The hard work of accessible design conjures stress-free effortlessness

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A word to the wise: be careful what you do in the dark, since even a routine chore can have dire consequences. On a hot August night in 2018, David Cherun got up to adjust the thermostat. And, in his words, “I took a zig instead of a zag” in the “pitch dark.” And he fell down a flight of stairs.

“If the wall wasn’t there I’d have gotten up and walked away.”

But that wall caused Mr. Cherun’s neck to break, and his entire world to change. Now a quadriplegic, not only was Mr. Cherun forced to retire from his successful career as an accountant, his wife, Sandi, was forced into a very quick search for a new place to live, as their current house had all sorts of stairs.

“I had four months,” remembers Ms. Cherun with a sigh.

There were a few silver linings. One was that Mr. Cherun, a lefty, still had partial use of his left hand, so he was able to pilot his new powered wheelchair. He also had enough strength to be somewhat self-sufficient; for instance, he can take pots and pans out of the cupboard and cook a meal, and he can shave and brush his teeth. In addition, the Cheruns had a wonderful, long-term relationship with interior designer Shelley Kirsch, who had first designed for them in the 1980s.

However, accessible design wasn’t “a particular specialty that I had,” Ms. Kirsch admits. “But between me and Sandi and David and other consultants, we figured out the type of things we had to do in order to make David comfortable there, and of course those lessons were carried over to here.”

“Here” is the second place Ms. Kirsch has created for her friends – they had to leave their first on Toronto’s Roehampton Avenue since the low-rise building was sold to a developer – and it’s the one the septuagenarian couple says will likely be their last. Which makes perfect sense, since, out those big windows is a view of lush evergreens in the foreground and the hustle-bustle of the Hoggs Hollow portion of Yonge Street in the background (Ms. Cherun says an occupational therapist once told her that it’s “beneficial to face a busy street because, as you age, you need constant stimulation”). Ms. Kirsch’s practised eye in both what the couple enjoys aesthetically and what Mr. Cherun needs practically has made life quite enjoyable here.

Sitting at their large custom-designed dining table, which is cantilever at one end, Mr. Cherun, who hails from Glace Bay, N.S., smiles. Maritimers, he says, “don’t know how to spell the word stress.” They assist one another, they live simply: “If you couldn’t afford to build a shed, [the neighbours] helped; they didn’t have their hand out,” he says.

And to watch the Cheruns navigate the more than 2,400 square feet of living space that Ms. Kirsch has designed, there is a stress-free effortlessness that belies the incredible effort it took to make it all happen. The foyer was rejigged, walls were moved, all doorways and corridors were widened, new millwork was designed and, where possible, furniture from their previous 1,600-sq.-ft. condo was brought over.

“So, the idea was that David should be able to go everywhere, every room,” says Ms. Kirsch.

And it is, indeed, a beautiful choreography.

Should Ms. Cherun, a retired graphic designer, rise from the dining table to walk to the living area sofa, Mr. Cherun can follow easily and can fill one of many gaps that have been created for him. Or he can glide over to his bold, goldenrod-coloured desk to check his e-mail. In the mornings, he can slide over to the informal dining table by the window to join his wife for coffee; in the evenings, Ms. Cherun can wash and chop veggies on one side of the wide, galley kitchen, while Mr. Cherun commands his chair to rise so he can stir a pot on the stove without feeling like a child. Or, at regular chair height, he can pop something in the microwave, since it opens like a drawer.

However, the design is so well executed that if Mr. Cherun were not at home, a visitor might not realize she is sitting in a fully-accessible unit. Rather, it’s a condominium filled with colour (aquamarine grasscloth, orche paint), curios (an old door with beautiful hammered ironwork hung on a track), tons of collected paintings and sculpture, a new gas fireplace surrounded by shelves filled with memories, and jewel-like light fixtures (some quite flush to trick the eye into thinking ceilings are higher).

In Mr. Cherun’s private wing, even the bathroom doesn’t suggest a wheelchaired person performs their daily ablutions here; no, it’s only upon entering Mr. Cherun’s bedroom, where there is a ceiling lift to transport him from chair to bed, that a visitor would connect the dots.

And, in Ms. Cherun’s wing on the other side of the unit, all spaces have been created with hubby in mind; the ensuite, in particular, is noteworthy for its roll-in shower: “This is my ocean,” Ms. Cherun says of the deep turquoise tile underfoot, “and that’s the beach,” she says, smiling, as she points to the pebble-look shower floor. And while Mr. Cherun will likely never get to experience the sculptural tub, he could easily hand his wife some bath oil or a towel as they chat.

“Every home could look like this,” says Ms. Kirsch. So, the real question is, why don’t they? Everyone ages. Everyone, eventually, faces mobility challenges. Maybe it’s because, like death, we just don’t want to talk about it.

“Believe me, we deal with this,” she continues. “Between ageism and disability, I could talk for a year. But we wanted this to be a beautiful place [where] no one would come in and say, ‘Oh, this is a great home for someone in a wheelchair.’

“We want people to come in and say: ‘This is a great home.’”