I love my powerchair, it’s scratched and squeaky, muddy but magic. I’ve dripped pasta sauce all over it and bled on it. I’ve tangled the wool from my crafts under it and had to call for help when a duvet cover got jammed in the wheels. I’ve drunk cocktails in it, danced in it and carted home heavy bags from the supermarket in it. It lets me live my life and do what I want. Someone described it as my independence but it’s more than that, it’s a part of my body.
This chair has taken me on over 1700 miles of shopping, appointments, memories, struggles and life in general in the 18 months I’ve had it. But lately it feels as though people are forgetting about me, that I’m Emma and more than the wheels that move me.
(I originally wrote this at a blogging workshop about telling your story. The exercise was to take a photo of you or part of you and then write a short piece/caption)