It’s that time again. I look right and left. Then—up and down the aisles of the produce section at my
gigantic, neighborhood supermarket.

Aiming my wheelchair toward the lettuce bins, I time my sprint to avoid the periodic
misting which is supposed to keep the veggies crisp, but seems to always spritz my hair, making
it limp and frizzy, as if I’m in the Amazon Rainforest.

Pausing next to the tomatoes, I take hold of the roll of plastic bags, massage it until I
find an edge and yank it forcefully enough to rip one off without unraveling the whole roll like a
barbarian.

The battle commences. I must strike quickly before courage fails me. (Did I forget to tell
you I have only one hand?) I can never tell which end of the bag opens, so I put the flimsy
plastic on my lap and try rolling one end to see if it separates. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear
my grocery store buys magnetitized plastic produce bags. A tiny smile appears on my face as a
two-inch opening appears.

The lettuce aisle is suddenly deserted, no friendlies in sight. I must fend for myself.
Luckily the lettuces are within reach from my wheelchair height. Iceberg, romaine, butter,
arugula, curly endive, Belgian endive. There are plenty of choices. Romaine is my preference
today.

Water drains off it as I pick up a nice leafy specimen and lay it on the edge of the bin. My
hand is soaking wet now, so that should make it easier to get this damn bag open. My shoulders
hunch over as I concentrate on extending the bag open all the way—no dice. Seeing no troops
on the horizon, I lean forward and surreptitiously put the bag between my lips to anchor it, this
time getting it all the way open at the top. Notice I said, “the top”. There is still ten inches of
bag without a breath of air in it. Mounting my next assault, I whip the bag out in front of me,
ballooning it halfway open.

Now for the kill—I grab hold of the bag with my teeth, and seize my coveted lettuce. I
have to be quick because gravity will close the bag if I don’t get something in it lickety-split. And
then it happens—water splashes on my glasses, blobs of greenery land on my blouse, the
canvas shopping bag of groceries on my lap slips sideways. Where’s the white flag when I need
it?

I sense, rather than see, a person standing next to me. And then a kind voice asks, “May
I help you?”

“Oh, I’d love that,” I say with great warmth. The elderly woman takes my plastic bag
with her two arthritic hands and gives it a shake. She wrestles the Romaine lettuce into the bag,
jiggles it so the lettuce sinks in, and asks if she can put it in my canvas grocery bag.

“It’s almost impossible to do this with two hands. I can’t imagine trying with just one
hand,” she says with a laugh. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, this was the last thing I needed. I put it off until the end because it’s so hard to do
and makes such a mess.”

“Well, I wasn’t sure if I should ask. Some people in wheelchairs want to do everything by
themselves,” she said.

“I know. I’ve never understood that attitude.” After a pause, I continue. “If someone
asks, I can always say ‘Thank you for asking, but I’m fine. I appreciate your offer.’ To me, it’s a
two-way street. It makes them feel good for offering to help, and I get to show them that it’s
okay to ask a disabled person if they need something.”

She smiles as she turns to leave. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
And just like that, the battle is over. I’m sure I’ll need more lettuce next week. So just in
case you see me in the grocery aisle near the lettuce, please feel free to ask if I need help. I’ll
smile at you and say “yes, please. I’d like that very much.”

Photo by Agence Producteurs Locaux Damien Kühn on Unsplash