{"id":88573,"date":"2015-08-06T14:34:19","date_gmt":"2015-08-06T18:34:19","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=88573"},"modified":"2022-08-10T12:16:12","modified_gmt":"2022-08-10T16:16:12","slug":"my-grandmothers-wheelchair","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/08\/06\/my-grandmothers-wheelchair\/","title":{"rendered":"My Grandmother\u2019s Wheelchair"},"content":{"rendered":"
<\/div>\n
\"\"<\/a>

The author, posing with his grandmother, Natalie Faunda, at a park in Budapest, in 1990.<\/p><\/div>\n

My grandmother had a stroke in her late sixties. She was out in her garden, struggling in the hot sun, when she collapsed into a row of tomato plants.<\/p>\n

A neighbor heard her cries for help and called an ambulance. It was a mild case of heat stroke, a doctor said; he sent her home. That night, having returned to her house on Vaughn Avenue\u2014in what, even then, was one of the poorest parts of Youngstown: a neighborhood on the East Side called the Sharon Line\u2014she suffered a second stroke. This one was much more severe. When she\u00a0stabilized,\u00a0days later, the right side of her body was paralyzed. She had a few months to live, maybe a year.<\/p>\n

Except that she didn\u2019t; my grandmother would go on to live for nearly twenty years. And in the weeks that followed, at a local rehabilitation center, she learned to do with her left hand everything she\u2019d done predominantly with her right: to write, to eat, to tie her shoelaces, to button her shirts. With the assistance of a quad cane, she eventually learned to walk\u2014though in truth it was never much more than a shuffle.\u00a0<\/p>\n

More frequently, though, she made her way around in a collapsible wheelchair, one that I remember now with an unrelenting wistfulness. I remember its heft, the leather upholstery (almost certainly artificial), the ribbed and worn rubber handgrips; I remember the polished chrome side panels, the firm rubber treads, the metal hand rims that extended out from the wheels; I remember the brake lever\u2014only one, on her right side\u2014that, even had it been on her \u201cgood\u201d side, would have been woefully inadequate; I remember the footrest that kept her \u201cbad\u201d leg from dragging beneath the seat.<\/p>\n

Confined to the wheelchair, and not knowing that her life expectancy had been poorly estimated, my grandmother must have lived in a state of perpetual resignation\u2014except that she didn\u2019t. When her husband, my grandfather, died in 1987, my grandmother came to live with my<\/em> family, in a small town called Hudson, an hour west of Youngstown. And, two years later, when my father accepted a hardship assignment in Budapest, Hungary, she made the improbable decision to join us, to travel into what a few months earlier had been the Soviet Union. In just a few years, in spite of her stroke, she\u2019d made her way from a decaying street in suburban Ohio to the hills of one of Europe\u2019s great cities.<\/p>\n

My grandmother didn\u2019t last long in Hungary\u2014a year, actually a little less. She struggled in and around our new home.\u00a0She missed the comforts of an American culture that she\u2019d never before left. And the Hungarian doctors, though well trained and eminently professional, weren\u2019t accustomed to handling\u00a0a stubborn and outspoken American.<\/p>\n

But what matters to me is that she tried<\/em>, that\u2014even at the age of seventy-five, when the more reasonable\u00a0decision would have been to live with one of the many family members who\u2019d offered to host her in Youngstown\u2014she opted instead for something more adventurous. Bound to a wheelchair, she left the United States for the first time in her life. She wheeled herself down V\u00e1ci utca, around Margaret Island, through Heroes\u2019 Square. She drove with us in the front seat of my father\u2019s Lada, with my mother and my brother and sister in the back, and with me straddling the gearshift beside her. She traveled with us throughout Hungary\u2014to M\u00e1tra in the north, to the Flower Carnival in Debrecen, to Szentendre. And then, after a tearful good-bye\u2014not knowing that she\u2019d still be alive four years later when my father completed his assignment\u2014she traveled back to Youngstown, to live with my aunt.<\/p>\n

This past winter, while I was home to see my parents, I visited the site where my grandmother\u2019s house once stood<\/a>. The neighborhood is worse than it\u2019s ever been; entire streets are cordoned off, presumably as part of an effort to prevent the various abandoned buildings from becoming drug dens. (Despite the efforts, crime still thrives; VICTIM\u2019S BONES FOUND PIECEMEAL ON SHARON LINE<\/small>, reads a recent headline in the Youngstown Vindicator<\/em>.) The house itself\u2014brick, comprising four rooms, wholly insufficient for a family of eight\u2014burned down years ago; all that remains is a dwindling pile of bricks and, near the edge of the lot, the charred coils of a mattress. The street is overgrown. Much of the block has been reclaimed by brush and scrub trees. A man from down the road, evidently one of the neighborhood\u2019s last remaining residents, walked to the end of his driveway and stared out at me. He was clearly unaccustomed to tourists.<\/p>\n

I stood for a while at the edge of the property, beside a road sign that read NO OUTLET<\/small>. I left the engine running and the door half open.<\/p>\n

I imagined the scene as it existed in all the stories I\u2019ve heard: the house, the shed behind it, my grandfather\u2019s run-down cars, the garden. I thought about my grandmother. I thought about her stroke, about how she\u2019d crawled from the tomato plants into the shade to call to her neighbor, Annie Holt, for help. I thought about her cane and about her wheelchair, which had carried her farther from here than she could have imagined\u2014farther, no doubt, than she\u2019d have gone if she\u2019d remained healthy, and independent, and comfortable.<\/p>\n

Improbably, the wheelchair had been her ticket out. Improbably, her illness had been a stroke of luck.<\/p>\n

Stephen Hiltner is the senior editor of<\/em> The Paris Review. You can find him online on Instagram<\/a> and Twitter<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

My grandmother had a stroke in her late sixties. She was out in her garden, struggling in the hot sun, when she collapsed into a row of tomato plants. A neighbor heard her cries for help and called an ambulance. It was a mild case of heat stroke, a doctor said; he sent her home. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":8,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4393],"tags":[19040,19047,19046,19043,19039,19044,19042,19045,387,19036,21779,19031,19052,19048,19041,19037,19038,19049],"class_list":["post-88573","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-first-person","tag-budapest","tag-debrecen","tag-flower-carnival","tag-heroes-square","tag-hudson","tag-lada","tag-margaret-island","tag-matra","tag-ohio","tag-quad-canes","tag-stephen-hiltner","tag-stroke","tag-stroke-of-luck","tag-szentendre","tag-vaci-utca","tag-wheelchairs","tag-youngstown","tag-youngstown-vindicator"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nMy Grandmother\u2019s Wheelchair by Stephen Hiltner<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"August 6, 2015 \u2013 My grandmother had a stroke in her late sixties. 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