The sun was hot on my shoulders as I rolled through the top level of the parking structure at Arden Fair Mall. My sticky shirt was pinned between my back and the back of the chair. A bead of sweat rolled down my cheek.

In a synchronized thrust, my two arms pushed the wheels forward and I glided. My thumb and the side of my index finger gripped the wheels’ outer rims again, and I pushed hard to get the wheelchair over the frame of the Macy’s door that led into the mall.

I have always wondered what it feels like to be viewed and treated as handicapped, so I tried it.

I wanted to see if people would treat me differently if I was in a wheelchair, so in September I went to the mall in one with my friend Mike Needham.

The air-conditioned mall air felt good on my face; however, the heat soon returned to my face as I said, “Excuse me. Sorry,” weaving through the people standing in line at the register by the door. The line was blocking my only path. “Thank you. Thank you very much,” I said as they stepped aside.

“Excuse me. Do you know where the elevator is?” I asked a woman walking by.

She gave us a rushed look, looked up and then told us she didn’t know.

No point in asking where the stairs were.

While Mike and I were waiting for the elevator, a mother and her two little children turned the corner to the elevator. She gave a quick glance at the wheelchair, my friend and me. Then in a fluid motion, she spun around and walked away, her children nearly dangling from her hands.

Mike and I gave each other puzzled looks.

Tom Delaney, an account manager at International Standards Organization, has experienced all of these uncomfortable situations and more over the 21 years he has been in his “contraption.”

On Dec. 7, 1985, as a young man fresh out of college, Delaney broke his neck and lost the use of his legs in a surfing accident while honeymooning in Hawaii.

After multiple operations and six months of rehab, Delaney was moved to a wheelchair.

Once a professional tennis player, entrepreneur and world traveler, Delaney had to change his lifestyle completely. “I was cut off from the things I loved,” he said.

“It seemed like friends changed overnight. There were some that just couldn’t see me that way, and some that left because we no longer had a common interest.”

Life became harder for Delaney.

“You can’t imagine the amount of [physical] pain I live in,” Delaney said.

Daily routines became more difficult. Small tasks, like opening doors, became obstacles; even sleeping proved difficult.

Delaney, who chooses not to take pain-relieving medications, said that he gets no vacation from the pain and work.

People also treat him differently, Delaney said. When people feel uncomfortable talking to him, they look straight over him (or up) to avoid eye contact.

Although there were more people on the lower level of the mall, there was less weaving. People seemed to clear a path for me from afar.

Nobody looked at me, even when I stared at them.

I saw a man standing outside a store’s front window and decided to ask him where the food court was.

Even though I was inches from his leg, I had to get the man’s attention by saying, “Excuse me, sir. Do you know where the food court is?”

“Ah, yes. That is the one place I do know here,” he said. He looked to be in his late fifties, with grey hair and a wrinkled face.

He looked down at me and pointed to the upper level of the far end of the mall. “It’s at the end over there. Well, I don’t know how to explain how to get there,” he said. Then seeing a solution, “You can take the elevator, over there, and then just go from there,” he said.

When we arrived at the food court, we could not decide what to eat, so we decided to ask a young lady at a kiosk nearby to see if she had any recommendations.

“Well, the Chinese is good. I like the Chinese. Thank you, have a nice day,” she said hurriedly, almost nervously, but minding her manners.

Picking up a slice of pizza proved to be much harder than I had expected. Pushing the tray across the counter, then wheeling myself forward a couple feet, I reached the register.

The couple ahead of me had a small boy, no older than four, and when I had placed my order he turned to me and said, “Hi,” looking me in the eyes.

As I paid for the food, a man, probably in his thirties, came up and cautiously reached across me to grab a couple of straws.

“Sorry, excuse me. I’m really sorry. Thanks, sorry,” this grown man said.

Finding a spot to sit was no problem because all of the people at the tables around us pulled the chairs of our table away, so I could fit without any trouble.

After lunch, Mike left so I was on my own. I decided to go look at the clothing in Champs. The store was located just below the food court; however, because I could not use the stairs, I had to go back to the elevator that I came up in and then go from there to the store.

A distance that could have been covered in a minute if I was walking and could use the stairs ended up taking me about 10 minutes.

While waiting to board the elevator, I read the sign that warned people not to use the elevator in case of a fire, telling them to take the stairs instead.

Although during a fire handicapped persons are to wait by the fire stairwell until helped by professionals, an image of a wheelchair going down the stairs came to mind.

In the store, I navigated around the tightly packed clothing displays. It seemed as though every sleeve of every shirt hit me in the face.

“Can I help you with anything?” the clerks said.

“No, I’m fine, thanks. Just looking,” I said six times, once to the two clerks who asked me at the same time.

I had had enough of the mall for one day and decided to leave.

Before the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA), places like the mall were not required to accommodate the handicapped. Because moving about in these places were too difficult, those who were handicapped didn’t go out much.

Country Day’s new building will be ADA approved, equipped with an elevator, wide doors and slight slopes.

Headmaster Stephen Repsher said that most of the buildings on campus are ADA-approved, but some of the middle school buildings need minor changes to make them accommodating.

Even the school’s new playground will be handicapped-accessible. It will have a sloping sidewalk and bars for access onto the structure.

As I headed toward the door that I had entered hours before, two ladies in their early twenties ran ahead of me to open the double doors.

I thanked them and was wheeling to the parking lot when I heard, “He was probably thinking, ‘What are these two fools doing? Trying to cut me off?! Respect the wheels!’” one of the ladies said, referring to me.

I turned slightly with a smile on my face to acknowledge that I understood her friendly joke.

“When I was in high school, one of my best friends was in a wheelchair,” she said.