There’s a strange kind of grief in outliving the people who once lifted you.
I still remember the early years, before hoists were part of my life — before slings and straps became the routine. Back then, it was all about "free lifting," a term my old-school caregivers wore like a badge of honour. No machines. No fuss. Just trust, teamwork, and strength. Both of them were over 50. Neither of them ever injured themselves. Both of them stayed with me for more than a decade. And both of them are gone now — taken by cancer.
You’re not supposed to have to bury your caregivers. But I have. And it hurts more than people realise.
There’s something impersonal about a hoist. Mechanical. Clinical. It doesn’t care how you feel or how long you’ve known the person helping you. It just does its job. And while that’s the point — it’s safe, reliable, repeatable — it also strips away something deeply human. The shared effort. The silent communication. The physical bond that used to say, “I’ve got you.”
I still prefer a standing transfer. Every now and again, if it’s a quick move, I’ll cheat. I’ll stand — knowing full well that my legs are too atrophied to trust anymore. But in those moments, I remember what it used to feel like to work together with someone — body against body, not gears and battery packs.
When I did finally agree to a ceiling hoist, I made one request: paint it black. Not because I was in mourning — though maybe I was, in a way — but because if I had to have one hanging from my ceiling, it might as well match the décor. Man cave black. Functional with attitude. I’ve even considered giving it the Marvel treatment like my Kera Travel Hoist. Why not? If I’m going to be slung through the air, I might as well feel like Iron Man.
I only went ceiling-mounted because the so-called “portable” hoists were a joke. Triffid-like monstrosities that could barely fit through the door, let alone under the bed. And once they were out, there was nowhere to put them. They sat in the lounge like abandoned gym equipment, reminding me I needed to be lifted just to live.
And then there’s the sling — the real star of this daily circus. If you've never been couriered a sling with no instructions, count yourself lucky. It's like being handed an IKEA flat-pack tent without the allen key. Four loops, four buckles, no idea what goes where. Maybe a rep shows you once, then vanishes like Houdini. After that, you're on your own.
Now, getting into the hoist is tricky. But getting it right is an art form. You see, spinal cord injury doesn’t just rob you of limbs — it takes your balance, your core, your centre of gravity. If you're not perfectly positioned in that sling, your body tips. Forward. Fast. Your caregiver now needs one hand on the hoist remote, one on your knees, and a third on your forehead to stop you swan-diving into the chair like a paralysed acrobat.
It’s not graceful. It's not dignified. And it’s sure as hell not in the brochure.
I’ve looked up tutorial videos. None of them look like me. They’re always clean, composed, able-bodied actors who "play" the part of a disabled person. Their transfers are peaceful glides. Mine? More knees-around-my-ears and hoping I don’t fall through the sling like I’m crossing the Grand Canyon on dental floss.
Even once I’m in the chair, the job isn’t done. You’re sitting on the sling. It has to be wriggled out, strap by strap, while you try not to rock or tip. And don't get me started on night transfers. After 14 hours in the chair, your body is molded into it like a second skin. You're tired. Your helper's tired. The bond gets strained. Legs are pulled. Straps are fed between thighs. And dignity? That left the room 10 minutes ago.
By this point, my usual survival humour has clocked out too. I try to joke, but sometimes there’s just nothing funny about being mid-air, bare-bummed, and bruised in spirit.
But here’s the truth: hoists, for all their cold efficiency, opened a door. They made it possible to hire on kindness, not biceps. You don’t need brute strength to care — you need heart, and hoists let that shine.
Still, the real change came in 2024, when I met the Kera Travel hoist.
This wasn’t just another hoist.
It was freedom packed into a 20kg cube.
No full-body sling. No heavy wrestling. No awkward origami under tired legs at the end of the day.
Just a simple slide-down sling — like slipping on a jacket.
Soft fabric behind the back.
Two loops under the thighs.
Clip. Clip.
And you’re ready to go.
No rolling side to side. No repositioning three times. No folding your body like a lawn chair just to get a strap in place. Just a smooth glide behind your back and a gentle lift. It’s the first time I’ve ever used a sling that didn’t feel like a full workout for both me and my helper.
It folds away into a compact 53cm x 53cm x 53cm case. Needs no battery. Weighs 20kg. It’s not furniture. It’s freedom with a handle.
I can now get into any car I like — not just a modified van. Into my Lazy-Boy at home. Into a hotel bed in Wellington or Auckland. One helper. No drama. No fuss. No flipping, folding, praying, or bruised egos. Just dignity.
For the first time in decades, I could go where I wanted, stay where I wanted, and move how I wanted.
The Kera Travel gave me back something I hadn’t even realised I’d lost:
- Control.
- No more being stuck at home.
- No more dreading the nightly sling battle.
- No more feeling like a puzzle piece in someone else's routine.
- This hoist gave me mobility with dignity.
- Not perfect — but personal.
- Not cold — but considered.
- Not a production — but a partnership.
And that’s what I’ve been chasing all along.
Not just a way to move.
But a way to live.
Mark Williams is a Kera Travel user, Investor and National Sales Manager in HT Systems.
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