A Different Street

I may have mentioned my spouse’s grandmother, a woman of 90 years who is seriously one of the toughest and smartest people I know.  (She can still whip both me and my spouse in Scrabble, for example.)  She was born in 1918 and at the age of 14 lost her mother to childbirth and, as the eldest daughter, was made responsible for the care of her seven siblings, an obligation that she met with her characteristic determination.  (Though if I understand her surviving siblings (and indeed her children, of whom my spouse’s mother is one) correctly, there was not always a lot of energy left over for warmth and tenderness.)

Since my grandmother-in-law’s husband died some 40 years ago, she has sustained herself by creating value:  growing, canning, sewing, repairing, refurbishing, cleaning, and reselling.  She might herself have written the saying “use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without.”  It is deeply in the grain with her — indeed, it could be called her survival strategy — and has remained so while that attitude became unfashionable, and now threatens to become fashionable again.

She has used a wheelchair to get around the house for several years now, one that her daughter bought for $25 at Goodwill.  It reached the end of its usable life some time ago, and the family strongly encouraged her to replace it before it collapsed altogether.  Grandma’s native stubbornness came to the fore and she insisted that it was not necessary, until this week when she called us to ask if we wouldn’t take her wheelchair shopping yesterday.  Of course we jumped at the chance.

The first stop was a typical medical supply store.  They got on my bad side fairly quickly by choosing to talk to me rather than my grandmother-in-law, even though she is perfectly capable of speaking for herself.  Then they expressed complete horror at her intention to pay for the wheelchair herself rather than billing Medicare.  In any case it turned out to be a moot point, as she tried four of the models they had available before declaring herself dissatisfied with all of them, most especially with the prices which ranged up to $1400.

The second stop was not on our list (compiled through an Internet search), but a place my grandmother knew of.  It couldn’t have been more different.  Sandwiched between a tattoo parlor and a tavern, “Discount Medical Supplies” was Spartan in furnishings and stock.  Rather than upscale lift chairs and expensive accessories, they carried secondhand chairs and basic medical supplies.  And, lo and behold, among the secondhand wheelchairs was a newer version of the one my grandmother had been using, and which she pronounced perfect at the price of $125, plus a new seat cushion for $55.  The proprietor and my grandmother even had a fine chin-wag about the villainy of the other store and their Medicare-bilking schemes.

My grandmother-in-law was completely, deeply satisfied with this transaction.  I wondered a bit about whether she should have special-ordered the custom $1400 wheelchair to her exact measurements, but I know that she would have hated it and probably sent it back.  Something in this well-used, secondhand chair was completely in keeping with the values she’s held her whole life — and in the end, who am I to criticize?  I’m just happy that she’s in a chair that won’t fall apart anytime soon.

This entry was posted on Sunday, November 16th, 2008 at 2:06 pm and is filed under Daily life. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.