Why They Call it a Joy Stick

I'd had a particularly dark moment. I was coming into the elevator on my way home, I was fighting tears, things seemed very bleak. The door closed behind me and even though Joe couldn't see my face he could tell how I was feeling. Although we both know that the elevators all have cameras recording everything that happens behind closed doors, he reached down and took hold of my hand.

This is a nice gesture.

It was supposed to be.

There was a problem.

My hand was resting on the joystick controller of my power wheelchair. It is very, very sensitive to movement. The slight weight of Joe's hand pressed my hand down on the control and my chair leapt into action and I crashed into the wall in front of me. Joe was startled but instead of letting go, which would have been nice, he pulled his hand back and I careened back into the door behind me. This caused him to shout and pressed my hand again. Again I shot back into the wall in front of me.

This all happened so fast and I was so startled that I couldn't yell, 'Let go of my hand!' But I gathered my wits which had been shaken, not stirred, and yelled 'Let go for God's sake.' Joe dropped my hand and my chair came to rest. Joe fell back against the wall laughing and when the door opened there were two people waiting to get on. They had to wait as I could no longer drive as I was rocking back and forth with laughter.

Finally I got off the elevator and then stopped to wipe new, fresh, tears. Even though we were still in the hallway, I felt the sun was shining again.

Darkness, though it seems impenetrable, though it seems like it has full control, is extremely fragile. A giggle can crack it, a laugh can blast it away. I need to remember that humour is a powerful, powerful tool. Humour is a wonderful, wonderful gift.

There has been sunshine every day since.