Traveling with Bedrest: Tips for Overcoming Mobility Challenges

How Bedrest Altered My View on Travel

7 May 2024

3D illustration of double bed hovering in air and with white cloud above. Blue toned computer graphics
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It was the summer of 2004, and the first anniversary of my spinal cord injury was fast approaching. I was successfully adapting to my new life as a permanent wheelchair user. Wheelies and transfers no longer terrified me, nor did conducting either of these moves in public.

On a hot summer afternoon, I rolled down to a local pub to join some university friends in the garden. On arrival, I clicked on my brakes and moved out of my wheelchair onto a wooden bench as smoothly as possible. This simple maneuver would prove to be almost as catastrophic as the car crash that had broken my back and left me paralysed 11 months earlier.

Unbeknownst to me, a splinter from the bench had pierced my skin and embedded itself deep in the tissue of my glute. The foreign body developed into an abscess, and my fever spiked a week later. I was rushed to the hospital. When I woke up from a general anaesthetic, there was a gaping hole in my bum cheek, where the abscess had been removed.

For the wound to heal, I was unable to sit on it. My wheelchair was strictly out of bounds, and the only position I could maintain was lying on my stomach, relieving all pressure from the wound. The duration of this restriction remained unknown.

When a setback like this occurs, initially, one digests the prognosis with stoicism. In my case, I approached bedrest as if it were a marathon—steadily at first, calmly passing the days from my prone position at my parent’s home, watching television, painting, and taking phone calls with friends.

However, after three months of being confined to my bed, the walls of my room began to close in. At six months, I was nearing my wit’s end, but I held on to hope that soon the wound would heal, enabling me to sit up and once again head into the world. Unfortunately, I learned the wound hadn’t healed correctly; it had to be reopened, restarting my sentence. Ultimately, it took another three years before I could reunite with the world.

For individuals with spinal cord injuries, such wounds are secondary complications that significantly disrupt our lives. Less than a year prior, being told I would never walk again seemed the worst news imaginable. Yet, being informed I couldn’t sit up again put everything into perspective.

After three years of incapacity, my first trip abroad was to Thailand with my brother. I lay on the white beaches of Koa Phi Phi, filled with immense appreciation for the outdoors. Even when the warm monsoon rains arrived, my gratitude remained unshakable. All I could think was, “No rain, no rainbow.”

It felt like a waking dream to spend the day outside, lying on the sand. For the first time since my injury, I didn’t agonize over the fact that my paralysed feet couldn’t feel the sand between my toes. The tingle of sunburn on my forehead, the sea salt stinging my lips, and the fresh daily coconuts were enough. Bedrest had taught me that joy could be derived from focusing on what I could still do despite my paralysis.

David Holmes, a former stuntman who was paralysed from the neck down while filming the Harry Potter movies, echoes this sentiment: “Anyone with a spinal cord injury knows how easily life can be taken away. It only takes one sore; one mark and things can go south so quickly.” During a recent stint of bedrest, I reached out to David to share in the anguish. We reflected on the impact that this fragility has on our lives—especially regarding our need to travel. “It makes me so present when I can travel and have an experience. I take in every moment: the smell of the flowers, the sunset. I feel so fortunate to see the world because I know how easily it can be taken away.”

Gratitude fuels a zest for life and an appreciation for the small things in David’s experience. Moreover, he acknowledges how bedrest alters his perspective on travel. “Perhaps it’s in the knowing that you could lose access to a place that you truly find it. I travel with urgency, squeezing in bucket list experiences before my disabled body can no longer do so.”

Consequently, bedrest has rendered me eternally restless—paralysed, yet incapable of sitting still. I feel a responsibility to move and travel, knowing that I owe it to all the days when that privilege may be revoked. I live for the next experience, the next adventure, no matter how big or small.

After one particularly arduous period of bedrest in 2017—which led to a relationship ending and the loss of my job—charged by newfound inspiration, I embraced mobility by acquiring an adapted motorbike. I recognized the need to feel as free as possible to counter the stagnation of months of confinement. When you accept you live on borrowed time, the cliché rings true: there is no time like the present.

Every single morning, I gently run my hand over the scar of my wound. If it’s intact, I mutter a prayer of thanks and then seize the day with gratitude. I feel a duty to explore the world, knowing that I could, at any moment, be stuck in bed again. At the time of writing, the wound is healed. Through my window, I can see my bike parked, waiting for me to climb aboard and embark on a new adventure.


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