One Close Call

by Sandra Gail Lambert

“Real people who survived the unsurvivable” is how the podcast OutAlive describes itself. Just from the name, we know these people don’t die. But that doesn’t mean no one else did or that they emerged with all their limbs (parachute snags on a cliff), their mental abilities (brain-eating virus), or even their faces (bear attack) intact. The podcast doesn’t have new episodes anymore, but I listen to the old ones again and again. 

Mostly, I listen to the show in bed. It’s an electric bed, so the back is raised and I’m surrounded by pillows. My wheelchair is plugged in beside it. I might have a bag of black licorice twirls within reach. The old dog is snoring beside me. The air conditioning is cool enough that I have a blanket over my chronically cold polio feet. Is it unseemly for me to be listening to a man describe the moment his brother fell past him to his death at the bottom of an abyss? How can I listen to the quaver in a grieving voice and perhaps cry along and yet, when the podcast ends, think “best episode ever” and search for the next one in the queue?  

OutAlive addresses this discomfiting human attribute by including experts to analyze what went wrong, so we the listeners, who are assumed to be outdoor adventurers as well, can learn from them. So I tell myself it’s educational. Also, the story is told by the person who experienced the trauma. They chose to share. So it’s not unlike when I write a personal essay. As I reach for another licorice in my climate-controlled comfort, I assure myself that my enthusiasm is untainted because using a wheelchair is also one close call after another.

Decades ago, I was offered a free registration to a ropes course “for wheelchairs.” The image of an empty wheelchair trying to squirm itself though a tire or dangling from a zip line made me laugh. But the earnest organizers wanted an answer. What the heck did they think my life was? Every time I cross the street, even with a walk light, there is danger. Especially from drivers who crane their heads to the left to make sure it’s clear and then gun into a right turn. Many times, I have almost been killed. Now I know better than to enter the crosswalk if our eyes haven’t met, but I often jerk forward almost into the curb cut. I like the look of terror when they think they almost hit the old lady in a wheelchair. It’s educational for them. A wheelchair user in our town died in this very way.

And each time I go into my backyard, there is danger. Not polar bears or rabid wolves but mostly moles, Florida mosquitoes, and sometimes fire ants. The moles dig in the night, and the next day I’m on the path I’ve used for twenty years, so I’m not paying attention. Crossing a newly created tunnel, the caster wheels drop into the loose dirt, and the wheelchair comes to an abrupt stop. I’m heavy enough that my rear end usually stays put, but the chair is stuck and mosquitoes move in. Sometimes, however, I launch into the air and onto the ground, which adds the danger of swarming ants. A simple fall out of my wheelchair can cause injuries of more life-changing consequences than the guy who went over the handlebars of his mountain bike and impaled his chest on a tree branch.

Having to trust others, building community, keeping on through fear—I sure don’t have to create some pablum, no-consequences ropes course simulation. I said none of this out loud to the ropes person. I guess it was good they had even thought about accessibility back then? My anger was out of proportion to the moment. I knew this. But my daily life is its own ropes course and could be its own podcast episode.

Before I continue rationalizing why it’s okay for me to enjoy listening to the struggles of people in extreme fear and pain, I have to wonder about health insurance. The people injured on the podcast never talk about it despite the many rescue efforts and airlifts to trauma centers and multiple surgeries by skilled doctors in hospitals full of attentive care and then stays in full-on rehab centers. What the heck? Who are these people? Maybe it’s because they are not, for the most part, old, and they were not ill or disabled before they were trapped in quicksand or buried in a rockslide.

I’m seventy-three. I have Medicare. And enough income to pay for a good Medigap plan. Still, the only rehab that would be offered to me is at a nursing home where there are few nurses despite the name. A seventy percent staff turnover rate is regular. There are no doctors there, much less skilled ones. I’ve pre-emptively researched the places in my area. They fail inspections and are routinely fined tens of thousands of dollars. A friend of mine died from a bed sore in the one near my house.

So, back to why it’s okay for me to be thrilled when the next episode of OutAlive drops. Besides the inherent dangers of using a wheelchair in my daily life (a failed battery as I cross a four-lane street, an armrest collapsing, a broken axle that tries to throw me into traffic, misjudging a patch of sugar sand), I am myself a wilderness hiker and kayaker, an outdoor adventurer. And often a solo adventurer, like many of the people featured on the podcast. 

Living in Florida means that my excursions into the natural world seldom involve the ice, snow, earthquakes, polar bears, or elevations described in OutAlive episodes. But I’ve used the language of paddle splashes to negotiate with a lounging alligator until it moved and let my friends and I pass on the only path home. On twisty trails in the tropics of South Florida, I’ve been careful to never brush against or even breathe deeply near the overhanging limbs of the poisonous manchineel tree. More than once, in a swamp with no solid land, in a stunning feat of personal gymnastics considering my lack of core strength, I’ve balanced sideways on my kayak, leaning forward, feet up, to hang my rear end over the edge to poop in a bag.

So far I’ve avoided the wrong decisions or bad luck that make for a podcast-worthy story. But sometimes barely. Paddling miles away from anyone else, deep in the Everglades, blissed out, I startle almost over the edge of the kayak when I see the crocodile swimming along in parallel. Our Florida crocodiles are mostly gentle souls (unless a woman flails in the shallow water almost on top of it). But what caused the paddle and my shoulders to jerk off-center is that my existence had been intently noticed and I had been unaware.

And did you know that feral hogs have a ballerina-like gait? On a late-night solo hike, the moonlight reflected off the limestone road through a wet prairie, so I could see the boar approach from a distance. The ditches to either side meant there was nowhere else for me to go. We kept moving toward each other. If the pig and I were tumbling on the ground, we’d be about the same length but he’d have two hundred pounds on me. And tusks. I laughed when I pulled out my four-inch knife. When I could see the bristles on his back, I stopped, angled my wheelchair sideways at the edge of the road so it would bear the initial brunt of any altercation, and reminded myself I’d only ever heard tell rumors of hog attacks. Rudolf Nureyev didn’t even flicker a side eye at me as he went by.

Disabled people don’t get to make mistakes. Once, just once that she knew about, in my then-thirty years of life, I broke a glass of lemonade as I was carrying it out to my mother. The next time she visited, she brought me a set of plastic ones in a little holder. “Look,” she said, “aren’t the strawberries on these cute?” Another time, a ranger watched me lean over my knees far enough that my hair fell forward and brushed my ankles. The shift in weight meant I could push my manual wheelchair up the incline without tipping backwards. Although for a second my front wheels lifted off the ground enough to spin on their bearings. But I hunched my shoulders and they slapped back down. I had skills! The next time I visited, there was a sign beside the path—a wheelchair with a line through it.

Those people on the podcast are never blamed even if they do make terrible decisions. And when they return to where they were crushed or attacked no one tries to prevent them. In contrast, it’s considered brave and helpful to their recovery. But disabled people are not allowed the basic human traits of risky behaviors, clumsiness, ill-advised decisions, or ignorance. 

So maybe it’s because I’m disabled or maybe because I’m just that way, but my preparations are thorough (tide charts, paper maps, 100% DEET, first aid kit, sunscreen) and include redundancies (extra water, two flashlights, two whistles, a knife attached to the kayak seat, another in the dry bag). That’s for a four-hour trip. I’ve hiked in the midst of a violent, sudden thunderstorm with a powerchair and had a plastic bag over the joy stick and a poncho slapped in place within four seconds. (Another aside: You’d think a $20,000 wheelchair would provide a better solution than a crumpled grocery bag to protect its electronics.) On trips with friends, I’m the planner, the researcher, the one who knows the weather report and directions. I put the float plan on the dashboard and also text one to a friend.

My favorite episode of OutAlive is the one with a disabled hiker. This woman and her dog plan a day hike from their campsite. She lists the supplies she takes along. They include but are not limited to a map, a compass, food for three days, medicine for four, extra socks, water, a water purifier, a coat for herself and her dog, extra socks, two head lamps, and a survival shelter. Bad weather moves in, and they are lost in the bitter cold for four nights. Along the way, both a mountain lion and a bear watch them. The podcast host expresses wonder about how prepared this woman was. I’m not surprised. I’d like to claim that we are companion outdoorswomen, but I can only aspire to her level of training, self-discipline, and ability to know when and how to overcome the adrenaline of fear and rest in place.

But I do sense in her what I’ve grown up believing. Be self-sufficient. Never count on anyone else for a rescue. Learn to evaluate the state of your body. Endure pain. Take delight in the happiness of your dog. Be mentally tough. And if you do require even a minimum of help, know that, if you’re disabled, disability will be considered the cause of your predicament. I’m not sure she and I have this last belief in common, but on the podcast she never names or even describes her disability, which is an excellent way to protect against it being used against you.

The episode ends with her reviewing what happened and making decisions about upgrading supplies and training for the future. Both she and I are now researching the technology of satellite messengers and buying fire starters. But for me the most important part of the journey was the awareness of being observed, for her by a bear and mountain lion and for me by a crocodile. She reminded me that deep in a swamp or canyon or at a busy intersection an essential skill of survival and source of wonder is learning how to remain still and notice what moves around us.  

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Sandra Gail Lambert's writing explores the intersections of disability, queerness, aging, and lesbian desire. She is the author of the Lambda Literary Award winner My Withered Legs and Other Essays and the memoir A Certain Loneliness, as well as the novels The River's Memory and The Sacrifice Zone. Her work has been published by The New York Times, The Sun, Orion, and Uncharted. Lambert lives in Gainesville, Florida close to her beloved rivers and swamps.