The Chair Has Entered its Squeaky Era
The Soundtrack Nobody Requested
My wheelchair has developed a personality, and unfortunately that personality is “minor haunted shopping cart.”
This is not a dramatic problem. Nothing has exploded. No wheel has rolled off into the distance. No stranger has stopped me in public to say, “Sir, your chair sounds like it is begging for mercy.” As far as I know, I may be the only person truly bothered by it.
Still, I am very bothered.
The squeaks have become part of the daily soundtrack now. A little complaint from the frame. A small metallic chirp from somewhere beneath me. The worst offenders are the brakes, which apparently believe every lock and unlock deserves to be announced to the room.
Brakes With Main Character Energy
The brake squeak is the one that gets me. It is short, sharp, and weirdly accusatory, like the chair is saying, “Oh, we’re stopping now? Fine. Everyone should know.”
When it is safe, I sometimes unlock the brakes just to minimize the noise. This is not because I am reckless. It is because I am trying to live a civilized life without my mobility device performing a one-chair experimental percussion set every time I shift position.
Maybe nobody else cares. Maybe everyone around me hears it once and immediately forgets it because they are normal people with other thoughts. I, however, am sitting directly on top of the instrument. This is my chair. I am the audience, the stage, and somehow also the roadie.
Too Close to the Band
There is also the possibility that my improved hearing is making the whole thing worse. My eyes have done their little betrayal arc, but my ears have apparently decided to become studio engineers. I pick up tiny details now. Useful sometimes. Deeply annoying other times.
A squeaking chair lives in that second category.
I know I am due for a new chair, which is good. Progress exists. Relief may be coming. First, though, I need to call insurance and ask about deductible details, because apparently no practical improvement in adult life arrives without a toll booth made of paperwork.
Still, one day soon, I may have a chair that does not announce every movement like a nervous door hinge.
Until then, I will keep rolling, listening, wincing, and unlocking the brakes when it is safe.
Quietly, if the chair allows it.
It’s noisy
Maybe just for me
Maybe not
