was brooding under the covers, talking to my mother on
the phone. "I should just cancel my book tour,"
I told her, frustrated to the point of tears. "I
can barely get to the bathroom. How can I possibly get
across the country?"
knee had been badly injured two weeks earlier, and hobbling
to the kitchen had become about as much adventure as I
could stand. Now, however, my collection of essays about
Jewish women had been published, and I was scheduled to
go on tour. Local travel was clearly doable, with friends
schlepping me back and forth to bookstores and synagogues,
but the whole Los Angeles/Seattle/New York/Boston thing
seemed out of the question.
don't you rent a wheelchair?" suggested my mother,
always the problem solver. Living in Berkeley, Calif.,
where organizations for the disabled are as common as
coffee bars, I was used to seeing all kinds of people
roll by -- paraplegics, amputees, people with cerebral
palsy, whatever -- yet somehow, until she said it, I hadn't
considered it an option for myself..(full