Can Dreams Come True? Back in the old routine once more, little had changed on the surface. One subtle difference, however, was that the front of my Supplementary Benefit Order Book now carried my married name. Three weeks after returning from honeymoon, my usual Tuesday letter from Jack contained news which was almost unbelievable. His Social Worker had had a confidential chat with him, and in Jack's own words "ad asked if we'd like to live in a flat of our own, and I said 'You give us the chance' …" That was all the Social Worker would say, except that he would be in touch. I read the letter over and over again, before I replied. Could this mean that our dreams might come true after all? But so many obstacles had to be overcome, and I dare not become too hopeful. Nevertheless, I reassured Jack that I, for one, would do my utmost to achieve our aim – if we could believe it was possible. A month went by with no further news. I grew impatient to know whether or not we could have faith I such a project, and decided to write direct to Miss Barnes. Another few days dragged on, until she replied carefully: "I'm sure Jack must have told you that we want to help all we can. But since nothing like this has happened before, we can't make any real promises." We were really putting her on the spot to make decisions which were beyond even her control. Looking back, I am positive that she wanted to see us living happily together – almost as much as we wanted it ourselves. But her letter ended: "What do you feel should be the first move?" Our minds buzzed with ideas, and as a result I told Miss Barnes of our discovery of an Assessment Centre near Oxford, where there was a "Trial Flat" in which disabled people could practise daily living. It seemed an ideal place for us to start, and Miss Barnes arranged a meeting to discuss the matter fully. We gathered in Jack's room at the hostel, and she outlined the procedure. Letters of recommendation should be sent to the Centre by our individual doctors. Thereafter, we would be put on the waiting list. It was now September. How long must we wait, we wondered? In fact, it was March the following year before we could be admitted. A hospital ambulance would collect us, and we would stay at the Centre for two weeks. The ball had started rolling! We were confused as to whether to be pleased or scared. Uncertainties were always a problem. Neither of us felt very fit at the time. Jack still had his irksome bladder trouble, and I just felt generally weary. We made the long journey together on March 18th, and were eventually shown to the Trial Flat and left to absorb our surroundings. An old drop-leave table was matched by equally scratched dining chairs, and pushed against the wall. A solid-fuel burner sent its ugly black chimney through the ceiling, while an electric fire stood in the hearth to render it obsolete. A small French door opened on to an enclosed lawn. Under the adjoining window was a Put-U-Up settee. Two odd armchairs, and a chest of drawers completed the assortment of furniture in this part. Whatever possessed us to do this? What have we let ourselves in for? Gradually, we began to move around. Jack was used to his powered chair, but my borrowed machine still took some tricky manoeuvring. Exploring strange areas was no mean task. A sliding door lead us into the kitchen with its conglomeration of utensils and equipment. The sink unit seemed an awkward height for me, and I immediately started wondering how on earth I was going to practise living in such disadvantageous circumstance. A folding partition separated the "sitting room" from the bedroom, where there were two orthopaedic beds, and the usual lockers. A fearsome-looking hoist dangled ominously on its ceiling track above the beds. We would certainly not be needing that, we thought. Hoists were for big fat people. My 7½ stone and Jack's 8½ did not warrant such undignified elevation. Where were all these push-button controls? Where was the gleaming equipment, the electronic doors and switches? Obviously, my imagination had run riot. I had much to learn. Just then, a young nurse called in to put away our belongings, and we were left again with a much needed cup of tea. Our solitude was short lived. The door opened, and two women introduced themselves respectively as an occupational-therapist and a physiotherapist. Neither title meant much to us, and we were pleased to use their Christian names as offered. They proceeded to take all our particulars in accordance with admitting patients. A less orthodox question, however, was: "Well, now you're here, what do you hope to achieve?" We hesitantly explained that we hoped to live in our own flat. It still sounded as ridiculous as asking for the moon. Expecting a reaction of hopelessness, we were surprised that the request was met with natural acceptance. Jack mentioned that his powered chair was provided by a charity, and asked if we could both have new ones supplied by the Department of Health and Social Security. They agreed, and I saw "Wheelchair Clinic" written down. So far, so good! There followed numerous questions about our ability to wash, dress, use the toilet, to which the answers made a string of negatives on the interrogation sheet. That must have sealed our fate once and for all, we thought. No one could do so little and expect so much, surely? "Do you think we're asking too much?" I ventured. They smiles reassuringly, saying "We never make promises, but we'll see if various aids might increase your arm movements. At least, you do need new chairs, and so we'll get you mobile." Asked if they had actually helped any other married couples as helpless as we were to live alone, they shook their heads thoughtfully. "We don't know of any, but there may be more elsewhere." My heart sank a little lower. Our chances of success seemed remote. Next morning, we had to stay in bed until the doctor had seen us. Prolonged periods in bed always upset Jack, though it was not so bad for me. But it was the worst day we spent there. We did not understand the routine at all, and got very impatient for the doctor's visit. Had we communicated our displeasure to anyone else we would probably have been told in no uncertain terms that there were about twelve other patients suffering the same ordeal. Someone had to be first, and another last. Finally Doctor Anne appeared, completely disarming us with her heartfelt apologies and delightful personality. She went over us with a medical "fine toothed comb", including simple test on our muscle power. Her job was to assess our general health, but we soon discovered that she was equally proficient at giving moral support. All through the blood tests, urine samples, and goodness knows what that followed, Doctor Anne encouraged us, and understood our fears of ridicule. Her sensible and philosophical conclusion was that no marriage could possibly foresee disablement, but at least we knew at the outset what immense problems had to overcome. Wheelchair assessments were repeated at intervals during the fortnight, until we each found the type best suited to our needs. We also tried ball-bearing arm supports to assist our arm movements, but here again I can off better than Jack. These arm supports consisted of a metal trough for the arm, pivoting on an elbow shaped rod, which in turn swivelled in a socket attached to the back of the chair. Early experiments were not successful, but, determined to prove myself, I managed to use the gadget in my struggles to cook a few dishes, and was up. We left the Centre both armed with tablets, for Jack had a urinary bug, and I was slightly anaemic. It was something of an anti-climax. But we would be back, as soon as our new chairs arrived. It could take six months, though, and this seemed an eternity. Meantime, our secret remained with those dedicated to help us realise our dreams. Other thought we were just having new wheelchairs. Would this be all?