From the Porch
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I wanted to mount a keyboard and a trackball mouse to my power chair, so I could roll up to the TV that my laptop uses as a monitor and actually type something without hauling a whole desk setup across the room. Simple enough. Then I looked up what the chair manufacturer charges for anything that bolts onto their equipment, and discovered a pricing philosophy best described as: name it "adaptive," multiply by four. I have one working leg. At this point I've told them they can just have it, as a down payment.
Here's the part worth passing along, though: the mounting rail on the armrest of most power chairs isn't some proprietary chair-only thing — it's a standard, and it happens to be one that a lot of ordinary, non-medical gear already speaks. The same mounting hardware companies sell to truckers and boat owners for phones and laptops will often clip right onto it, for a fraction of what the "wheelchair accessory" version of the identical part costs. Just because a company can spell "adaptive" doesn't mean they've earned the markup. Before you pay the wheelchair tax on anything, it's worth five minutes of searching to see if the regular-world version of that part already fits.
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There's a particular skill caregivers develop that should really come with a certificate: the Solemn Medical Nod. The doctor says something with at least four syllables you've never heard strung together before, and you nod slowly, thoughtfully, like you're weighing the diagnosis against your own vast clinical experience. Then you get to the car and immediately turn to whoever's with you and say "did you get any of that?"
Here's the trick I've landed on after enough of these: bring a notebook, or just your phone, and write down the actual words as they're said — spelling be damned. You can look them up later. Nobody has ever failed a pop quiz for asking "can you write that down for me?" And doctors, in my experience, respect it a lot more than the nod.
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I used to think naps were a minor indulgence. I now understand them as a tactical necessity, roughly on par with keeping the gas tank above a quarter tank and always knowing where the good pen is. If someone offers to sit for an hour so you can close your eyes, take it. Don't do "one more load of laundry" first. The laundry will still be there. Your patience, if you skip the nap, will not.
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Somewhere along the way, caregiving quietly turns you into an unlicensed insurance adjuster, medical records clerk, and pharmacy liaison — all unpaid, all without an orientation. A binder saved my sanity: one place for every insurance card, every doctor's name and number, every medication with dosages and refill dates. It sounds obvious. It is obvious. I still didn't do it until month four, and I regret every one of those four months. Start the binder today. Future you will send back-in-time gratitude.