7:30 a.m.
I woke up on the floor.

I know it’s not particularly realistic, but it’s better than climbing down from my loft.

First challenge? Getting from the floor to the wheelchair. Fifteen minutes later and after many initial mishaps, I’m headed to the bathroom. Compared to getting up and out of bed, this is cake — after I get the chair wedged into the “accessible” stall.

7:51 a.m.
There’s a bathtub on my floor that I always assumed is for disabled residents or guests. I never noticed the step until I hit it. As it’s a little late to formulate a Plan B, I set the brakes and launch into the process of getting back out of the chair. Thank God the bathroom is still empty and no one can see this.

8:10 a.m.
Remind me never to use that bathtub again. I just don’t feel clean, but my options were minimal.

It’s a good thing I have a roommate because it never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be able to reach most of the stuff on top of my dresser.

At least I have the security that the top of my head looks good. That’s all I can see in the mirror.

About 20 minutes later, the phone rings. It’s photographer Lindsay Semple. She’s downstairs and wondering if I’m ready. I hope so.

8:40 a.m.
Have you ever watched someone zip around campus and secretly think it would be so much quicker to get around if you had wheels? Think about that the next time you’re strolling up the incline between the Student Center Plaza and the MAC Center. Trust me, it’s steeper than it looks.

8:52 a.m.
I hit the automatic door button at Bowman Hall and head up the ramp to the door ... and nearly roll backwards.

The door closes, and I’m only halfway up the ramp. I roll back to push the button again ... the door closes again ... and again. Finally, I have someone push the button while I book it up the ramp, through the door and over to the elevator.

I successfully reach the closed door of my politics class, a mere eight minutes late. I always hate walking into class late. I hate rolling in even more.

I park toward the front of the room as we go over last Friday’s exam. I can sense eyes on me. When I turn my head to see my fellow classmates as they speak, I can see people staring at me. Rather, they are staring at the shiny metal of the wheelchair.

9:45 a.m.
There’s a guy perched on the bars across the only ramp out of the building, listening to his Walkman and people-watching. He obviously doesn’t see me and can’t hear me as I call out to him. A female passerby taps him and points to me.

He is embarrassed.

I head for the pay phones at the Student Center. Only one phone in the group is low enough to reach, and it also is the only one being used. I wait patiently while the caller finishes. When she hangs up, she apologizes without looking at me before she walks away. Unfortunately, even though the phone is now available, the coin slot is jammed. I go to the information office to let them know and to find out where there is another accessible telephone.

Ten minutes later, as I wander the second floor in search of the other bank of phones — armed with bad directions from downstairs — I feel a little lost. A voice behind me calls out, “Ma’am? Can I help you?”

It takes a minute for me to realize he is talking to me.

The voice belongs to Jon Harper, assistant director of the Student Center, who is kind enough to lead me directly to the phones. We talk for a few minutes before I identify myself as a Burr reporter. He seems surprised to find out that I am what he calls a TAB (temporarily able-bodied person). We talk about a similar project he participated in and new developments going on across campus thanks to Kent State’s recent Americans with Disabilities Act grant.

He shakes my gloved hand before leaving. It is nice to be looked in the eye.

10:20 a.m.
After finally making my call, I hit Big Apple Bagel for a little breakfast while I study. While in line for my cinnamon-raisin-bagel-plain-cream-cheese-and-coffee breakfast, a friend of mine walks right by me. I call out to him.

Maybe he took an actual step back when he saw me. I’m not sure. But he keeps his distance as we talk. “Did you have fun this weekend?” he asks, looking at some apparently fascinating point behind and to the left of me.

“Um, yeah, Dave,” I reply. “I was at your house most of the weekend. Remember? Party?” “Well, uh-huh,” he stumbles. “But, I mean, I didn’t know if you had fun or not ...”

My fumbling friend is rescued by the woman behind the counter telling me the only coffee they have right now is hazelnut. Hazelnut sounds good. Dave thinks so, too, and announcing so, goes to the end of the line — as far from me as possible at the moment.

I settle in at a nearby table and watch him order a bottle of O.J. and snag a table across the room. He would apparently rather sit alone than with me.

11:20 a.m.
On the way out of my morning class, I usually stop to chat with my friend Katy Burkhart, but today I couldn’t get through the post-class hallway traffic jam. She makes a beeline for my table and, of course, wants to know “What happened?!” Apparently, I nearly gave her a heart attack this morning. I keep her in suspense just a bit longer before explaining why I’m in the wheelchair.

We are joined by some of Katy’s high school friends. She introduces me with a reassuring smile. We all shake hands. Katy knows why I’m in the wheelchair, but obviously they don’t, and she makes no attempt to even mention it to them.

These are the first strangers from my peer group that have looked me in the eye all day.

11:45 a.m.
It’s nearing noon, and I have a meeting. I make my way upstairs to the third floor conference suite for a luncheon with one of four prospective provosts. For once, I’m not the one who’s late — I’m actually one of the first there.

I have some reservations. This is the first in a series of lunch meetings I am to attend representing Kent Interhall Council. I worry that the wheelchair will increase the tension and become distracting. I am here to represent KIC, but this is part of my day, part of my experience and part of my tale.

The solution I am willing to offer is to leave the chair at the door if it will cause problems in the meeting. This seems as fair as possible to the others in the meeting, the project and the organizations I am representing. I explain the situation to Sheryl Smith, director of the Office of Campus Life, who says it is unnecessary to put the experience on hold. I agree.

1:13 p.m.
As I head down the Student Center elevator, I’m already late for Spanish class. I’m on my way to Bowman Hall again, slightly more confident than this morning since I’ve been here before and know what to expect.

The hill from the Student Center feels even steeper than before on my tiring triceps, and I begin to wonder if I’m going to miss class altogether. Out of nowhere, someone behind me asks if I need help.

Enter Becky Sekerak, who happens to be going in the opposite direction as me. Even though I say she needn’t take me all the way to Bowman, she cheerfully wheels me all the way inside — complete with comfortable conversation. As it turns out, she lives in my building on the eighth floor. She negotiates the evil door/ramp combo with ease before I tell her that I am a Burr reporter. She doesn’t seem to care. She was just happy to help.

1:20 p.m.
After waiting for two or three minutes that feel like forever, the elevator doors open.

I’m about 10 minutes late to Spanish class, but thankfully the door is still open. Everyone is in groups, working on an exercise. My usual group is where it usually is — all the way across the room.

Because language classes meet so frequently, we are somewhat up-to-date on each other’s lives. As I roll in, the room turns to look at me with expressions of complete shock and borderline horror.

It is very quiet. I smile. I am getting used to this reaction.

My professor smiles back and suggests that I make my way over to the group.

“Um, weren’t you walking on Thursday?” asks Max Sterling, a junior history major, from the front row.

Even though I explain my reason, I catch him looking at the chair off and on for the rest of class. I am beginning to realize that this reaction is subconscious, like slowing down to check out the accident on the freeway. And I don’t know that I would have reacted any differently before today.

2:15 p.m.
After a quick trek to Satterfield Hall, I have time to park and rest my tired arms for a while. And to watch people watch me.

People I normally chat with before class don’t even notice me sitting next to the water fountain. Maybe it’s because they don’t expect to see me sitting in a wheelchair. Or maybe it’s because they just don’t see whoever is in the wheelchair.

It hasn’t failed to amaze me today how blatant people are in staring at me. It’s as though they think I won’t notice or something.

3:15 p.m.
Funny how in the flood of students exiting the building after class someone has the good sense to push the automatic door button to keep traffic flowing. How convenient for me. For a change.

3:35 p.m.
I get a “ride” back to Tri from a woman on my floor. It’s weird having someone push me around. I feel like I should be doing something. Plus, my friends get such a kick out of pushing the chair that I feel sort of goofy. But I am tired, and it’s not so goofy that I refuse help.

I’m only a few minutes late for my office hours at KIC. The executive board members, aware of the situation, are eager to hear about my day, laughing and talking and offering to pose for Lindsay.

Even though some parts of the office are tough to maneuver, it’s nice to feel “normal” again. I was beginning to feel like a freak of some sort.

4:50 p.m.
I simply cannot wait any longer. I know my photo companion would love to capture any tribulations on film, but I cannot wait until her 5:30 p.m. return to go to the bathroom.

Beth McTigue, a junior psychology major and fellow KIC member, smiles when I tell her where I am going and that if I’m gone for more than half an hour, she might want to come check on me.

The bathroom in the Tri-Towers Rotunda is actually one of the nicest and most easily accessible I have noticed before or since this experiment. There is a big, thick pull-curtain instead of a door, plenty of room to maneuver and turn, and ample bars for lifting yourself up and down. If only the actual door to the bathroom could be easily opened from the inside while in a sitting position. Twenty minutes later I’m back in the office. I think Beth was getting ready to come look for me.

5:30 p.m.
Office hours complete, Lindsay and I head for dinner at the Hub and then to Taylor Hall. I’ve done well so far, but the day is wearing on me.

It’s sort of a pain not being able to cut through Manchester Field, and the brick of the plaza is tough to navigate. These little things are wearing me down.

I’ve had a lot of time alone to reflect today, and that’s getting to me as well. How am I different from anyone else? Until today, I probably wasn’t at all, and I’m ashamed of that. Have I learned anything? And will I remember it? Will I be different after today? Will anyone else, after hearing what I have to say?

I hope so.

6:15 p.m.
I’m sure I’m being pretty whiny. OK, I’m being a pain in the ass. I basically don’t want to do this anymore. I am tired, I am cranky, and my entire body is stiff. But for some reason, I find myself pushing this stupid chair up this stupid hill.

I try to remember why I said I’d do this in the first place. What was the point again? It was never to count all the curb cuts and ramps that are hard to use, or to describe to Burr readers how tough it is to go to the bathroom and get dressed when you’re in a wheelchair. It was to gain understanding.

I understand that this is not an easy way to live a life. I understand that people can be unfeeling, unkind, scared of and even downright rude to the disabled. I understand that as a society we are socialized in a certain way, and that it is incredibly difficult to change those tendencies this late in life. I also understand that we must change not only our tendencies but also the way we socialize our children.

And I understand that at the end of the day, I will get up out of this chair and that it’s not really fair. I understand that I don’t really understand.

I think I’m rolling backwards.

I think I’m going to cry.

6:30 p.m.
Relief comes — the kind you feel only when you’ve accomplished something you had convinced yourself you couldn’t do.

It is short-lived, however. I can see Taylor from here, but I can’t get there.

No wheelchair off-roading. I have to go down a small hill, across the quad, up a little hill, completely circumnavigate the parking lot next to Johnson Hall, and then hit the path that travels behind Taylor.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m in photo class — a half hour late.

It has taken an hour and a half to get from Tri-Towers to the Hub to Taylor Hall. This usually takes me 20 minutes.

In the small, cluttered room in the basement of Taylor, where class is held, I feel like I’m in everyone’s way. I am frustrated with myself.

I take off my gloves to take notes. The fat of my hand, just below my fingers, is already purple despite the padding of the gloves. I feel as if my arms are going to fall off, and my legs are actually numb.

I try to stay out of everyone’s way and almost kill myself on a huge aluminum sink. All I want is to get out of this chair.

8:45 p.m.
The end is so near that I can almost taste it. All that remains is work at The Daily Kent Stater.

101 Taylor Hall. If you ever find yourself in a wheelchair and in need of something from the Stater, don’t bother. Go to the door and yell in. You will get stuck otherwise. You will crash into things, and you will want to go home.

My editors take this opportunity to make me as crazy as humanly possible. And I let them.

I can’t think straight, and there is no blood flowing to my feet, but I sit and write headlines anyway.

A half hour later, everything is done. Lindsay and I take off for Tri-Towers.

Last trip. For the first time all day, I let loose down a hill. I am flying!

I am crashing into the grass. I am so close to home.

9:30 p.m.
I have never wanted to stand up so badly in all my life. And so I do. And just like that, it’s over.

Afterward
In the wake of my day in the wheelchair, I slept through my morning class. My roommate was kind enough to just let me rest.

Originally, I was going to have one last go at the chair, wheeling myself to Student Disability Services to return it. But I just couldn’t do it. My body hurt too much. I folded the contraption and pushed it to the Michael Schwartz Center. More people looked me in the eye and smiled on that short trip than during the entire day yesterday.

I went pretty far in that one day. But I think we’ve all got a long way yet to go.