14 min read · 2,717 words
I got the billing notice wrong. I thought the $2,100 charge meant my custom wheelchair had finally come, even though I was still sitting in the loaner with the cracked footplate.
I’m Harlan. I’m 74, and I live at a care home in central Wisconsin, outside a town where you can tell what month it is by which tractors are on the road. I used to drive a school bus, then worked maintenance at the county fairgrounds. I’m not great at forms. I am good at noticing when a wheel keeps pulling left.
The notice came folded in half with the rest of my paperwork. It said Medicaid had paid for a custom wheelchair. I read that part twice. I assumed the chair was coming. The staff had said it was on order for months, so I put the notice in my bedside drawer.
Three weeks later, my daughter Cheryl visited and asked why I was still in the loaner.
“It’s on order,” I said.
“You told me that last month.”
“Well, then it’s still on order.”
Cheryl looked down at the footplate. The left side had a rough edge that caught my sock if I wasn’t careful. She took a photo. I didn’t like that. It made me feel like a problem she was collecting evidence about.
I told her not to make a fuss. That was my first bad call.
The chair had been measured for me the year before. My hips had gotten weaker, and the old chair pinched behind my knees. The therapist said a custom seat and a better wheel setup would help me sit without sliding sideways. I understood that much. I didn’t understand the paperwork, but I knew the new chair was supposed to be mine.
At first, the loaner was fine for short trips. Then the footplate cracked, and the right wheel began making a dry click every few turns. I told the aide, Noreen.
“Can you get maintenance to look at it?”
“I’ll put in a request.”
I asked again the next morning. Noreen wrote something on her clipboard. She was kind to me, and I didn’t want her getting blamed for a chair she hadn’t picked.
The wheelchair pulled left. I learned to push harder with my right arm. By the time I got from my room to the dining room, my shoulder would ache. I stopped going to the little evening music group because the route there took a long hallway and a turn that was hard to manage.
That part I didn’t tell Cheryl. I said I was tired.
The first page of the document that changed this was the billing notice. Cheryl asked to see it after she looked at my chair photo.
“Do you still have the notice?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“It’s in the drawer.”
She pulled out the drawer and sorted through the usual stuff: gum wrappers, two birthday cards, a missing sock, and the folded paper. I remember the gum wrapper because I told her she could throw it away and she said, “I know how garbage works, Dad.”
She read the notice without saying anything. Then she turned it toward me.
“Medicaid paid $2,100 for a custom wheelchair,” she said.
“That’s what it says.”
“Did you get it?”
I rubbed my thumb along the edge of the paper. “They told me it was on order.”
Cheryl called the front office. I could hear the receptionist through the phone speaker, though I couldn’t make out every word.
“The chair is on order,” Cheryl said. “That’s what we’ve been told.”
She listened.
“Can you tell me when it was ordered?”
Another pause.
“Can I get the delivery ticket?”
The receptionist said she’d ask the administrator.
Cheryl hung up and slid the notice back into its fold. She wasn’t yelling. That bothered me more than yelling would have.
“What?” I asked.
“I’m waiting for the paperwork.”
“Maybe it’s just slow.”
“Maybe.”
I wanted her to agree with me. I wanted the matter to be small because I was tired of people talking about my body like it was a set of tasks.
That evening, I tried to get into the dining room by myself. The left wheel pulled, and the broken footplate bumped the table leg when I made the turn. One of the other residents reached over and moved the table.
“Need a hand, Harlan?”
“No, I’ve got it.”
I didn’t have it. But I pushed on.
The next morning, the administrator, Dale, stopped by my room. He wore a badge on a blue lanyard and carried a folder.
“Your daughter asked about the chair,” he said.
“She did.”
“We’re checking with the vendor. These things take time.”
“How much time?”
He glanced at the folder. “I can’t give you a date today.”
“I’ve already waited months.”
“I understand.”
I looked at the broken footplate. Dale followed my eyes.
“We can get maintenance to look at that.”
“I’ve asked.”
“I’ll make sure it gets done.”
He spoke softly and didn’t sound cruel. That made it easier to believe him. It also made it easier for me to let the conversation end without a date, a name, or anything I could check.
I told Cheryl what Dale had said.
“He’s checking with the vendor,” I told her.
“Did he give you a date?”
“No.”
“Did he show you anything?”
“No.”
She set her bag down on my bed. She had brought me a turkey sandwich from the grocery store, the kind with too much mayonnaise that I liked. I remember the bread stuck to the roof of my mouth while she kept looking at the billing notice.
“Dad, I need you to let me ask for the ticket.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”
“You keep telling me it’s probably fine.”
“I don’t want to get somebody in trouble over a delay.”
“What if it isn’t a delay?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to imagine the answer, but I also didn’t want Cheryl to think I was scared.
“Ask for it,” I said. “Just don’t go in there like I’m accusing people.”
“I won’t.”
That was the first time I let her take the lead.
Four days later, Dale brought the delivery ticket. I was sitting near the window when he came in. Cheryl was there too. She had the billing notice on her lap.
“I got the record from the vendor,” Dale said. “It shows delivery last March.”
I looked at the date. March 14. I don’t know why I remember the four. Maybe because it was printed in a box, dark enough to read without my glasses.
“Where’s the chair?” Cheryl asked.
Dale’s mouth tightened a little. “We’re looking into that.”
He handed her the ticket. The paper was thin, with a gray line across the bottom where the printer had run low on ink. Cheryl read the name beside the signature.
It was mine.
I couldn’t hold a pen in March. I hadn’t been able to since 2022, after a small stroke messed up my right hand. I could pick up a spoon if I took my time. I couldn’t write my name.
Cheryl set the ticket beside the notice.
“That isn’t his signature.”
Dale looked at me. “The vendor’s records say it was signed at delivery.”
“I couldn’t sign then,” I said.
“I understand the concern.”
“No,” Cheryl said. “This is his name on a delivery receipt for something he never got.”
I’m ashamed of how quiet I was. I could have said more. I could have told Dale that I’d asked twice whether the chair had arrived. Instead, I stared at that signature. It began like my name, then wandered off. The last letter had a long loop, the sort of loop I used to make before my hand stopped working.
“I didn’t sign that,” I said.
Dale picked up the ticket, then put it down again.
“I’m going to contact the vendor and our compliance office.”
“How many chairs were delivered?” Cheryl asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Can you find out?”
“Yes.”
She made a copy of the ticket before Dale left. I kept the original on my bedside table. I couldn’t stop looking at it, though the paper didn’t change no matter how long I stared.
That night, I asked Noreen if she’d seen a new chair come in.
“No, honey,” she said. “Not that I remember.”
“Did any come in last March?”
“I don’t remember a delivery.”
I wasn’t asking Noreen to get involved. I think I wanted her to tell me I had imagined the whole thing. She didn’t.
The next day, Cheryl called me after she’d spoken with the state. She told me a report had been opened and that the vendor’s delivery records would be reviewed.
“Can’t they just bring me the chair?” I asked.
“I want the chair too,” she said. “But I don’t want the paperwork to disappear.”
I didn’t like hearing it put that way. I also knew she was right.
For a few weeks, the matter moved in small, dull steps. Someone from the state called Cheryl. Someone else asked for copies of the billing notice and ticket. Dale stopped by twice, once to say the review was ongoing and once to ask me when I’d last seen the chair.
“I’ve never seen it,” I said.
He wrote that down.
The care home fixed the loaner’s footplate with a replacement part. It still pulled left. I didn’t complain about the repair because it was better than nothing, and I wasn’t going to pretend I could manage without a chair.
Three weeks later, Cheryl asked me to help her go through the dates. We sat at the little table by my bed. She had written them in a notebook.
“March 14, delivery marked,” she said.
“That’s the ticket date.”
“April, you asked whether the new chair had come.”
“Probably.”
“You asked in May too.”
“I guess I did.”
“You told me in June they were waiting on the vendor.”
“I thought that was what Dale said.”
Cheryl tapped the notebook with her pen. “You told me the same thing in August.”
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
She let out a small breath through her nose. “I’m your daughter. You’re allowed to bother me.”
I looked down at my hands. My right thumb had a stiff spot from trying to grip the wheelchair rim. I’d been pretending the ache was nothing because it felt embarrassing to need help with something as ordinary as getting to supper.
“I didn’t want you thinking I couldn’t manage,” I said.
“I already know you can manage,” she said. “I’m asking why you had to manage this alone.”
I couldn’t give her a good answer. I’d spent most of my life telling my kids not to make a fuss. I’d also spent a good part of my life resenting people who didn’t notice when I needed help. That’s not fair, but it’s true.
Cheryl closed the notebook.
“I should’ve checked earlier,” she said.
“You had your own life.”
“I still should’ve checked.”
I didn’t tell her she was wrong. I’d used my pride as a reason to keep things from her, and then quietly expected her to know.
The state asked for more records. Cheryl said the vendor had reported delivering 11 wheelchairs to the building over a period of time. I didn’t know what to do with that number. It sounded too large and too ordinary at once.
“They say eleven?” I asked.
“That’s what the records show.”
“And how many are here?”
“I don’t know yet.”
The building had a storage room near the service hall. I’d passed that door plenty of times. I knew it because the latch clicked twice when it shut. I’d never asked what was inside.
A staff member walked Cheryl and me down there a few days later. The room smelled like cardboard and disinfectant. There were two wheelchairs inside. One had a loose cushion. The other had a tag tied to the back.
Cheryl looked at the chairs, then at the staff member.
“Are these the only ones?”
“These are the ones stored here,” the staff member said.
I didn’t say anything. My chair was not there. The chair listed on the ticket was not there. Eleven had been marked delivered. Two sat in that room.
I wanted to ask where the other nine went. I also worried that asking would turn the staff against me. That sounds foolish now, but it didn’t feel foolish then. I depended on people in that building to help me bathe, dress, and get out of bed. A man can be angry and still know he needs someone to bring his breakfast.
The state kept reviewing records. Dale told me the home had hired someone to help answer the questions. He said the facility was cooperating.
“I hope so,” I said.
“I know this has been frustrating.”
“Frustrating is when the TV won’t get the channel.”
He gave a small, tired laugh. I didn’t. I wasn’t trying to be funny.
Two months after Cheryl first asked for the ticket, the state contacted her with an update. The vendor had to return the $2,100 paid for my chair. The review also found other problems with the records. I don’t know the full count, and I don’t want to make it sound like I do. What I know is that the state required the vendor to replace four chairs on our hall.
Cheryl told me in my room.
“So I get one now?” I asked.
“You get a proper chair.”
“How soon?”
“They said nine days.”
I had trouble believing the number. Nine days sounded almost like a promise.
“Is it in writing?”
She showed me the email on her phone. I read the date and the words about delivery. Then I handed the phone back.
“Good,” I said.
That was all I could manage.
The new chair came on a Tuesday. I remember the smell of the rubber tires, sharp and a little sweet, and how the footrests clicked into place. The technician adjusted the seat while I watched. He asked me to try the wheels.
“Push forward,” he said.
I did.
The chair went straight.
I tried another push, harder this time. The left wheel didn’t drag me toward the wall. I made the turn to the door without bumping the frame.
Cheryl was standing near the bed. She was smiling, but her eyes looked tired.
“Better?” she asked.
“Quite a bit.”
The technician asked if I wanted him to take the old loaner away. I told him yes. I didn’t want it in the room another day.
The delivery ticket from March is still in my drawer. I could have thrown it out once the state finished reviewing everything. I haven’t. I’m not keeping it because I think a signature will explain who put it there. I don’t know that. I’m keeping it because for months I thought the problem was my asking too much.
My daughter visits on Sundays now. She still brings sandwiches, and sometimes the mayonnaise is too heavy. She asks if the wheels are working. I tell her they are.
I can cross the hall without leaning hard on my right arm. That’s a small thing, but I notice it every time.
The old ticket stays folded beside the new chair’s warranty papers.