It was the kind of irritating intrusion into a wheelchair user’s life that I constantly tell myself to just let pass without a thought. But I couldn’t. Why did I say “I’m just a human being”? Because, in a split second, I thought the guy saw me as less than a human being, or maybe a lesser human being, incapable of trimming a low hedge all by himself on a Sunday afternoon. I hated him for seeing a wheelchair or maybe an old man in a wheelchair and assuming I needed assistance, and hated myself for being so defensive and belligerent. And therein lies the problem.
This kind of interaction happens to all of us often. Someone stops to offer their help even though you are not struggling or wincing or lying on the ground with a bloody nose. I could be rolling up a small hill and a driver will stop in the middle of the street to ask if I need anything. All that is required is that I’m out in public doing something other than sitting in a corner, smiling.
It’s not death but aggravation by a thousand cuts. I always respond like it’s an attack on my self-worth. Is my self-worth so shaky that any such intrusion sets me off in a snit? How did the other person feel? Not good, I’m guessing. Was I misreading a friendly gesture? The whole thing, at least for me, is a confusing exchange of subliminal messages.
Maybe I should train my furtive mind to react in the exact opposite way. “Yes, you can help, thanks for asking. Just take these shears and create a perfectly trimmed surface like you would see on any hedge in Beverly Hills. I have other hedges…”