"Would you like any help?"
The store assistant asked for the second time as I rounded the corner in my wheelchair, idly browsing the snack aisle. Instantly, my stress levels rose, and I shot back sarcastically: "No, thank you, and I didn't need any help the last time you asked either." I instantly regretted my tone as he moved away quickly, red-faced and chastised.
This is not like me — I never used to be like this. I was one of those people who never asked for help and would always avoid eye contact. It's not that I was unsociable, I just didn't ever initiate social encounters. I was happy in my own little world. I hated making a fuss. But that was me then; a lot has happened since.
That was before Covid, lockdown and the debilitating symptoms that left me in a wheelchair and where I have been ever since out of my home. I used to be able to step outside when I wanted to go out; now, I have to plan and choose which mobility aid to use, often begging my wife to go with me. Basically, I had to make a fuss, and I hated it.
Of all the ways in which my life had changed since then, my dependence on other people was the biggest issue I was coming to terms with. For such a private person, being vulnerable wasn't in my nature, and now I had to be vulnerable in front of complete strangers. Asking for help to reach things, getting stuck in doorways, and having a cognitive meltdown whilst trying to pay for some deodorant were just a few recent examples where I was pleased that somebody had stepped in to help.
I am a walking contradiction. I get annoyed when I struggle and nobody comes to help me, and I also get annoyed by people asking me if they can help.
Underneath it all, I don't want to be the kind of person that needs help.
There, I have said it.
I mourned my old life when I had the energy to think about these things and when I could walk freely and not worry about my brain melting down. I don't want to look at someone and make light of it, saying, 'Sorry, it's my COVID brain' as they look at me with forced sympathy. I don't want to embarrass my teenage children or depend on my wife to go to the shop for a pint of milk.
*deep breath*
In my better days, I can see that there are people a whole lot worse off than me and that I am lucky to be able to write this, have a roof over my head, and go places. I can see people panic as I flounder with my stick, worrying about whether they should intervene at the risk of offending me. I really do get it. I am feeling sorry for myself, which won't get me anywhere.
As I checked out my items in the self-checkout area of the aforementioned store, one of the items would not scan. I tried twisting and turning my bag of crisps, but no matter what I did, the stupid machine refused to register my barcode. To make matters worse, the low-level, disability-friendly kiosk was also equipped for people who are hard of hearing, so it bellowed out across the store;
'ASSISTANCE NEEDED!'
A big red light flashed urgently above me. I winced, knowing what was coming. Sure enough, the red-faced shop assistant came round the corner again and paused when he noticed it was me, unsure of what I would do or say. At once, I became utterly convicted of my grumpiness. I apologised profusely and told him I was having a bad day. He smiled, looking relieved, walked up, and scanned the item easily in one move as I sat by, open-mouthed.
As he walked away without judgment, I realised that, for whatever reason, there were things that I could not do anymore and that there were people who loved to do things for others. If I needed an enormous red light above my head and a voice shouting across the shop to make me realise that, then so be it.