Aye Calypso
“You need to make friends with your wheelchair,” said
Rob. “It doesn’t limit your freedom. It gives you the freedom to move.” Large and bearded, Rob was the pipe smoking,
guitar playing chaplain at the university where I was now a sophomore. As usual he challenged my assumptions, and as
usual, I heard him even though I didn’t want to. A few months later, a rite of passage ideally
suited for a 21-year-old student with a disability threw itself across my path: the need for a new wheelchair. For the first time in my life, I, not my
mother, would tell the vendor what kind of chair I needed.
“It needs to be low to the ground,” I
told him, “because I’m short. And I want
blue upholstery.” I had no idea
why. For weeks I anticipated its
arrival. At some point, I gave it a
name. When the chair finally came, I
sent out birth announcements:
“BABY BLUE BUGGY HAS ARRIVED!” And so began my first friendship with a
chair.
Fast forward a number of years. I’m the chaplain now, working in a large
urban medical center where I ride around on an aging three wheeled power
scooter that breaks down every other day.
The students and staff in my department listen as I rant and swear
through each new ordeal, and haggle with my insurance company over what portion
of the cost of a new scooter they will cover.
The basic model won’t do. I need
something built to endure. I tell my colleagues that will be its
name: Blessed Endurance. The
morning after it arrives, I emerge from our elevator looking like a queen on
her throne. Everyone gathers in a circle
around me and starts to sing a song they have written in honor of the occasion:
Blessed Endurance,
This scooter is mine;
O what a joy
Now I look so fine!
Racing through hallways
We turn on a dime;
Look out O world
It’s my time to shine!
Blessed Endurance lived up to her
name. She served me for almost a decade,
until surgery drastically reduced my upper body stability, and I needed a power
chair, not scooter. What would its
name be? I wondered.
In the darkness of a winter’s night, I
sat in my apartment listening to John Denver sing on the radio:
Aye Calypso!
The places you’ve been to,
The things that you’ve shown
us,
The stories you tell.
Aye Calypso!
I sing to your spirit,
The men who have served you
so long and so well.
Calypso—The
ship on which Jacques Cousteau went adventuring across the ocean. . . Calypso—A chair in which to go adventuring across
my world. . . Calypso was my new chair’s name!
It’s been almost nine years since she
came into my life. We’ve careened down
hallways, peeled rubber around corners, and yelled, “W-E-E-E-DLE!” as we raced
in sheer joy. Her paint is chipped. Her arm pads are worn. Her joystick has tape around it. Like the woman she holds, she has soul. And I have to say good-bye to her. In a few days, I’m getting a new chair. . .
And I don’t know its name. And a chair
without a name is a collection of steel and rubber; not a companion for the
journey. And in this year I’ve had to
part with so much that was part of my soul that sometimes I wonder if my soul still
matters. Everything seems about what’s
practical. I’m grieving this parting like
no chair I’ve ever said good-bye to, even as I know this is part of life, and I
do need a new chair. Please God, tell me
her name.
Tonight in a new apartment, in a place
I did not choose, I listen again to John Denver sing. In tribute to my companion, I change the
words:
Aye Calypso,
The places we’ve been to,
The things that you’ve shown
me,
The stories I’ll tell.
Aye Calypso,
I sing to your spirit,
The ways you have served me
so long and so well.
--Mary Stainton
