Confessions of a mail-order junkie.

My first mail-order purchase was a red silk blouse from Bloomingdales' Christmas catalog. No crowds, no irritable salespeople. I was hooked.

Within months, I had mail-ordered address labels, a desk chair, a shower radio, running shorts, weights, CDs, and videos.

I also purchased products for my job as an investigative consumer reporter for WCPX-TV in Orlando, Florida. My "Junk of the Month" segment exposed mail fraud and worthless or overpriced mail-order items.

Neighbors began to suspect me of having an affair with the UPS deliveryman. My letter carrier, Pete, mentioned something about a wheelbarrow.

I had to face the truth--I had become a mail-order junkie.

Then I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. Shopping by mail would become more of a necessity than a trivial pursuit.

The first time I browsed through a medical supply catalog, I was convinced I would never need any of those assistive devices, let alone the heavy artillery. So when it began to take an hour longer to dress for work because of numb fingers, I just set my alarm clock an hour earlier. Relying on devices--even those as innocuous as button aids--would be giving in to my MS.

When I was getting up at 5 am, I gave in and ordered a button hook/zipper pull.

By 1991, my MS had become severe and progressive and I began searching for any disability product that would camouflage or compensate for my limitations. A dressing stick, long shoehorn, and elastic shoelaces helped me quickly put on the clothes I retrieved from my closet with a reacher. I entered my car with the aid of a swivel seat. Soon, all my mobility aids were accessorized: wheelchair bags, cane grips, sheepskin seat covers, a clip-on umbrella.

This was not `disability on $5 a day'. Medical supply mail-order prices were more like Neiman Marcus than K-Mart. I was spending too much money for devices that had only one function, were not upgradeable, and would be of use for a brief period of time.

I had become a disability products mail-order junkie. Unfortunately, there is no `Mail Orderers Anonymous'. I had to go cold turkey.

This is not intended as an indictment of shopping by mail. I still order by mail--but only what I realistically need--and only after I comparison shop for the best price. I still have to remind myself occasionally that disability products won't take away disability. They are tools that help me live comfortably with `what is'.

RELATED ARTICLE: Mail-Order Savvy

A recent TV talk-show guest showed a very useful item for people with Alzheimer's--an I.D. tag. The price was $25. I was astounded. It was exactly like the dog tag I bought for my canine companion, Butter, for $6. This ignites my Consumer Reporter ire--but for now, I'll stick to the lessons I've learned:

* Compare prices! Items in general and home improvement catalogs are often less expensive than in medical supply catalogs.

* Professionals in the medical field can often purchase mail-order medical products at much lower prices. Ask for their help.

* It's often cheaper to buy supplies in bulk. Several people can form a coop for incontinence products, for example.

* Get an expert evaluation of your needs before ordering a wheelchair.

RELATED ARTICLE: Disability is the Mother of Invention

Don't buy what you invent! I'm continually devising equipment with some help from Velcro[R], glue, and duct tape.

I've sliced oversized ankle supports into wristbands. A gel seat pad is now arm- and footpads for a wheelchair. A reclining beach chair makes a great bathtub seat. I've used dog collars with loops as leg lifters--in a variety of colors to match my clothing.

It's essential for me, a quadriplegic, to find ways to recapture some independence--so I'm very proud of two recent creations. Slings I once used to position my arm over a wheelchair joystick are now rigged to support my arm for independent toothbrushing. And a gooseneck tube with a microphone clip holds my cosmetics steady as I move my head to apply makeup. Victories, no matter how small, help me move past my disabilities.

Ellen Burstein is the author of Legwork: An Inspiring Journey Through a Chronic Illness, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1994, and a specialist on consumer issues.