“I was 16 when the world ended…” Nah. That’s too dramatic. What about, “The world changed drastically when I was 16…?” Better. But not enough on the severity. “My world changed drastically when I was just about to embrace it.” Ahh. Soppy, but it’ll work.

Picture this: 1986, 16 years old, living in Maryland. A senior in high school (I was that kid who’d skipped kindergarten, not because I was brilliant so much as my parents were trying to “one-up” other parents), dreaming of NYU, novel writing, and navigating New York City like I owned it. The Cosby Show and Cheers painted my vision of urban excitement. Yes, I smoked tobacco. How would I not in 1986? A little bit of weed (no, I’m not Eminem) & a larger slurp of alcohol, but only on the weekends. Yes, I was on birth control pills. The focus was AIDS, and my boyfriend and I were very adult about everything and decided to use condoms as well. Just in case. I was very liberal, you see, at 16. Very grown up, I had thought; I had patted myself on the back (yet if I had only used rubbers without the extra protection, or quit cigarettes, I might not be talking to you now). I was in love, slightly rebellious, feeling impossibly grown-up and invincible.

Spoiler alert: Invincibility is a myth teenagers sell themselves.

October arrived, and in one morning’s sleepy walk to the toilet, everything shattered – or rather, congealed. In other words, I had a large left-hemispheric ischemic stroke on the bathroom floor. I’ll spare you the other details, but the scientists hadn’t invented clot-busting drugs yet, and my stroke became a full-scale life reconstruction project. 5 months of in-house rehab, 7 months out, relearning speech, walking with a permanent right limp, and becoming a southpaw by necessity. The epilepsy due to the stroke was unfortunate, but I bounced back quite well, the doctors had told me. The stroke was severe, they said. If I hadn’t been so young, they told me… I should be happy I had such wonderful neuroplasticity… Sure.   

I adapted. Different high school. I even went to college. Maybe not the one I’d hoped, but still, a college; lost about a third of my brain, but hey, I decided, probably the part I wasn’t using anyway, right? I stopped drinking (didn’t really like alcohol anyway). I stopped smoking (really missed nicotine). I met another fantastic ex who converted me into a gym rat by teaching me how to work around my conditions. Even during pregnancy, I was managing seizures with the grace of a one-woman circus act.

Until Rheumatoid arthritis at 40: just another uninvited guest to my life’s bizarre party. By the time I had it under control, a decade had gone by where I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t walk a foot, I couldn’t move without severe pain. Head, shoulders, knees and toes (knees and toes): I’d warped other side of my body as well. I’d gone from limping with one hand back to a wheelchair with half a hand. Knee surgery during the Covid-19 pre-vaccine era. Because why make anything simple? Finally settling on a rollator and then a staff (not a cane, since my wrist is now fused) — I’ve become a master of personal reinvention.

So. “Success with Access” isn’t just a blog or a website. It’s my blueprint for turning mobility challenges into possibilities. After decades of navigating healthcare systems, adaptive technologies, and my own body’s unexpected roadmaps, I realized something crucial: information is the most powerful mobility aid.