Wheel Chair Stories

Author: Rick

  • The Karaoke King

    The other day I was coming out of my room just as Mike was passing by. I gave him a polite, “Hi, Mike,” as I turned toward the elevator. Without missing a beat, he fired back, “I don’t have to talk to you!”

    Well, great. I thought to myself, “You  freeking  weirdo!”

    I rolled  into the elevator, and just as the doors were about to close, Mike stepped in right next to me — like nothing had happened. At first, I figured he was on his phone, so I ignored it. Then he blurted out, “I’m looking for Viola.”

    Christ. After that warm greeting, the last thing I was about to do was give him directions. I don’t even know anyone named Viola. I decided to let that one hang in the air and stayed quiet. When the elevator doors opened, he stepped out without a word, just shot me this look of pure disdain — like I’d somehow ruined his day.Later that day, at dinner, I spotted him sitting at table six, holding court with three women fawning over him while he sang along to Summer Wind, the Sinatra classic — like he was the second coming of the Chairman of the Board.

    A few days later, I was wearing my old Allman Brothers Live at the Fillmore T-shirt. As I rolled past Mike, he locked eyes with me and said, “You like good music, huh?”

    Not wanting to get too chummy, I just gave him a quick nod and kept right on rolling.Later, at dinner, I started telling Hank and Jimmy about my run-in with Mike. Both of them let out a loud roar of laughter. “That’s what he does,” Hank said. “Yeah, you know how many times I’ve seen him walking around talking to himself?” Jimmy added.

    “Don’t know, but that can’t be good!” I replied.

    The Karaoke King had clearly made his mark on the place, and from the looks of it, the show was just getting started. A little while later Oscar came along and sat with us just as “Hound dog” was starting. ” That guy’s menta!l”he declares. Alex asks” Oh, you know him?” “Yea his room is next to mine and I hear him talking and singing all night.” He answers.So, I just had to ask, does he ever fight with himself? No, but sometimes out of nowhere I hear him laughing really loud like some kind of demon! It’s scary.

  • Betty THE SCAM ARTIST

    I got a text one random day from someone asking if I recognized the number.

    “No,” I answered.

    A second text quickly followed: could they send me a picture, maybe I’d recognize them. Curious and already suspicious, I said okay—just to see where this was headed.

    Next thing I knew, we were chatting on WhatsApp. Betty sent me a picture—a very pretty girl, along with a neat little bio: 43, divorced, living in California.

    But something smelled off. The picture wasn’t just a selfie—it was a photo of a woman taking a selfie, like someone had taken a snapshot of a stranger mid-pose. I thought, if she just snapped this, why not send the selfie itself? Hmmm. Red flag.

    Then came the next line. She told me she was from France.

    “Wow,” I replied, playing along. “Coincidence—my favorite singer is Stella Jang. A lot of her songs are in French.”

    I left that statement dangling like bait, curious how she’d respond. Anyone with a clue would’ve noticed the oddity—Stella Jang is South Korean, not French. But Betty replied two minutes later without skipping a beat:

    “My favorite singer is Adele Adler.”

    Adele Adler? Now she wasn’t even trying. Everybody knows her as Adele! The whole thing smelled like a lazy catfish operation. But I had time to kill, so why not play along a little longer?

    I sent a simple “TTYL” and rolled downstairs for dinner, already planning the next round of this little game.

    Under Caffeine

    A few days went by, no sign of Betty. Then, on Sunday, while I was halfway through lunch, my WhatsApp alert chimed. Betty.

    I let it sit until I finished eating, figuring I’d need a strong coffee for this nonsense. I wheeled over to the coffee vending machine, and there she was—the immovable object. “Sloppy Janet” is a mountain of a woman. The nickname is almost too kind. She’s so large she can’t even stand up from her wheelchair. But size isn’t what bothers me—it’s her total lack of self-awareness. She parks herself at the machine like she’s got all the time in the world, completely oblivious to the line growing behind her.Just like that B52s lyric:

    “Hop in my Chrysler, it’s as big as a whale and it’s about to set sail!”

    Meanwhile, Betty’s message just sat there on my phone, the digital bait still dangling.

    Just another day under-caffeinated. Dammit, Janet!

  • Wheelchair stories

    Living in an assisted living facility is no fun so Jack does his best to try to get along by making lighthearted fun of the life and some of the others by making jokes to himself about all the goings on and some interesting people.Here are some of their stories.

  • Wheelchair Journals

    The big surprise

    It was a night like any other. I came home to my one-room apartment, fried up a couple of steak and onion sandwiches, watched a story on TV, then took my shower and went to bed.

    Sometime in the middle of the night, I was ripped from sleep by harsh flashlights piercing my eyes, voices calling my name. By the time they got me on the gurney and loaded me into the ambulance, I started to come around. That’s when I realized the worst: a stroke.

    God damn it! Just as things were finally going right for me. Bills all paid. A nice new Honda. My head spun, but not from the stroke. It was the thought that everything I’d worked for, everything I’d built, might be slipping through my fingers.

    The EMT wheeled me into the hospital, and as the doors slid open, I caught a faint whiff in the air. The triage nurse was the first to speak.

    “What’s that smell?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

    “Urine,” the EMT replied, as if it was the most mundane thing in the world.

    I could feel the heat creeping up my neck. The kind of heat that comes with embarrasment!Jack’s eyes flickered open, his mind groggy and unfocused. The dull hum of hospital machinery buzzed in the background. As his vision cleared, a familiar face appeared — Tina, his sister-in-law, perched on the edge of a stiff plastic chair. Her face lit up the moment she saw him blink.

    “There you are,” she said with a smile, her voice calm but edged with relief. “Took you long enough.”

    Jack tried to speak, but his throat was dry, and his words came out as a rasp. Tina was already on her feet, pouring water into a cup.

    “Don’t try too hard,” she said, placing the cup in his shaky hand. “Just sip.”

    As Jack drank, Tina grabbed a small notebook from her bag, flipping it open like a seasoned manager about to run a board meeting.

    “I’ve got it all under control,” she announced. “The doctors, the insurance… I just need your card or account number. Oh, and your cell bill — I’ll take care of that too.”

    Jack managed a weak smile. Classic Tina. Always practical, always prepared — and always worried about something. He didn’t have to ask if she’d been sitting there all night; he knew she had.

    “You sure know how to make a guy feel important,” Jack croaked, his voice barely above a whisper.

    Tina snorted. “Don’t get used to it.”

    But her hand stayed on his for a moment longer than necessary. It wasn’t just business — she cared deeply, and Jack knew it. In that moment, surrounded by wires and sterile hospital walls, Tina’s presence was the strongest comfort he could have asked for.

  • WHEELCHAIR JOURNALS

    WHEELCHAIR JOURNALS

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    The Big Surprise

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    It was a night like any other. I came home to my one-room apartment, fried up a couple of steak and onion sandwiches, watched a story on TV, then took my shower and went to bed. Sometime in the middle of the night, I was ripped from sleep by harsh flashlights piercing my eyes, voices calling my name. By the time they got me on the gurney and loaded me into the ambulance, I started to come around. That’s when I realized the worst: a stroke .God damn it! Just as things were going right for me. Bills all paid. A nice Honda bought and paid for in cash. My head spun, but not from the stroke. It was the thought that everything I’d worked for, everything I’d built, might be slipping through my fingers. .Next day Jacks’ eyes flickered open, his mind groggy and unfocused. The dull hum of hospital machinery buzzed in the background. As his vision cleared, a familiar face appeared — Tina, his sister-in-law, perched on the edge of a stiff plastic chair. Her face lit up the moment she saw him blink.
    “There you are,” she said with a smile, her voice calm but edged with relief. “Took you long enough.”
    Jack tried to speak, but his throat was dry, and his words came out as a rasp. Tina was already on her feet, pouring water into a cup.
    “Don’t try too hard,” she said, placing the cup in his shaky hand. “Just sip.”
    As Jack drank, Tina grabbed a small notebook from her bag, flipping it open like a seasoned manager about to run a board meeting.
    “I’ve got it all under control,” she announced. “The doctors, the insurance… I just need your card or account number. Oh, and your cell bill — I’ll take care of that too.”
    Jack managed a weak smile. Classic Tina. Always practical, always prepared — and always worried about something. He didn’t have to ask if she’d been sitting there all night; he knew she had.
    “You sure know how to make a guy feel important,” Jack croaked, his voice barely above a whisper.
    Tina snorted. “Don’t get used to it.”
    But her hand stayed on his for a moment longer than necessary. It wasn’t just business — she cared deeply, and Jack knew it. In that moment, surrounded by wires and sterile hospital walls, Tina’s presence was the strongest comfort he could have asked for.


    Jack had only been in the facility a couple of days, still learning the layout and avoiding eye contact whenever possible. He waited in the hallway near the elevator, just trying to get to the coffee station without having to talk to anyone.
    But of course, the universe had other plans.
    From the far end of the corridor, a figure slowly inched forward, hunched and awkward, weaving like a man navigating invisible tripwires. Jack squinted. Oh no. Another one. The guy was coming straight for him.
    “Hey there, new guy! I’m Gus,” the man said cheerfully, one shoulder dramatically higher than the other. His voice was loud, like someone who had never mastered indoor volume.
    Jack offered a polite, forced smile. “Hi.”
    “I saw you move in the other day. Room 114B, right? That was Mrs. Kessler’s room. She left because her daughter wanted her closer to the family, but between you and me, I think it had something to do with the chicken salad incident.”
    Jack blinked. “…The what?”
    “Oh, never mind, long story. You’ll hear it eventually. Everyone does. So! You like bingo? No? Me neither, but I go for the cookies. Did you meet Hank yet? Big guy, laughs like a drain pipe. And watch out for Thelma, she’ll talk your ear off about her feet.”
    Jack nodded slowly, his internal monologue already spinning. Great. A human newsletter.
    Just then, the elevator dinged. Jack pressed the button quickly, praying for a silent ride.
    “You know,” Gus continued as he shifted next to Jack, “you’ve got a good spot, room-wise. Not too close to the trash chute. That thing’s louder than a brass band.”
    The elevator doors opened. Jack rolled in, turning his chair just in time to see Gus trying to wedge himself in beside him.
    “I’ll take the next one,” Jack said quickly, not out of politeness but pure survival instinct.
    Gus smiled. “Suit yourself, buddy!”
    As the doors closed, Jack let out a breath and muttered, “So it begins. The next day at lunch, just as he was about to take my last bite of his sandwich, a very slight dude suddenly appeared in front of him.
    “Hi! I’m Oscar,” he announced, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. Before Jack could even acknowledge him, he launched into a monologue about how much he loved helping everyone.
    It immediately took him back to first grade. There was this girl named Melissa who prided herself on being the teacher’s helper—a real ass-kisser!
    So then, Oscar invites Jack to sit with him at Table 8. That works—better than sitting alone.
    Later that day, he goes down to the dining room. As he enters he glances over to see Oscar watching for him.He thinks to himself, well, here we go.
    He rolls over to the table as the server approaches. “What’ll it be, gentlemen?” . “I think beef stew over egg noodles sounds interesting. I’ll have that.”
    Oscar, still examining the menu, says, “I’ll have the usual. A hamburger, wel done.l “Well, Oscar, you’re full of surprises today,” Vera states. Her sarcasm falls flat as he sheepishly just gapes at her. She then gives Jack a look, and he smirks, letting her know that he I got her joke.
    ” cell number?” Debrah asked. he hesitates. “Sure,” He I said, fishing his phone from his my pocket.
    Jack’s New World
    Jack had always prided himself on his independence. He was the guy who could fix anything, grill a perfect steak, and outwit anyone with his sharp tongue. But that was before the stroke. Before his body betrayed him. Before he found himself here— Maplewood Assisted Living, a place where time crawled and the walls smelled faintly of antiseptic and overcooked vegetables.
    His left side was weak, his speech slower than he liked, but his mind? Oh, his mind was as sharp as ever. He’d quickly learned that Maplewood was filled with characters straight out of a sitcom. Gus, the gossip king, knew everything about everyone before they did. Virginia, tough as nails, didn’t sugarcoat a damn thing. And then there was Maude, who had the charm of a brick wall and looked at Jack like he was an annoying housefly.
    Jack’s biggest challenge wasn’t the stroke—it was keeping his patience,. People insisted on helping him when he didn’t need it. Every time he wheeled himself down the hall, some well-meaning aide would chirp, “Need a push, Jack?”
    “Nope, just training for the Indy 500,” he’d quip, rolling his eyes.
    Meals were another battle. One evening, he sat down to a plate of something that was allegedly meatloaf. He poked at it suspiciously.
    “What’s wrong?” Virginia asked, noticing his hesitation.
    “Nothing. Just trying to figure out if this is food or a science experiment.”
    Virginia chuckled. “Just eat it before it eats you.”
    Despite the annoyances, Jack found ways to keep himself entertained. He made a game out of dodging the ever-chatty Ron, who could talk for twenty minutes without taking a breath. Most times, Jack would try to roll past him as stealthily as possible. He kept a mental tally of how many times The Shadow, a resident who appeared out of nowhere, startled him in the hallway.
    But the best part of Maplewood? The people who got it. Like Jimmy, who wore a New York Rangers shirt one day and ended up talking hockey with Jack for an hour. Jack wasn’t the same man he was before the stroke. He knew that. But he also knew this—he wasn’t done yet. And as long as he had his wit, his sarcasm, and maybe, just maybe, a few people worth talking to, he could handle this new world just fine.
    Knowing his career was over, he constantly thought of what he could do now for a living—after all, Social Security wasn’t going to be enough to live on. His first idea was to raise tropical fish. Bad idea! Next, he remembered the scammer who once tried to con him into investing in gold. That sparked a thought—maybe he could do something with investing. His younger brother had done well with blogging and all that internet stuff. Perhaps a blog about investing in gold and other precious metals, for Jack was a jeweler prior to all this trouble it could work because Jack did understand the relationship between gold and the economy. Jack smirked at the thought. If nothing else, it would keep him busy—and keep his mind sharp. And who knew? Maybe it could actually make him some money.
    The following days, Jack couldn’t stop thinking about this idea. He spent hours trying to come up with a good, catchy name for his blog. Every scrap of paper within reach became a brainstorming pad. “Gold Rush Daily? No, too dramatic. The Gilded Edge? Neh. Nuggets of Truth? Ugh.” He muttered to himself while wheeling through the halls, earning puzzled looks from passersby. But he didn’t care. He was happier as long as he could just be on his way quietly without being bothered They just avoided him. The idea lit a fire in him. For the first time in a long time, Jack had something that felt like purpose—and he wasn’t letting go of it anytime soon.

    Betty the Scammer – A Digital Detour

    I got a text one day from someone asking if I recognized the number.

    “No,” I answered.

    Then another text. Could they send a pic—maybe I’d recognize them. Okay, I thought. I was interested in what this was really about.

    Soon we started communicating on WhatsApp. Betty sent me a picture—a very pretty girl along with a little bio: 43, divorced, and living in California.

    But something didn’t sit right. The picture wasn’t just a selfie—it was a picture of a woman taking a selfie. Like someone had captured a stranger mid-pose and sent it along as their own. If she just took the photo, why not send the selfie itself? Hmmm.

    Then she told me she was from France.

    “Wow,” I replied. “Coincidence—my favorite singer is Stella Jang. A lot of her songs are sung in the French language.”

    And then I left that to hang. I wanted to see what kind of reaction she’d give. I mean, Stella Jang is South Korean. If Betty were actually from France, wouldn’t she at least question that? Ask why the name didn’t sound French?

    But no. Two minutes later, she replied:

    “My favorite singer is Adele Adler.”

    Adele Adler? Not even trying.

    That’s when I knew—I wasn’t talking to a lonely 43-year-old French-American divorcee. I was talking to someone who just googled “popular female names” and hoped for the best.

    Still, I decided to play along. Hell, I’ve got nowhere to go anyway.

    I sent her a polite “TTYL” and headed down for dinner.

    Game on, Betty.

    UNDER CAFFEINE

    A few days went by, no sign of Betty. Then, on Sunday, while I was halfway through lunch, my WhatsApp alert chimed. Betty.

    I let it sit until I finished eating, figuring I’d need a strong coffee for this nonsense. I wheeled over to the coffee vending machine, and there she was. The immovable object. “Big Barbara.”

    Big Barbara is a mountain of a woman. The nickname is almost too kind. She’s so large she can’t even stand up from her wheelchair. But size isn’t what bothers me—it’s her total lack of self-awareness. She parks herself at the machine like she’s got all the time in the world, completely oblivious to the line growing behind her.

    I sat there stuck, caffeine-starved and blocked by Barbara, waiting for her glacial pace to release the coffee hostage. The whole scene made me think of that old B-52’s lyric:

    “Hop in my Chrysler, it’s as big as a whale and it’s about to set sail!”

    Meanwhile, Betty’s message just sat there on my phone, the digital bait still dangling.

    Just another day under-caffeinated. Dammit, Barbara Finally, I read the message of how she made over one hundred thousand dollars between friday and saturday. Would I be interested? Interested? I thought YEA! I’d be interested in becoming A Kept Man!. hahaha. Anyway, I figured I’ll wait to answer in the morning.

  • Wheelchair stories

    The Big Surprise

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    Jacks story

    After a stroke left Jack disabled he ended up in an assisted living facility. It seems more like a retirement home. Hoping to overcome this inability to walk along with the paralysis of his left arm, everyday is a struggle. His coping mechanism is his humor, even if he’s entertaining only himself. His frustrations are turned inward with sarcastic remarksto himself toward his quirky neighbors Now most of his neighbors although alittle off or even wacky are wonderful people With this group of offbeat friends and neighbors Jack likes to have fun with it. These are some of their stories. Jack Meets Oscar

    Jack’s first day at the facility was already shaping up to be a test of patience. Between the overly cheerful staff, the awkward introductions, and the general sense of being trapped in a place he wasn’t ready to call home, he was already exhausted.

    Then came Oscar.

    “Hey there, pal! You’re new, huh?” The voice came before Jack even saw him. And then, waddling into view, came Oscar—short, hunched over, and moving with an awkward gait that made it look like he was battling gravity itself.

    Jack barely had time to respond before Oscar launched into a full-blown report.

    “You hear about the lady on the third floor? Fell right in front of the vending machine. Took two nurses and Gus to get her up. And the kitchen’s out of real eggs again—only that powdered crap today. Oh, and Big Don nearly choked on a meatball at lunch, but he’s fine now. So, what’s your name?”

    Jack blinked. “Uh… Jack.”

    Oscar nodded as if mentally filing that information away for later. “Nice to meet you, Jack. I keep everyone updated on what’s what around here. You need to know something? I’m your guy.”

    At first, Jack found Oscar’s enthusiasm kind of amusing. The guy was clearly harmless, maybe a little odd, but nothing Jack couldn’t handle.

    It wasn’t until later that he realized what he had gotten himself into.

    Oscar was everywhere.

    No matter where Jack went—the dining hall, the lounge, even just rolling down the hallway—Oscar always managed to find him, eager to unload the latest round of facility gossip.

    “Gus says the night nurse fell asleep on duty again.”

    “They say we might get a new menu next week. Hope it’s not a lie like last time.”

    “I heard Maude yelled at a maintenance guy for leaving a smudge on the window.”

    Jack had barely been there a few days, and he already felt like he was being hunted. He’d turn a corner and—boom—Oscar was there, like some overeager news anchor with a personal mission to keep Jack informed on every single, issue.

    And the worst part? Oscar was oblivious to just how much he annoyed people.

    Jack tried everything—short responses, pretending to be busy, even flat-out ignoring him—but Oscar never took the hint. He’d just keep on talking, happy to have an audience, whether Jack liked it or not.

    At one point, Jack found himself sitting alone in the common area, enjoying a coffee.

    You hear about Virginia? She’s been giving the new physical therapist a hard time. Says she doesn’t need help, but she fell last week, so—”

    Jack sighed and rubbed his temples. This was his life now.

    His new friend was a nuisance.

    Trying to shift the conversation away from endless gossip, Jack decided to ask, “So, Oscar, why are you here? You can’t be much older than me—maybe 55 or60 maybe? Oscar’s expression changed slightly, as if he wasn’t used to being asked about himself. “I’m 55. I’ve got scoliosis. Had it all my life.”

    Jack thought for a moment, searching for something positive to say. “Well, you’re doing well, considering.”

    A proud grin spread across Oscar’s face as he accepted the compliment. “Yeah, I get by.”

    After a brief pause, Oscar glanced at his watch. “Well, I gotta go. I expect my family to visit today.”

    Jack watched as Oscar shuffled away, a little more aware of the weight the man carried. Annoying as he was, there was something about him Jack couldn’t quite shake. Maybe, just maybe, Oscar wasn’t just a nuisance.

    Maybe he was lonely, too.

    Oscar shares his table with Jack