Hi!
I’ve just been away in Noosa (QLD) and Shell Harbour (NSW) so apologies for my lack of blogging…a rest for your eyes and a chance to catch up on my previous blogging I guess!
A few of you have heard about my ’shoestrings project’ (the photography exhibition)…please note that a website dedicated to this event will be up and running shortly. Until then, if you need any information about this project you just email us at shoestringsorg@hotmail.com.
Em x
I was heading to Noosa and knew that despite the hot weather, I would return to
Melbourne tan-less. My solution- an impulsive self application of fake tan. It was a harmless, cheap, with a 24 hr guarantee that I would be transformed to a bronzed beauty. Result – 24 hrs later my tired body peeled itself from the once white sheets, leaving an orange body imprint. My joints, particularly my ankles and knees, looked hilariously wrong! Oops. I’d seen a new physio prior to my departure and after giving a long medical history he queried “Emma, when you had your op, did you experience pigmental skin changes?” I explained my self application of tan, revealing white finger prints where I’d missed parts.
Packing has always been a last minute thing f
or me. In the past, it was basically emptying my summer wardrobe into as few suitcases and sandwiching them ‘til they zipped up. This time it was different. One small case. No heels. A huge mound of clothes. Stressed. Where was I going to start? Trying to be independent, I’d refused many a generous offer to help. I took a breath. Near tears, my breath became shaky at the end – if I let too much air out, tears would follow. I didn’t have time to cry. There was no one present to cry for. Instead, I held my tears hostage. By 6am I had to pack and get my tired pale body to Brisbane.
Satisfied, I stood on my driveway, frame piled high with luggage. Still dark- I waited. All I could hear is birds and the tram. No cab yet. I’d beat many lazy, sleeping people. I was up but was in desperate need of my beauty sleep. Despite cleaning my teeth, my taste buds still had the taste of sleep. I waited, cold. Freezing. To unpack a jumper from my case or inside would be too hard.
5:44 am taxi driver beeps as if I’m late. Now driving, neither of us look at the road- me texting and him randomly flipping through the Melways. Thank goodness it’s too early for cars to be on the road. We circle. He is already lost- great! He speaks in a foreign language on his mobile. I wonder what he is saying? Maybe ‘…that he is taking a disabled girl to Avalon Airport!’ or ‘…he’s lost’? We pass the Nylex sign in the city. It reads 6:09am- too fluorescent for this time of morning. In contrast, we drive into the underground tunnel – my tired eyes like the dark. I hate this tunnel. Safe, we exit the darkness, entering the blinding glare. The sun seems to make the odor of ‘new cars’ plus servo-coffee stronger. I normally ask how many hours they’ve been driving for. I don’t ask. I don’t want to know. Coffee was enough to know my driver was sleep-needy! I lean forward, subconsciously helping the car as it attempts to over take a passing huge truck. The truck wins.
On approaching the blue and white airport sign stuck to a bridge ahead, I realize that closer up it’s actually no airport sign but the symbol of a crossing knife and fork – a silly sign for a picnic spot! ‘We’re lost, I’m sure of it!’ It’s a long drive. After passing paddocks and sheep, the dirt road is soon signed by huge advertisements of tropical destinations. I’m flying to Brisbane to see my Speech Therapist, seeing these temptations made me consider squashing in a Fijian’s suitcase. The trip cost $108.00. Having a ½ price taxi card entitled me to a discounted fare of $54.00 – a new top. However the cab driver’s machine was broken. Subsequently, my credit card number was sketched with a borrowed pen on a scrap piece of paper. Dodgy! I paid the full fare. I was at Avalon airport and the relief outweighed the cost.
It was my first and LAST flight with Jetstar. My bellie felt sick- hungry sick. Excitement and anxiety all milkshaked in one. I hate flying! Airp
ort staff from any airline – would be the most demeaning people I’ve encountered. Flying with a ‘disability’ has its advantages and disadvantages. I guess it’s like flying with a child. Yes, disadvantages- I’ve been offered coloring books, had a box of crispy cream donuts fall on my head from the over head luggage, and have been left in the walkway connecting the plane to the lounge waiting area, under a dripping air conditioner vent!
At check-in, instead of queuing in a maze-like zig-zag fashion, I go directly to the counter. They lift your luggage onto the conveyor belt for you. My ID is never required, as being ‘disabled’ here is enough proof that I’m not a terrorist! I’m then asked to make my way to the ‘disabled area’ at the far right corner of the lounge. I feel like an odd sock. I sit and wait. I could easily miss my flight.
I’m asked if I can walk through the black arch, as if I’m being lazy and just in the wheel chair for fun! I wonder if the metal clips in my head will cause the machine to beep. Maybe the surgeon left scissors or a knife inside my head? My mind races.
My wheel chair is then wheeled onto a rubber mat. A female is then asked to run the backs of her hands over me, incase I’m hiding explosive – the disabled image is merely a fascade – I wish! I’m asked “… to hold my arms out like an aeroplane”. While this is done, my hand luggage is photographed – surely my belongings and I have had enough snap shots to make us naked to everyone. Now Avalon-exposed, the man returns awkwardly clutching my bag as if it’s dangerous. Apparently the image reveals scissors. I remove them from my face machine – to add to the ‘potential lethal possession’ stash. A black device is waved over me ritually – my boots beep. How embarrassing. My face stays white, ‘I’m used to this’. I’m asked to take them off. Are they serious? Yep.
Although I was able to negotiate the stairs with the lateral supports of the hand rails, the Jetstar staff were adamant to make my preference for ‘special assistance’ mean I required 100% assistance. So Instead, I was wheeled into what felt like a cherry picker made of egg cartons, and manually pushed and wound up to the planes entrance. Strapped in by a piece of cloth, I felt far from safe. The clunk signifying we’d reached the top.
The ‘safety instructions’ although I’ve heard them many times before are “different for every aircraft”, so pretending to read the in flight magazine, my double vision enabled one set of my eyes to be focused on the staff member wearing the demo seatbelt and bright yellow vest, coiling the oxygen mask tube ready to drop it from the ceiling, trying to simulate what would happen in an emergency. I’m sure if the plane did crash, the strip of floor lights wouldn’t light up and the passengers would become hysterical, rushing for “nearest exit”. “Special assistance” also meant that I heard this twice each time. The hostess’ bright lipstick would reiterate everything and state that a staff member would assist me in the event of a crash. Do I need to translate for them? They should just be honest and say outright that they’ll leave me to crash and selfishly jump from the plane.
Everyone hates aeroplane food. My first flight being ‘disabled’ meant that I was upgraded to business class. My new sensation deficit meant that the ‘burning hot’ towels given to me with metal tongs, may as well have been freezing cold! Unable to eat, my mum had brought thickener to add to my drink – baby formula. My third flight I really enjoyed the non pureed meal. Even the plastic veggies tasted great. This flight I could use the plastic knife and metal fork. Progress!
I thought after landing at Brisbane airport I’d feel relieved. But I still had the trip down in the lift to go. I had to wait until all passengers had left the aircraft and the cleaners had entered to clear any evidence of the previous flight. The staff, bags in hand, look at their watches impatiently. A shift now complete.
I waited in the wind on the run way. Hot air. Bright orange vested staff member to lead us to safety. It was as if the vest gave us all an extra life. Too loud to talk. Ear plugs couldn’t block the noise of the slowing propeller fighting the hot thick Brisbane air.
The man in the wheelchair waiting with me was late for work. Although able to self propel himself inside, he was instructed by the staff to wait for a member to go with him. Anyone who had watched us land through those windows in the lounge would’ve laughed- two wheelchair people sitting wind swept on tar strip in front of a huge plane.
Now to pick up my luggage. A large conveyor belt of luggage is in front of me. I was looking for a green bag, my frame and small black case. Green case. Big black case. Stoller. Black case. Red bad. Red case. Black case with green ribbon. Smart person. Wishing I’d had of tied a bright ribbon to differentiate mine from the other passengers. Out of the way, I had to point out my luggage and my helper would grab it. Fearing that I would take home someone else’s luggage or my helper would be collected by the conveyor belt. Initially there had been a few odd cases, now all gaps had been filled making the probability of a miss a lot higher. Like those duck shooting game I played at the Melbourne Show- a stuffed toy or a luggage item won.
Close family and friends are used to my shuffling furniture around me. Moving the table closer to me is now habitual. However, whilst staying at my best friend’s rellies, this casual routine caused puzzled stares, my inward drag of the entire table left individuals meal-less
or with a different meal. I sat, table snug with now two empty places to my left and right – leaving the end three people holding their utensils with no meal or table. Who needs a lazy susan? It was musical meals, only that I was guaranteed a meal.
REMOVING FAKE TAN:
The pink grapefruit fake tan remover was w
orth a try. I was unable to disguise my winter look. I closed the bathroom door. I faced the bath, the high bath. I sat on my frame and put on the mauve exfoliating gloves. My left hand hated the rough texture. The instructions should’ve read ‘Do NOT use if you experience extreme sensitivity!’ I surrended. My $16.95 had been a waste. I exited the room, My three friends greeted me expecting a orange transformation. I explained my ‘phantom’ appearance, now red and scarred from my failed attempt to return to my normal colour.
Markets. Hundreds of sweaty people. Each stall selling similar nik naks to overflow buyers choka-a-block cupboards. Poka-dots of shade, my turtle pace guaranteed that my pasty skin would be burnt red by the end of the shopping spree. The ‘keep to your left’ rule didn’t apply here – a human stampede in all directions. My cupboards stayed empty as I was concentrating too much on dodging parents guiding their balloon-walking kids and people watching their full plastic cups from one of the lemonade stalls. Here, you became easily caught in a rip of people and then dumped each time you stopped at a stall
or pushed in an opposite direction. Overwhelmed and tired after three hours of this, we left. I felt sun stroked.
In my face, a proud dad captures a relaxed mother twirling their daughter in the water. On my right a lady leads a lycra covered toddler precariously around the pools edge. “Don’t run!” another mother warns her child, noticing their cantering pace. Splash! A lady dives into the pool towards her handstanding partner. Since my op, I’d watched stunned, model figures diving into pools advertising romantic get away spots. I sat there, unable to dive, film, handstand
or twirl.
Lying on my white banana lounge, listening to my ipod, with a book. Normally I would follow the sun and sunbake. Now I was tracking the shade. Fearing the once warm light would now just elicit a pain response or a rash, I shielded any signs of rays with the towel that now covered my colourless body.
HASTINGS STREET:
Walking on my frame down Hastings St was no longer cool. The shop assistants were used to their heeled, bronzed, partnered millionaires, so when my friends were ignorantly asked ‘can your friend manage those stairs?’ referring to me, I was speechless. Did I look that bad? Frustrated, I answered promptly ‘for me’, but seemed to dig myself deeper with each remark. Exiting the shop, head down….I gave up. My friends said it was merely the shop keeper’s ignorance. I’d agreed. However, whether ignorant or sheer rudeness, her attitude would deter any disabled person from shopping. I felt beaten.
I tried to zip my frame and me into the crowd. I longed to hibernate in my room. However, a juggler had decided to ‘show off’ his good co-ordination and balancing skills to a sea of people right in front of the lift that would allow me to disappear. Abracadabra!
