My Life as a Roach

This afternoon, as I attempted to transfer from wheelchair to bed, my feet slid back an inch or two and I toppled slowly forward onto the bed.

That would be no big deal for a healthy person, who could either stop the fall or push himself up afterwards. But it’s a lot trickier when your arms don’t work.

I remained prone for a while – mulling, pondering, considering, weighing, plotting. Then I began wriggling and thrashing, trying various things, all with one crucial goal: staying off the floor. Once I’m fully down, even Dan can barely get me up.

After a seeming eternity, I managed to wedge my toes under the wheelchair and maneuver my ass into an acceptable position on the bed. (People sometimes ask how I occupy my time. Now you know.)

As I lay there catching my breath, an image appeared in my head: that of a cockroach on its back, kicking in frantic futility, its only hope a serendipitous puff of wind. I was stuck on my front, granted, and would have required a tornado to flip me over, but the parallel seems apt nonetheless.