I was the only living child, so her care fell to me. I had to convince her to enter a nursing home. It wasn’t something I wanted to do, but she was struggling hard.

“Mom, I think it’s time that we had someone care for you in a home.”
“No,” she said in a frustrating voice. “I can’t do that.”
“I think it would be much easier on you."
“No,” she said firmly, “I can’t do that. If I go, they’ll tie me up. I know they will.”

As I left, I was struck by a sad thought: “My gosh, her mind is going too. She thinks they’ll tie her up.” Finally, by necessity, she entered a nursing home. It was a nice place, and I thought she’d be fine. And yet, soon after, when I visited her, my jaw fell to the floor. She was tied to a wheelchair.

A more painful sight I’d never seen. They used what appeared to be a bed sheet, slung between her legs and then around the back of the chair. The indignity. I was distraught, though I didn’t blame the nursing home. They couldn’t have patients falling onto the floor, which is what had happened to my mother.

Originally, the collapsible wheelchair was designed to transport people. It wasn’t equipped with support for a person’s head, neck or shoulders. But over the years, as I knew too well, it had become the parking place for the disabled. As a result, elderly occupants often slumped forward, either resting their heads between their knees or slumping over the side. They developed painful pressure points and sometimes sustained nerve damage. The wheelchair should never have been used as an all-day chair, and yet, the practice was common.

As much as I searched, I could find nothing on the market that would replace the wheelchair and help my mother. I simply could not stand to think of her ending her days like that – trapped. Thankfully, I had some mechanical skills. It was time to take matters into my own hands.

Out of an old car I grabbed a small bucket seat, which I mounted on wheels. Mom used that for a while, but it was only a partial answer. The next step was to remodel a standard wheelchair with an adjustable seat instead of the standard sling. That gave her more comfort because I could adjust the angle of the seat and keep her from sliding out.

But as the days and weeks wore on, her condition deteriorated. She now slumped forward. I stood five feet from my mother, towering above this poor woman, this one-time thriving human being, the one who filled our farm home with love and wondrous smells from the kitchen. She slumped in the chair I’d built. Her head lolled between her legs and she stared at the floor. Spittle, drool ran out of her mouth and descended in a line to the floor, where it formed a tiny pool. She’d been parked in front of the television, but she couldn’t watch.

I removed the canvas backrest and replaced it with a cushion that could be angled backwards to keep her from falling forward. It was another big gain, but she soon developed a side slump, and her body was squeezed against the armrest. It had caused a severe pinch-point and, I’m sure, stinging discomfort. The solution was to make a pair of adjustable shoulder bolsters, which kept her from slumping sideways. Then came a headrest, tray and other accessories. My mother’s posture was now good. Her lungs were stretched and her body unrolled. Her dignity had returned, and with a sense of well-being. Several months later, May Hetteen passed away, but I was pleased that I had made her final days comfortable and dignified. At that moment, my obsession began.