A Sip of Coffee

Hey Reader! This post is in 2nd person. .Something like this may end up in the very beginning of my memoir. Let me know what you think! 

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You push the power switch located next to your joystick which is on your right. Everything is on your right because your right hand performs every task you can do independently. You type all day with it as well as drive with it. It’s your everything. You roll out from under the desk. You have leggings on, so they are creased from being up against your desk. You like the feeling of weight on your legs, it calms your movements down a little.

            Once you are in the living room, you press your remote door opener. It has the words Open Sesame on it. You roll down the hall of the condo. You wait for the elevator. How many times have you waited for an elevator? It has to be in the tens of thousands by now. In the elevator, you always struggle to press the buttons because they require just enough force to make you have to push. The elevator slides open to the lobby.

            You are headed to Starbucks. You need the caffeine for the long night ahead. You have the Easter Seals gala tonight. You’re about to put on a long evening gown that is black with sequins. You can’t wait and even though it does not start for another three hours, you’re feeling the pressure. You’re a timely person, at least you try to be. Your disability can be a hinderance to being on time. It’s annoyed you all your life. You go out the door and onto the street.

            You wait in front of the door of Starbucks to be opened by a stranger. A middle school student whose class you have spoken to about disability awareness opens the door.

            “Hannah! So good to see you.”

            “Hey. How’s it going?”

            “Good. Just got out of gymnastics and we stopped at Starbucks.”

            By “we” she meant four other girls at a table nearby the door. They are all dressed in Lulu Lemon which is absolutely ridiculous given that they are twelve years old, but you are literally going to spend $7.00 on a venti coffee, judge not, lest you be judged. Make that two $7 coffees. You’re getting one for your friend who is technically your caregiver, but Olivia is a good friend after three years of spending every other weekend together. You genuinely love that woman.

            At the counter, you recognize the barista as always.

            “Hey Sutton!”

            “Hey Hannah! How are you?”

            “Good.”

They whispered to me, “These teenagers are driving me crazy.”

“Can’t blame you,” you say.

            “What can I get you?” Sutton asks.

            You have the order pre stored in your communication device so able-bodied people don’t have to wait on you more than they already have to.

            “An iced vanilla sweet cream cold brew and an iced cold brew with almond milk.”

            “Gotcha. Coming right up.”

            You put your wheelchair in the mode for it to change positions. You raise your seat so Sutton can scan the Starbucks mobile app. They successfully do. You set your chair back to its  normal height. Even though the baristas are very patient, you feel like people get

impatient anytime you do this because it’s not quite clear what you’re doing when you adjust positions in your wheelchair, and, with it being very quiet, you know it’s hard for others to understand why you’re just sitting there for 10 seconds. You’re not. You’re adjusting the chair. It’s not like you can type on your communication device while you adjust.

            You go to the other end of the counter and wait for the drinks. Another barista sees you and says, “Do you need them in your cup holders?”

            You make eye contact and nod your head. He puts your drinks in the two cup holders attached to the two handlebars on your wheelchair. Your wheelchair is literally an extension of your body.

            “Need the door?” Another barista asks.

            I nodded then said, “Have an amazing rest of the day. Thank you!”

            Rolling home, you smelled coffee. Too much coffee. And then your ponytail swings around and the very end is damp. Not hours before the most elegant night of the year. This is so annoying and

frustrating. The Starbucks staff puts stickers on the opening of the lid, but liquid is liquid, and its god is gravity. You are so frustrated! How bad is it? You won’t know until Olivia can see the damage. Shoot!

            Opening my condo building door feeling crabby about my ponytail, I quickly get in the lobby. Nobody’s in the lobby, thank goodness. You roll in the elevator, press two, roll out of the elevator. You hit the Open Sesame door opener.

            “Hey Girly!” Olivia exclaims.

            You have a steadfast rule with yourself to always ask “How are you?” first before asking caregivers to do something for you.

            “How are you?”

            “So ready for tonight! How about you?”

            “Great. I know the coffee got in my hair.”

            “I’ll take a look.” She went around the back of my wheelchair. “It’s fine, just needs a wet washcloth.”           

            After a minute, the coffee is out of your hair. Olivia swears it looks fine. Then, you finally get a sip of coffee.