But then I remember that time when I was quite younger than I am now and used to walk the streets of Buenos Aires, the Argentinean city where I grew up. I would see a person in a wheel chair, and that chair was pushed by someone else – a spouse, a parent, or a caregiver. The person’s legs looked thin and weak. Their bent hand showed stiff fingers. Their head was tilted to the right, and their face, fixed in a smile. And I would pass by them or let them pass by without more than a glance, trying hard to avoid looking at them. And I wouldn’t wonder about their life beyond the wheelchair.