There’s nothing left on earth that’s more evocative of my dad than his wheelchair. I always had a complicated relationship with my dad, and now I have a complicated relationship with that chair.
He spent years fine tuning it to his needs. The cushion on a stalk that supported the back of his head was raised and tilted. The angle between the seat back and the flat part of the seat was increased until he didn’t feel like he’d tumble forward out of the chair, but not so far that he felt like he’d tumble backward out of the world. The armrest that held the joystick and control panel was positioned at just the right height so that when he reached out, his stiffened hands touched the controls, and he could move himself through the first floor of the house. He went through several seat cushions and experiments in foam toppers before he found the one least likely to give him sores from sitting all day and all night in the chair.
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