Edinburgh Marathon

This is what we need to do to get Benedict Ambrose to Mass or the cancer hospital.

First B.A. gets out of his wheelchair and, holding onto the railings on either side, wills his feet down the stairs outside our door. His feet don't necessarily do what he wants, so I watch from our small landing. When he gets to the bottom, he hangs onto the rail and waits for me. I fold the chair in half and take it down the stairs. Then I go back upstairs for the cushion, bring it down, and unfold the chair. I place the cushion on the seat and put on the brakes. B.A. gingerly positions himself over the seat and drops down. Then I go back upstairs for whatever bags we need, particularly the bag with the footrests. We put the footrests on now or, if we're frightened of missing the bus, we wait until we're at the bus stop. 

To get to the bus stop, I push or pull the wheelchair behind our terrace to the first step down. I put on the brakes, and B.A. pulls himself out of the wheelchair by hanging onto the rails of the neighbours' staircase. I lift the chair down, B.A. climbs down the stair, and then drops back into his seat. Then I push or pull the chair down the cracked concrete path to the step to the pavement (i.e. public sidewalk). This is the trickiest part. I put the brakes on, B.A. gets up, places his hands on the wall beside the gap and somehow hangs on until I get the wheelchair up the step to the pavement. He then pulls himself up that step and sits back down into the wheelchair. Then I push the wheelchair to the bus stop.

B.A. currently weighs 13 stone 2 (i.e. 184 lbs). 

When the bus arrives, the driver gets out of his box and unfurls the ramp. The ramp rests on the kerb. I mutter "Sideways and then straight" as I push B.A. onto the bus. It's hardest at the top. Able-bodied people scatter out of the disabled seats, and I push B.A. forwards and then backwards, so his back is against the backrest and the handles of the wheelchair are on either side. Then I lock the brakes and drop into the nearest seat. 

B.A. is now registered disabled, so we don't have to pay the fares. 

The bus moves on, and we are very grateful that we have once again defeated immobility. It cheers us up and gives us inner strength for the transfer. When we approach our transfer stop, B.A. presses the wheelchair button. It gives a heart-piercing wail that tells the driver he has to get out of his box again. As the driver pulls out the wheelchair ramp, B.A. unlocks his brakes, drags himself and the chair forward, spins around, and pulls himself along the bus to the ramp by holding onto poles. 

"Like a little monkey," I sometimes say. 

Then I push B.A. down the ramp, very carefully as he is heavy and the ramp is steep, we thank the driver, and we repeat the process with the next bus, thanking the next driver. Then I push B.A. along the pavement or road: whichever is smoother. 

We watch for the lowest places on the kerbs. Sometimes I have to step on a lever to wrestle the wheelchair up: I am learning all about kerbs. I am also learning about my physical limits. 

"I am no longer 25," I think--illogically, for I was a coach potato at 25. (I shall strive to think "I am no longer 34.")

Naturally we could shell out for cabs instead of taking the bus for free. However, the bus is the easiest part. Or it usually is. 

The Edinburgh Marathon

The Edinburgh Marathon took place yesterday. I have always disliked the Edinburgh Marathon because it interrupts the bus schedule, creates traffic jams, and makes us late for Mass. However, we now budget an extra hour for getting to church, so I thought we would be fine. 

But the Marathon route was different this year, and I uneasily watched unprecedented crowds dripping down our street, filling the pavement in groups or gangs. When I heard them chattering, it was clear that they were definitely "Not From Around Here" and that their purpose was to cheer on marathon runners. One stranger held a homemade sign reading "You make it look so easy." 

As we struggled to the first bus stop, B.A. apologized to the crowds of Out-of-Towners for being in their way.

The street was overly lined with cars, and when our first bus appeared, it could not get beside the kerb. B.A. had to haul himself out of his wheelchair by hanging on to the bus stop sign and then step, his arm around my shoulder, into the street. The driver pulled the gangway down, B.A. dropped into his wheelchair, and I discovered that the bus ramp is too steep for me if it ends in the road. ("I am no longer 25.") Fortunately, the driver took over. 

It was pouring rain. Large crowds of Out-of-Towners often bring rain with them and then go back to England or wherever and write erroneously about foggy, wet Edinburgh in their articles about the Festival. 

We will not go anywhere near the Old Town during the Festival. 

At the next bus stop, I wheeled B.A. down the ramp and straight into the bus shelter, forcing a young man in shorts out into the rain. B.A. apologized, and I snarled at him to stop apologizing to Out-of-Towners for being in his own neighbourhood. B.A. argued that it was a mark of British civilization (or whatever) to apologize, and I continued to go insane, only silently for the time being. Unprecedentedly for our neighbourhood, busses that ought to have stopped drove by instead, packed to the windows. One stopped, but it had no space for a wheelchair. Then another stopped, but it also had no space for a wheelchair. 

It became clear that for hours it would be impossible to get B.A. on a bus that would get us anywhere near church, and so I pushed him home. It was still raining.

We negotiated the various kerbs, and then the step from pavement to the path, and then the step up from that path to the next path, and then our staircase. I folded and carried up the chair, and then I went down for the cushion and all the bags. Finally B.A., who was hanging onto the wainscotting, sat down on the cushion, and I pushed him into the sitting room. I made him a cup of tea while he found the TLM being streamed online from Warrington. 

I sat at my desk and figured out from the internet which Mass I could get to before or after my swing-dance workshop that afternoon. The Cathedral's 6 PM Polish Mass fit the bill. Unfortunately, I couldn't find any of my Polish Mass and prayer books, which led me to burst into tears. 

The Council is supposed to build us little ramps one day. The NHS is supposed to assign B.A. an electric wheelchair. The doctor in charge of signing off on that initially suggested that B.A. doesn't need one, as our neighbourhood is "rather flat." 

He is welcome to push B.A. around town to test that theory.

You Make It Look So Easy

I am on a six week break from all hobbies. Normally I beat myself up mentally if I do not work daily on my languages or tin whistle, but I have stopped that so I can concentrate on housework, taking care of B.A., and not going insane. 

However, I had already paid for Sunday's swing-dance workshop, so I went.

First, I returned to the bus stop and discovered that the busses were still packed and still not stopping. ("People live here," I shouted in earshot of the Out-of-Towners.) Then I walked 20 minutes to a train station, took a train, negotiated crowds, took another train, took a taxi cab, almost fell out of the cab, and got to the swing-dance workshop on time. 

After the workshop, I got myself a large coffee (thanks be to God) and, feeling mighty sorry for myself, walked a mile in the driving rain to the Cathedral. 

In the Cathedral, a group of women in the pews began to sing old-fashioned Polish hymns, which were soothing. I looked up the Novus Ordo in Polish, as well as the Novus Ordo readings for the day in both English and Polish, on my phone, so I needn't have had hysterics over my missing books. A guitar struck up to my far left, for this was the Polish guitar Mass strictly avoided by all my own Polish Edinburgh friends. Nevertheless, it still held the gentle melancholy that characterizes most Polish liturgies, and I enjoyed a good cry from the end of the day's Gospel, where Our Lord promised, "Ja jestem z wami przez wszystkie dni, aż do skończenia świata."

I went home (walk, bus) to discover B.A. had made dinner from his wheelchair, and I baked a pan of healthy (i.e. only dates and pears for sugar) brownies. The Edinburgh Marathon was over. 

By the way, I was so rude about Out-of-Towners, I must remember to go to Confession this week. I amused myself during my rainy walk to the Cathedral by imagining myself telling people, in my all too Canadian accent, to **** *** back to England, as my most choleric neighbours are said to do. Naturally this would be outrageous, so I will never do this. I will merely think it--and have to go to Confession again.