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Finding a way through the busy parking lot is challenging. A group of teenage girls neglecting a crosswalk step out in front of my car, representing three human obstacles to avoid. With my left hand holding the nob on my steering wheel, I firmly press down with my right on the lever next to it, and my car brakes to a sudden halt. I watch the girls nonchalantly prance along, jealous at the innocence of their youth. They have no idea how life-altering being hit by a car can be. Gradually I pull back on the same lever and my car slowly advances. The shopping mall is busy and that disappoints me. I don’t like crowds. More people means more obstacles. But no matter what, I will find a way. Each obstacle I face is just another problem to solve. And I have gotten used to finding a way to do that.

I finally see an open spot and park in the blue-painted space. I shut off my car and open the door. Glance around, I see several people exiting, shopping bags in hand. Across from me I see a young woman, perhaps a few years younger than me, sitting in her own car. She uses the rear view mirror to put the finishing touches of her makeup on. I feel like I’m looking back at my former self. She also has light brown hair, a little longer than my current shoulder-length that I have tied back in a ponytail. As I watch her apply mascara, the side of my mouth curls in a rueful smirk. I used to be that girl, the one who never went anywhere unless my lip gloss, foundation and eye liner were perfect. Used to be. I used to be a lot of things. Now I’m a “no makeup” girl. When everything else takes three or four times longer to do in the morning, I’ve learned to sacrifice some of my vanity like eye shadow.

Focus Jess, I remind myself. Find a way. First step: Assemble my wheelchair. Next step: Gather things you need to take in. Final step: Transfer.

I open the car door and feel the warm summer air drift across my arms. I grip the frame of my chair which sits next to me on the passenger seat and take a deep breath. Omitting a grunt, I heft the metal carcass across my lap and down onto the pavement. Despite the lightweight titanium frame, this is still the most strenuous part of a process I have streamlined considerably over the past several years. With limited support from my core, my shoulders and arms strain as they take the brunt of the weight. The frame hits the pavement with a familiar clank.

Reaching into the backseat, I pull one wheel into the front seat and slowly pass it across my lap, being extra careful the tire doesn’t smudge dirt onto my light grey leggings. With my seatbelt still holding me in, I lean out and attach the wheel to the frame, snapping it in with a metallic click. I repeat the process with the second wheel then glance down at my lap. No tire dirt on my pants! Pleased, I grip the steering wheel with my right hand, and lean further out. I use my left hand I turn my chair upright, then position it at a 45-degree angle with my car.

After dropping my seat cushion, with its black all-purpose cover, into place I push down on the tiny lever securing the brakes. With the preliminary leaning and associated fall risks out of the way, I finally unbuckle my seatbelt.

I place my phone and small purse in the door compartment, so both in close proximity once I transfer out. I learned from early experiences of transferring onto my chair only to realize my phone, keys and purse were out of reach back on the passenger seat. Two transfers for the price of one is not the type of bargain I am shopping for today.

I place my left fist on the car seat and my right hand on the steering wheel. A quick push and pull has me sideways in the seat. My legs twist a little. With my right hand still on the steering wheel, I grab my left leg under the knee and lift. I drop it out of the car. Beyond the soft thud, I do not notice my foot, encased in white canvas sneakers, hitting the pavement. It’s the only time the bottoms of my shoes ever touch the ground.

Still gripping the wheel for balance, I lean out and put my leading hand on my chair. Letting go of the steering wheel, I drop my opposite hand down to the car seat, and lower my head. Trail hand pushing with my head down to alleviate weight off my backside, and then shifting force over to my leading hand - out of the car I go. Even though I can’t feel it, from repetition I know my backside lands safely on the chair cushion. With both hands now holding onto my chair’s frame, I push myself up and back into the seat. I pull my right leg out of the car and set it on the footplate, then pick up my left leg to mirror its partner’s position.

Oh knock it off, legs. My left leg bounces up and down. I press down firmly on my knee for a moment and feel the trembling stop. I hope it’s only my legs that are spasming. Knowing I have the coverage of the car door partially shielding me, I do a quick check between my legs. I’ve adjusted to a lot during the past five years, but potential incontinence in a public setting still creates a flutter of butterflies in my stomach. I cathed two hours ago but car transfers put a lot of pressure on my bladder, and today I opted to wear only a pad in my underwear since I’m wearing tight leggings. Fortunately everything looks and feels dry. Today’s going to be a good day, I tell myself as I unlock the breaks on my chair. And tonight’s going to be even better, I add in as I wheel away from my car.

I carefully survey the parking lot before wheeling towards the front entrance. At wheelchair height, I’m below the sight lines in rear view mirrors. There aren’t any moving vehicles but I notice the girl sitting in the car nearby looking directly at me. It’s obvious she watched my entire transfer. Instead of embarrassment, I feel amusement. I’ve become quite used to stares from strangers so I smile sweetly back at her and wheel forwards the entrance. I hope she was impressed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Seriously, lady? A woman staring down at her phone walks directly in front of me. I react immediately on my next push. More pressure on my left wheel, less on the right. My chair veers away as the oblivious shopper continues her wondering through the mall.

As I wheel along, I navigate other shoppers like a taxi driver avoiding trash cans in an alley. In many ways, this is what my life as a paraplegic has become. I face countless obstacles, many that seemingly appear out of nowhere. But for me to have a full life, I need to navigate them the best I can. I’ve learned to take those challenges on one at a time as they come my way. Find a way, I constantly remind myself.

As I roll past the crowded food court, I feel stares coming from all directions. I laugh inwardly at the people who are terrible at pretending they’re not looking. Their eyes land on me and linger longer than normal. Their gaze then drops to my paralyzed legs, as if trying to diagnose what is wrong with them. Then as we get closer they abruptly look in the opposite direction, as if suddenly I don’t exist. Finally as we pass I see them glance again out of the corner of their eyes. Ironically, their gaping is as subtle to me as seeing a young woman in a wheelchair must be to them. While it used to bother me, over time I’ve accepted it as part of my life. At the very least, every girl wants to be able to catch a man’s eye. My wheelchair does that better than any one of my former short skirt and high-heeled outfits ever could.

Finally I reach the department store at the end of the mall. There’s a slight bump in the tile that I expertly pop over and coast inside. I roll more slowly as I pass through the appliance section, frowning slightly as I take in the washing machines on display. I will eventually need a new one, but these are all top-loaded. Unless the door opens in the front, they are of no use to me.

Reaching the women’s clothing section, I know exactly what I came here for but my focus slips. It shouldn’t take long to pick out a top but my former shopaholic self takes over. The narrow aisles between clothing racks also slow me down. Every time I turn, I brush into another circular rack of clothing.

I continue browsing until I find what I came for: a classy yet appealing top to wear on my date tonight. I settle on a dark red, sleeveless chiffon blouse. It has casual ruffles and is longer in the back which I hope will prevent it riding up on me in my chair. It’s even on sale! My only concern is the neckline, a lower cut v-neck. I’m certainly not a prude but it’s a little more revealing than I typically wear. Being seated in a wheelchair gives every person standing above me the vantage point to stare down my shirt. I look at it again. I love this color! I visualize how it will look with my cream-colored knee-length skirt. I continue staring at the blouse for before realizing the only way to know for sure is to try it on. I wheel off to the woman’s changing rooms.

‘Of course!’ The only handicapped accessible dressing room is occupied. Judging from the two legs I see standing beneath the door frame, it is in use by an able-bodied person. As I wait for the door to open, I can’t help but smile as I envision this scenario unfolding if my sister were here. As she had done numerous times in public bathrooms, she would grow angry to the point she would loudly proclaim “Too bad there’s an able-bodied person using the HANDICAPPED stall!” I smile at the memories of all the inconsiderate people she’s shamed and how she has always had my back like you hope every big sister would.

The minutes tick bye. This women must be trying on the entire store! Seeing as I’m alone and not the confrontational type, I decide against taking the “loud” approach. Okay, find a way, Jess, I tell myself. You can’t sit here forever, you got a date tonight, girl!

Chewing my lower lip in thought, I back my chair up and wheel to the smaller stall. It’s incredibly narrow. What the heck? I wheel straight in. My chair fits, but now there’s no room to turn around. The door opens inward, so there’s no way it will close behind me. I feel like a cow entering a cattle shoot, but I’m already inside. Right next to me is a floor-length mirror. I study the young women in the wheelchair I see starting back. There are times I feel quite attractive. Today is not one of them. Grey leggings, white sneakers and an old t-shirt engulfing my slim frame. No make-up and hair tied back. And people still stared at me like I was a supermodel, all because of my wheelchair. Crazy!

Focus, Jess I remind myself. Okay, this can work. Who cares if the door is open? I have a sports bra on underneath my shirt and even then, I’m not too concerned about other women seeing me undressed. The experience of a spinal cord injury erased most of the modesty I used to carry as a teenager.

I use my hands to scoot myself forward a little and quickly shed my t-shirt. I steady myself a few times for balance but smoothly get the blouse over my head and pulled down. I now use my hands to half-turn sideways in my chair, so that I am now angled towards the mirror. One of my legs falls off the footplate as I twist, but I ignore it. Studying my reflection, I’m pleasantly surprised at how well it looks on me. Sleeveless tops that accentuate my upper body from a seated position are the holy grail. I like the way my tanned and toned arms look. It’s not too tight, but it still hugs my form enough to accentuate my slim waist. Leaning forward, I see the cut shows a little cleavage but decide it’s not too over the top for a first date. Or in this case, not too under the top haha…okay no more jokes, focus Jess!’ Reaching behind me, I’m also pleased the hem is long enough it won’t ride up too high as most do on wheelchair users. This is a keeper!

“Oh bless your heart, sweetie!” Of course I had just taken the blouse off and was yet to put my shirt back on when someone passes by the open changing room door. “We have an accessible room here that will fit your chair.” I look over my shoulder and see a woman. She looks elderly, perhaps old enough to be my grandmother. The name badge tells me she is a store employee.

“I-uh...think it’s being used by someone…else” I say, biting my tongue to keep from saying more. A moment of silence follows and I can feel eyeballs boring into my back. From the angle I’m sitting, I know the long scar down the center of my back is plainly visible. The lighter marred skin contrasts sharply with the surrounding smooth skin and even more distinctly with the black stretchy material of my sports bra. I push past any feelings of self-consciousness, reminding myself my scar is a badge of survival. I quickly slip my t-shirt over my head. I lean forward and tug it down behind me in back where it stuck against my backrest.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she apologizes. “Unfortunately a lot of customers use the bigger room and never think about those who actually need the extra space.”

“Tell me about it,” I turn my head and smile back at her to show I’m not upset. “But I’ve learned to find a way whenever I need to.”

“Well I’m sorry people aren’t more considerate,” she says. “You have enough to handle without needing to worry about basic accessibility issues.” It bothers me that talks like she knows everything that having an SCI comes with but I let it slide.

“It’s okay. I still found a way to make it work” I say, gesturing to the red blouse now bunched across my lap.

“That’s a gorgeous top” the store employee says. “If I were a few years younger and as pretty as you, I’d wear it out every night. Then after a week I’d pick the best guy of the bunch.” She winks at me. I laugh at her sweetness.

“Aww thanks. Hopefully my date tonight feels the same. But yes, I’ve already decided I’m buying it”

“Good choice! Will there be anything else I can bring back here for you to try on?”

“No I don’t think so.”

“Okay, well here give it to me. I’ll fold it up and take it to the checkout counter for you.

“Thank you!” As I start to back my wheelchair out, I notice my left foot is still off the foot plate and dragging along the floor. I quickly fix it with my hands. Thud! My push rim clips the door frame, likely taking a bit of paint off each other. I wheel forward, re-align, and more carefully back my chair out of the dressing room.

The euphoria over finding something attractive that fits me feels good. So much so, that I lose focus on my way to the cash register. I slow my roll and think about perhaps buying a new pair of shoes. Maybe something red, not only match my top but also make my feet stand out on my footplate? If I can find a pair that has a heal strap to keep them on my feet, and hopefully on sale...

Suddenly my watch beeps. Crap! I was so focused on shopping I lost track of time. The alarm is a reminder that I’m overdue to cath. Maybe I can get away going longer than 4 hours this time I think optimistically, but the cranberry juice and smoothie I had for breakfast flashes in my mind. Damn myself for trying to be healthy. Find a way, girl. I force myself back into problem-solving mode. Okay Jess, get your mind off shopping and focus now on what you need to do next. First step: Checkout. Fast! Next step: Haul ass to the mall bathroom. Third step: Cath! I have extra Speedicaths in my purse for emergencies just like this.

The elderly woman has made her way behind the cash register up ahead. I see her neatly folding my blouse behind the counter. I’m halfway there when I feel my upper body tremble. My blood turns to ice. Not good! That shudder is a stomach spasm. My injury level means my lower stomach muscles are also paralyzed. Just as the nerves going to my paralyzed leg muscles will misfire and spasm, my lower abdominal muscles can do the same. While this doesn’t happen often and results in little more than a few trembles, it still involves part of my stomach muscles involuntarily contracting. And when that happens while also having an overfull bladder...

OH NO! NOOO! Looking down I see the crotch of my grey leggings grow darker. I’m peeing myself in the store! Two distinct lines of wetness are forming on the inner legs of my pants, marking the edges of the incontinence pad that was no match for my overfull bladder. As I continue to urinate uncontrollably, the dark blotches only grow. Why didn’t I wear my black yoga pants today? I feel my cheeks grow warm and tears start to well up. Even after 5 years and hundreds of these mishaps, the shame of wetting myself is still devastating.

No, Jess! Don’t start crying now! I bite my lip and stiffen my chin. Your SCI will not defeat you. I blink back my tears. Okay girl, get a grip and find a way. Now, to problem solve this. First step: Play it cool and cross my legs. I look down again. No. Bad idea! My lap is totally wet, and my chair cushion is soaked. Crossing my legs may cover up some wetness across my crotch but would reveal the underneath part of my soaked pants. Okay, new first step: Get the hell out of here! Next Step: Go home and change and-

“Will this be cash or credit?”

Crap! The woman behind the register is still ringing up my purchase. I freeze for a moment. Do I just turn and wheel away? Away from the elderly lady who was so sweet to me? As I review my options, I hurriedly angle my chair so she can only view me from the side. I casually rest my left arm over my lap, ignoring the disgust I feel at the warm wetness beneath.

“Miss?” She asks again. “If you come up here closer I’ll check you out.”

I feel like a deer in the headlights. My mind kicks into overdrive. Can I possibly check out without her noticing my mess? Negative. If I wheel any closer to her, she will be able to look down over the counter and see my wet pants. My brain settles on flight. I grip my wheels like I’m a wheelchair racer, ready to propel myself out of the store and away from the cashier as fast as possible. It’s not like I’m stealing anything. Besides, at her age she probably couldn’t catch up to me even if she tried. The last thought flashes through me with guilt. I know all too well, the cruelty of seeing someone move away from you faster than you can catch up.

Would I have bolted? I’ll never know because at that exact moment a young woman in a mini-skirt walks into view. I recognize her as the same one who watched me in the parking lot. I see a few more shoppers approaching as well. The aisle is more crowded now. There’s no way I can wheel past them inconspicuously.

My mind keeps racing. Findaway! ProblemsolveJess-Yougotthis-Thinkgirlthink. First Step: ... First Step: Damn. I mean...what can I do? Out of the corner of my eye I sense the customers drawing closer. They’re headed toward this checkout counter. I feel trapped. A pit of despair forms in my stomach as I realize I am out of options.

I look back at the elderly cashier. Her expression is one of concern. Beneath it, I see that look of sweetness again. It’s something that makes me want to trust her. Without thinking, I wheel towards her. I see her eyes glance down towards my lap and I immediately lower my gaze to the base of the counter. I may want to trust her, but I don’t have to see whatever expression of shock, revulsion or pity plays across her face.

“I had an...accident” I finally whisper. My face is burning. “I need to get out of here now,” I hiss. I know my cheeks must be as red as my blouse. Ha…that stupid blouse seems so trivial now. Can I really feel sexy and confident on my date tonight knowing earlier in the day I peed my pants in public?

The cashier immediately hands me an empty plastic bag.

“Set that across your lap, sweetie.” Without thinking I do.

“Thanks," I reply in a tiny voice. I hear more footsteps. I know there are customers now lining up behind me. I try to bunch the bag up so it looks like I have a purchase sitting on my lap. I grip my push rims ready to flee.

Ding! I hear the cash register ring as I start to turn my chair.

“One second miss, don’t forget your blouse,” the cashier says loudly. The older woman is smiling sweetly as she hands me the bag. Even though I’m quite flustered, I still know I never gave her any money.

“I didn’t pay for that,” I whisper. The cashier leans down closer to me and lowers her voice.

“Hush, I did. And I get a store discount” she whispers back. Now my ears are burning. Charity. I’ve worked hard to become an independent woman. I don’t need sympathy.

“I can’t-“

“Yes, yes you can.” She still speaks softly so only I can hear her. “I used to be a nurse in a spinal cord rehabilitation unit. People like you are why I loved my job and what I did.” That says it all. I finally look up at her. There’s a look in her eyes, not of sympathy but of understanding. Nurses who treat SCi patients are angels. They do things, see things, and touch things no other human should. Yet they do so willingly as part of their duty and passion to help people like who desperately need it. And most importantly, they certainly aren’t flustered by a little pee. I feel my heart warm and some of my despair fades. This gentle woman truly understands what I am dealing with.

“I’ll come back and pay you,” I promise.

“No you won’t. You can repay me by taking this as a gift and then going out and having a great time on your date tonight,” she says sweetly, yet more firmly. “You’re going to wow him.” Then she straightens up and speaks more loudly. “You have a nice day, miss!” I smile warmly at her, then wheel out of the store with the shopping bags across my lap.

As I wheel out, once again navigating slower walkers, I begin problem solving my newest challenge. First step: Get to my car. Next step: Cover my seat. Next step: Transfer in. Next step: Disassemble wheelchair. Next step: Put wet seat cushion in plastic bag. Next step: drive home. Next step: Transfer out onto bare frame. Next step: Wash seat cushion cover. Next step: Take a shower...

The rustle of the plastic bags in my lap breaks me from my systematic thoughts. I think about its contents and decide to add one final step. Last step: Wow my date tonight. Deep down, I know I will.

No matter what happens, I will find a way.