivels cap to sideways angle*! 

Okay, once again I've become tangled in my own waffling and gone on way longer than I had planned, so let's hit the fast forward button! In the years following my injury I managed to finish my degree and graduate with a BA Hons in English Literature, having used extremely temperamental software to 'speak-type' a 15,000 word dissertation on Blake and Wordsworth, a harrowing process that I would not wish upon anyone! If I could offer one piece of advice to people with disabilities who are looking to return to education, it would be this: If at all possible, for the love of god, type don't speak, your sanity will thank you! The human race has done some truly amazing things throughout history, creating computer software that accurately types what you say, sadly is not one of them!

Following that, I began volunteering at a nearby primary school, firstly as a reader and then as a teaching assistant, having gone back to college and done the necessary courses, sans speak-type software this time! Fast forward to present day and you'll find me living an alarmingly busy life: I've been volunteering at the primary school for over 7 years now, I've been working as a teaching assistant at a college for the last 2 years and have this year begun to work for an awesome, disability-related company called Active Hands, who specialise in creating gripping aids for those with limited to no finger movement, and even those with no fingers at all. And I'm going to talk more about them, their products and the connection they have to this blog in my next entry, as I feel I've doubtless exhausted any poor soul still reading by this point! Apologies for not getting onto what has made me start writing a blog, but it'll all tie-in next time I promise...there's method behind the madness, and then more madness behind that!

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