I am so glad to have the wheelchair, which is the difference between being able to get out or having to stay in. To start with I wasn't sure I'd be able to get one - at the hospital I was told the only way to get wheelchairs is through the Red Cross, but all the numbers I phoned had a message saying, "we no longer hire out wheelchairs". Then I asked Barnet Council who promised to get back to me, and never did.
But then all I had to do was jsut say the words, "I need a wheelchair" to the great nurses at the North London Hospice, and they pitched up with one the very next day. It is an antidote to depression. Although I am still getting odd looks along the road as I do my half-walking/half-being pushed routine ("Hallelujah, she's cured!" "Oh, no she's not!" "Oh, yes, she is!")