Twitter posting is part of my job now, which means every day, I’m scouring the
Internet and news wires for stories about wheelchairs, accessibility, mobility-related conditions,
advocacy and policy, etc.
So every day, I get barraged by news reports of stolen wheelchairs. Multiple
wheelchairs gone, taken from different people in different places under
similar circumstances. Chairs are stolen from unattended cars, or sometimes
the chair is stolen because it’s inside a car that is being stolen.
Other chairs are stolen from the porches or yards of homes. Many
times, the stolen chairs belong to children. I’m not sure if that’s because
stealing a wheelchair from a child is considered more buzz worthy from
a “What is this world coming to?” news wire perspective, or if kids’ chairs
are generally easier to steal because they’re smaller and because children
spend more time out of their chairs than adults do, thereby providing more opportunity
for the chairs to be snatched.
But here’s what I do know: I’m sick of reading about chairs being stolen. Here’s why:
- You know it’s a wheelchair. Some chairs are collateral damage from grand theft
auto, but many thieves grab chairs from front steps of homes. There’s no way you’re
mistaking that piece of medical equipment for a string of diamonds, a big-screen TV or
an iPad. Yes, all theft is bad. But stealing a person’s legs is on a whole different level. - You know it’s a complex wheelchair. I’m not talking about standard manual wheelchairs
being stolen. I’m talking about customized wheelchairs with accessories from
specialized electronics to hard-core positioning components. I accept that thieves probably
don’t know kyphosis from lordosis. But you can’t tell me they don’t know that what
they’re stealing is very different from the generic wheelchairs they’ve seen in hospitals. - You know it’s a child’s chair. Again, you’re not stealing a chair that someone first
snagged from an airport. That seat is 10″ wide, and the larger wheels in back are still
only the size of dinner plates. There’s a push handle in the back at Mom-and-Dad
height, and the chair is covered in Princess Elsa or Iron Man stickers. You’re stealing the
mobility of someone who still believes in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy.
These robbery reports are accompanied by family members begging for the chair to
be returned: He can’t go to school without it. Now she can’t go outside with her friends. The
latest story that made my head spin was about a Utah family whose 1999 Honda Civic was
stolen; a wheelchair belonging to their 5-year-old son, who has cerebral palsy, was inside.
You can keep the car, the father said. Just return my boy’s wheelchair.
A good Samaritan found the wheelchair abandoned nearby, apparently shoved out of
the stolen car by a thief who would like us to think he or she had a conscience. Except that
the seat and back of the wheelchair were missing. The dad then had to explain how the
wheelchair was custom fit to his son and is useless without the seat and back.
So, here’s what I wish I could tell wheelchair thieves: You won’t be able to sell that
complex rehab wheelchair. It’s one of a kind, useless to anyone but the unique person for
whom it was built. To that person, and to his/her family, that chair is rolling to the bathroom
like a big boy, without needing Daddy to carry you. It is going to the park without
having to sit in the baby stroller. It is catching a softball game on a summer evening and
watching sunsets and munching popcorn at a summer blockbuster and eating too much
at a block party. It’s a large part of the stuff that makes life worth living.
Give it back.
