I have a mobility scooter.
When my seizures went down to a minimal of 12 a day, I was able to finally go out by myself. To save energy and keep myself safe during a seizure, this was absolutely a lifesaver. Suddenly I didn’t have to be dependent on others all the time. I did have to swallow a couple of times before I sat behind the steer for the first time. I didn’t feel that disabled, I could walk for that matter. But as soon as I went grocery shopping all by myself, I didn’t mind it at all any more.
I had to get used to the fact that it’s a whole community, though. When a mobile scooter passes by another, you apparently have to wave to each other like some rough, tough bikers do. When you pass by someone who is on the riding hand, then you wave with your legs if their still usable to make a stretch, otherwise you make twitching head movements that may count as a polite nod.
Never noticed that before, until I got part of the community. You are also supposed to talk to every other mobility biker. You can’t just stand next to each other while waiting at the traffic light, or at the ferry, and stare in to the great wide open, like people on bicycles do.
So while I’m having all these great new experiences, the ones I have during seizures are the most exiting of them all.
After several times of driving into the shelves of the supermarket after a seizure, I was kindly being asked if there was a possibility I could walk instead of using my scooter. We talked it through, and now there are even 2 parking places especially for mobility scooters at the entrance. Feeling kind of special there.
But the one I will never forget, is when I went up the town market, and my sleeve was stuck around the handle. Normally, when I get my seizure, my hands fall down, so it stops immediately, except that particular time. So pressure on the handle continued, and I drove right through a market booth, selling socks and underwear. I battled through some hard punches from several dummy legs, which ended up in my basket. And while people hysterically pulling the legs from off of me, and asking me if I’m alright, the salesman quite agitated, pulls 3 lace strings and a hipster off my ear, saying ‘I believe that is mine missy!’ As if this was some kind of elaborate scheme to steel his goods. Well, I‘ll have to work on that one then.
Still, when I pass by his booth every week or so, he nervously looks at his sales ware, desperately hoping not for a repetition. And so do I.