The World’s Easiest Sale

I was such an obvious mark. The world’s easiest sale. I was the salesman’s dream.

Picture the scene. I roll into a healthcare store specializing in comfort and office chairs for those with bad backs, and massage solutions for all parts of the body. The store is even called “Doctor Back” in local language. I am in a wheelchair. I am clearly in leg pain. I am flanked by my wife, my mother, and my Filipino carer. I am asking to be directed to the massage equipment. Oh, and my birthday is coming up, and my wife and mother are loudly discussing what to buy me.

If this man does not close this sale, he should find another profession.

To his credit, he was restrained. He was a decent human being. He did not exploit the situation, did not upsell aggressively, and did not try to sell me a chair I did not need. He simply showed us what was relevant and let the products sell themselves.

Fifteen minutes later we walked out with a massage gun, a foot massage machine, and a leg massage machine. We did nearly go for an eye massage machine, but we decided to focus on the legs. With Botox injections planned for next week — and not for cosmetic reasons; I have been prescribed injections in my eyelids to deal with apraxia of eyelid opening, which is a fancy way of saying my eyelids involuntarily shut and leave me effectively blind, nothing wrong with the eyes themselves — the last thing I need is a machine anywhere near that area. I am told it is a very safe procedure. I was also once told a lumbar puncture would not be too painful. I remain unconvinced by medical reassurances.

It was much cheaper than I imagined. I did not care either way. I wanted it, and I wanted it now. My capacity for waiting has never been my strong suit, but PSP has taken what little patience I had and filed for bankruptcy on its behalf. Waiting for an online delivery that might arrive in three days? Not an option. Not today. We went straight to the store, tried everything, and bought everything.

They also gave us a complimentary gift for my wife when I asked for a disability discount. A classy move. I used my birthday presents slightly early. My mother and wife seemed philosophical about this.

The physio session that preceded this shopping expedition was brutal. Really brutal. I froze multiple times during the exercises. I struggled in ways that I have not struggled in previous weeks. It was a significant drain on me, and when we got home I went straight to bed for a solid hour just to recover enough to resemble a functioning human being.

The decline is steep right now. The stiffness is worse. The pain is more present. That is not a complaint. That is just the reality. PSP does not negotiate, does not take days off, and does not care that I have plans.

But here is the thing. After that hour, I got up, we went shopping, I charged the equipment — which took an annoyingly long time — I used it all, and my feet are currently being massaged as I write this.

I am a very happy person.

The massage gun is genuinely useful for the pain in my upper legs, particularly in the moments when the pain is sharpest. The foot massage machine is, frankly, extraordinary. I am not a man prone to exaggeration on matters of personal comfort, and I am telling you: it is extraordinary.

This does not replace my physiotherapy. It does not replace other hands-on treatment. I am not suggesting it does. What it does is give me something I did not have before: the ability to address my pain at 11pm on a Tuesday when no appointment is available and no one is coming. I can now do this 24/7. That is not a small thing. That is a very large thing dressed up in a relatively small box.

I did not quibble on price. I am sure I could have found it cheaper online or found other solutions, but my emphasis was on doing something now, and I feel better for it. How long it helps we will see — but it is not as if the equipment will go unused by others in the house. For something that gives me back a degree of autonomy over my own pain management, I would have paid considerably more.

We have, over the past months, accumulated what I will generously describe as a collection of therapeutic equipment. Less generously: our house is slowly being colonized by objects that require power cables. Every cable and piece of equipment tells a story of immediate responses to shockingly quick progression.

If you visit and find yourself navigating a kind of obstacle course of massage machines, mobility aids, and assorted devices on their way to or from charging, you now have the full explanation.

This is what living with a progressive neurological condition looks like in our house. It is not neat. It is not Instagram-worthy. But it is ours, and it works, and my feet are being massaged, and today that is enough.

We keep moving. We keep finding the tools. Some people call them toys.

I call them Wednesday.