Читать книгу Living Beyond My Circumstances - Deborah L Willows - Страница 9

2. International Adventures

Nightmare in Belgium

“No, you don’t understand. You are going to allow all of us on the plane and you are going to assist us.” The coach was taking slow, controlled breaths in an attempt to keep his voice at a reasonable level.

We were returning home from Belgium, where I’d refereed at the 1993 World Boccia Competition. It was great to meet up with my brother Dan, who was there working at the Operation Mobilization office. He was able to join me in Antwerp and when I travelled to Brussels. When it was time for me to return home, he secured my wheelchair in a large crate to ensure it would reach Canada in one piece. Since I didn’t think I’d need it, I left my local currency with him. Not the smartest move ever.

The weather was a problem in Brussels, and we’d been on and off planes several times in hopes that it would clear. It’s hard enough for people without disabilities, but factor in our struggles with mobility and the fact that our wheelchairs were unavailable and you have the makings of a nightmare.

“Oh no!”

I looked out the window at the Brussels airport and saw the snow falling. They received an inch and a half, and by 6:00 all flights were cancelled.

“And what happens now?” the coach asked an airline official.

“Let me see what I can do.”

He soon returned and informed us that they would put us up in a local hotel for the night.

“Good. Because we can’t stay here.”

“And to make it easier, you can take one of the wheelchairs from the airport.”

The coach’s mouth dropped open. “One? You’re kidding me, right?”

“No, sir. That’s all we feel we can spare.” He spread his arms, lifted his hands palms up, and shrugged his shoulders. “Is there a problem?”

“Do you not realize these eight men and women,” the coach gestured in our direction, “are unable to stand on their own?”

“Let me check again,” the airport employee said.

“You do that.”

The airline did allow us to borrow more chairs, but there weren’t enough for all of us.

When we arrived at the hotel, the coach told us to wait where we were. He would go in and check on the accommodations. He was back in less than 10 minutes. He was shaking his head and mumbling all the way back to van.

“You are not going to believe this.”

“Just tell us what’s going on.”

“They gave our rooms away and had no rooms available—none.”

“Then what are we going to do? Spend the night at the airport?”

I shivered. I was tired. And I was cold.

“They gave me directions to another hotel.”

“Let’s hope they have room for us.”

“Let’s hope.”

We pulled to a stop outside a hotel in an older section of the city. The good news was that they had vacancies.

“Thank goodness.”

But before I could get too excited, I realized they had only one elevator—a very small elevator. So, to end the day’s adventure, Jen, my personal assistant for that trip, had to prop me up against the wall, press the button for our floor, and charge up the stairs with the wheelchair so she could be there when the door opened.

“You really should get some sleep,” Jen said when we were settled in our room.

“I know, but I really want to get in touch with Mom and Dad and let them know what happened. I don’t want them going to the airport before they have to.”

I spent a couple of hours trying to get through until I was just too tired to even punch in the numbers.

We had to be up early so we could be back at the airport in time.

“This is not happening,” I said when I learned one of the boccia players had slept in and we would have to wait for her. I was more than ready to go home.

I thought back to our accommodations in Antwerp. Because there wasn’t an airport in Antwerp, we had to fly into Brussels. The facility we stayed in was actually an institution for the disabled and had strict policies. We were not allowed to make or receive phone calls, and the doors were locked precisely at 8:00 p.m. There weren’t even crash bars that would allow us to exit in case of emergency. My assistant had to crawl out the window—in her white pants, no less—in order to walk Lego, my service dog and constant companion. At least our experience in Belgium wasn’t so bad in comparison.

I felt Jen’s hand on my shoulder and heard her calling me back to the present. “Deb, Deb...you in there?” she asked.

“I was just thinking back over the trip.”

“Ready to get home?”

I nodded.

Thankfully, we got to the airport in time. In fact, we were escorted past other passengers and taken by elevator directly to our gate. That was when we were informed they would only take one disabled person per flight. The coach would have none of it.

When we arrived in Paris, they gave us a calling card so we could contact our families. I finally got through to Mom—at 4:00 in the morning. It was 10:00 a.m. local time.

“Mom, I’m sorry to wake you.”

“Is everything all right?”

“It is now, but we’re still in Paris.”

“What happened?” I could hear the concern in her voice.

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home. I just wanted to let you know. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Jen hung up the phone for me. “Tammy,” I said to a fellow boccia player, “you don’t have to call home.”

She shrugged. “Why?”

“Your dad and brother are sleeping at my parents’ house.” I laughed. “Seems they didn’t know what to do when we didn’t show up at the London airport, so they went to my house.”

Tammy and her mom looked at each other and laughed.

Paris really is a beautiful city, and we had five hours to kill. It would have helped if I’d kept some of my money. Thank goodness the airline picked up our restaurant tab. Although we didn’t get to see the city, customs did stamp our passport. I can at least say I’ve been there. By 3:00 that afternoon we were on our way home.

“Woohoo! We’re home.”

No one was happier than Lego. When you travel with a service dog, you need to get airport security to take you outside so the dog can go to the bathroom—once on the airplane, he must hold it. Therefore, he’s given very little to eat or drink. If he could’ve talked, I’m sure he would have asked me if we ever had to travel by plane again.

And the crate with my chair? Well, I was without the wheelchair—and the clothes Dan had packed with it—for the next week. The airline mistakenly sent the crate to Boston before forwarding it to London.

Runaway Wheelchair

Four months after I refereed at the National Games held in Vancouver, BC, in 1993, I had the privilege of travelling with Jen to Sheffield, England. I enjoyed refereeing there, but that wasn’t the most exciting part of the trip.

We had a day off during the competition, so Jen and I decided to take the train to Birmingham. I had been so impressed with the wheelchairs used by the British team that I wanted to touch base with the people who manufactured them. While we were there, I picked up some spare parts.

“That was a good day,” Jen said when we arrived back at the Sheffield train station.

I agreed.

We got situated on the platform, and Jen placed the box of spare parts on my lap. Everything would have been fine, except the train whistle blew and I jumped. The box of parts went flying.

“Here, let me pick those up,” Jen said. She got to work but forgot one important thing: to secure the brakes on my wheelchair.

I was screaming for help in my mind, but nothing came from my lips as I began to roll toward the moving train. I crashed into the side of the train with such force it bent my footrests. Angels must have been surrounding me that day. Even though my seatbelt wasn’t fastened, I stayed in the chair.

“Deb, I’m so sorry. How can I ever make it up to you? I can’t believe that happened.”

I was speechless during our ride back to the hotel. I’m sure I was in shock, but I was also contemplating just how good and gracious God had been.

Surgery and a Wedding

When I got home in February, I went to the doctor’s for a routine test.

“Deb, I have something to tell you.” The doctor pulled up a chair in front of me. “I suspect you have endometriosis, and I want to send you to a specialist next month.”

Endometriosis...really?

When I got the name and address of the specialist and the date I was to see her, I made all the necessary arrangements. After the examination, I went home to await the results. Because it’s difficult for me to get to the doctor’s, they usually give me the news over the phone. I was alone when the specialist’s office called.

“Miss Willows?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“We’re calling to confirm that you do have endometriosis and will need surgery.”

My head was spinning when I got off the phone. When the shock wore off, the tears came. However, in less than an hour, I came to the realization that God hadn’t let me down in the past and He wasn’t about to start. He would see me through.

My parents came home from holidays on the Saturday, and by Sunday we had tracked down my surgeon’s home number. She graciously accepted the call, and we discussed what would happen next.

“We’ll do exploratory surgery to see the extent of the endometriosis,” the doctor said, “and then a follow-up procedure will likely be scheduled.” She paused briefly. “Debbie, you’ll probably need a hysterectomy.”

My parents and I talked at length with her, and she agreed that it would be best to perform the hysterectomy at the first surgery. It didn’t make sense to subject me to two procedures.

When I was 16, I had been scheduled for a hysterectomy. At that point, nothing was wrong—except that I had CP. Routine sterilization was common for people with disabilities. I didn’t want to go through with it, because I hoped to, one day, have children. When the whole controversy hit the news, the hospital dropped me from the surgical schedule for fear of the backlash. At 35, with a diagnosis of endometriosis, things were different.

On April 1 I underwent the procedure. I was in the hospital for nine days and was abundantly thankful for family and friends who could meet my needs. The nursing staff did their best, but they weren’t trained to assist patients with disabilities. I was especially touched by my brother Terry.

“Hey, Sis,” he said before the surgery, “if you need a transfusion, I’m your guy. I don’t want you getting some stranger’s blood. You never know what can happen with this whole contamination thing.”

Although I missed celebrating Easter with my church family, I didn’t miss my brother Dan’s wedding. The last week of May, I flew to Belgium with my friend and assistant Cathy. Terry, his wife and their six-week-old baby came with us. Mom and Dad had flown over the month before to help with the preparations.

“What a great camp,” Cathy said.

“Yeah, Grace arranged for us to stay here,” I said. “This is where they’ll hold one of the ceremonies.”

“One of them?”

“They have to have a civil ceremony at city hall. Then they’ll come back here for the Christian service.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

The ceremony at city hall was performed in French, and the city employees who attended were dressed in traditional clothes from the 1800s. After the half-hour ceremony, we did pictures, ate lunch, then headed back for the second ceremony, which Grace’s father, Jonathan McRostie, officiated.

My brother Terry, who was a pastor in Belleville, gave the message at Dan and Grace’s wedding.

Two days later, Cathy and I, Terry and his family, and my parents flew home. Dan and Grace joined us the following Saturday. We held a second reception for them at our church in London.

“Isn’t her dress beautiful?” one of the ladies said.

“Lovely.”

It was a great evening, but Grace and I woke up the next morning very sick. It seems a week and a half of wedding celebrations proved to be a little too much.

Carrying the torch in London, ON, 1996