Blood, Boobs, and Bruises
Winter is coming, and if you know anything about me, you know I despise winter with the fiery passion of a thousand suns—I am not the only one, I know because snow is a major complaint for a lot of people in wheelchairs. One thing that always helped me survive the icy misery was soaking in a nice, hot bath.
Back in the day, the bathroom on our main floor was strictly business: sink, toilet, and not a hint of tub luxury. My dad, eventually transformed it into a fully accessible paradise with a roll-under sink, roll-in shower, and enough upgrades to make HGTV jealous. But back then? My only option for a bath was the upstairs bathroom.
This meant my dad often had to carry me up the stairs. And let me tell you, hauling a buck-eighty kid who’s his height is no small feat, even for a heavy-duty mechanic used to lugging around tools and engines. On other days, I’d park my chair at the bottom of the stairs, dramatically throw myself onto the floor, and crawl my way up. Once I reached the tub, I’d somehow Houdini my way into it. Glamorous, I know.
It’s been years since I’ve had a bath, and while I do love my morning showers, they just don’t hit the same—especially in the winter. A hot tub would be the next best thing, but sadly, that’s not in the cards at home.
This past weekend, I decided to treat myself. My PA, Shae, took me to the Johnson Bentley Memorial Aquatic Centre to bask in the glorious heat of their hot tub. Luckily, they’ve got a ceiling track with a lift in the changing room and a generously sized stall for people with disabilities. Shae got me mostly ready for hot tub bliss—“mostly” being the keyword here. My pants were only halfway removed, though my swim shorts were secured in place. Shae confessed later that he considered changing into his swim shorts in the stall with me but thought I might be uncomfortable. I laughed and said, “Dude, I’m blind. What am I going to do, whip around and ask, ‘What the hell are you doing?’”
Then came the pool wheelchair: a marvel of engineering, if you like puzzles missing half their pieces. This one was without a seatbelt and the right armrest. Still, it had both footrests and a left armrest, so I chalked it up as a win. Every visit to the pool brings a different Frankenstein’s monster of a chair, so this was above average.
As I waited for Shae to return,sitting in the seatbelt-les chair with my pants around my ankles, I had a small cough. No big deal, right? Wrong. That tiny cough sent me tipping ever so slowly—because of course, falls always happen in slow motion—straight out of the chair. I had just enough time to think, “Where is Shae?” and “Well, this isn’t going to end well,” and finally “Damnit! No more hot tub today” before gravity won.
By the time Shae came back, I was already making out with the floor. Romantic, right? He lifted me up to find that my face was doing a decent impression of a horror movie blood bath. The commotion drew the lifeguards, who cradled me in their arms while holding an ice pack to my face. Despite the blood and the dramatic rescue, I was feeling pretty good—aside from the obvious facial trauma.
Once Shae realized I was fine, he did what any loyal PA would do: whipped out my phone for a photo. He even reassured the lifeguards, saying, “I know this looks bad, but trust me, he’ll love this later.” Unbeknownst to me, the cutie lifeguard photobombed us with a tongue-out pose, fully embracing the Roll With The Punches attitude. Bonus: As she held me her boob pushed into my shoulder blade, and I knew instantly what it was. There’s no mistaking that uncomparable softness of a titty. I know, I know, I’m such a dude.
The lifeguards called an ambulance, which felt like overkill, but hey, liability is a liability. The paramedics used the lift to transfer me to the stretcher, and off we went to Kelowna General Hospital.
Diagnosing a concussion was tricky because, well, my speech isn’t exactly perfect to start with, and being blind, my eyes don’t play the “follow the light” game. Shout-out to Dr. Williams, who made sure I was headache-free and gave me the all-clear. Shae, ever the charmer, informed me later that Dr. Williams looked like Ryan Reynolds, albeit on a bad hair day. Ladies, you’re welcome. My trustie PA, however failed to get photographic proof for you ladies, sorry about that.
So here I am, the day after, rocking some bruises and a couple of battle scars. Thankfully, my teeth—my best feature, thank you very much—are still perfectly intact. The hot tub adventure may have ended in disaster, but at least it was memorable.
