2004 - Vol. 1, Issue 8

Introduction

Last semester, I took a course called "Rhetoric –– The Pursuit of Eloquence." As an assignment, we had to present a "speech" of encomium (in praise of something/someone) or invective (criticism of something/someone). I chose invective, because I thought it would allow me to diffuse my anger and frustration about the lack of accessibility my husband and I experience. I also wanted these nondisabled folks who think the existing accommodations are sufficient to have the experience of being mobility–impaired so they would understand what it's really like for thousands of individuals from day to day. The audience was a group of nondisabled classmates. In "Imagine," I, a person with a disability, am the narrator.

Leading You on Your Trip...

I want to take you on a little trip with me. Put everything down so that your hands are free. Sit comfortably in your seat –– yes, you can even slide down a bit and slouch if that feels good to you. I'm going to count to three. When I say "one," close your eyes. On "two," imagine your favorite activity. It can be skiing, hiking, swimming, running, walking, bowling –– whatever you like doing the best. Ready?

One... Two... Three... Imagine that you're running or doing whatever physical activity you love. It goes so easily. There's no discomfort; your breathing is easy. If you are running a marathon, there is no lactic acid buildup in your legs, and you cross the finish line first. If you are bowling or hiking, you likewise realize the zenith of you accomplishment. What a remarkable performance! You experience an endorphin rush and the satisfaction of having performed your best. You are filled with joy and celebration.

Now it's hours later; you're tired and looking forward to a good night's sleep. Perhaps the quality of sleep will be better than usual, if it follows the pattern of your day. In no time, you're sound asleep. You begin to dream. You look forward to another active day like the one before. But your alarm sounds. Five–thirty has come too soon.

You open your eyes and sit up on the side of the bed, but when you try to stand, your legs give out. You fall to the floor, and have trouble getting up. Then you see it. There's a wheelchair beside your bed. Your head spins with confusion. Why is that here? Somehow, you understand: you cannot walk; you cannot stand. In a panic, you awaken! What a nightmare!

But is it? You look around the room, trying to catch your breath. There's a wheelchair beside the bed. You pinch yourself because you think you must still be having the dream, but it seems so real. It is real. Something has happened to you overnight. You cannot walk. To get around, you must use the wheelchair. As you sit on the side of the bed, you transfer yourself by sliding from the bed onto a wooden transfer board to the wheelchair, wishing you'd stuck to the diet you started six months ago. Consequently, the transfer is a struggle as there's nothing to hold onto except the handle of your wheelchair which you hope does not topple over as you get halfway on. Surprisingly, it feels like you're used to this –– as if you've been doing it a long time. Nothing about it feels unfamiliar.

Using the sock device with its long handle, you slip your foot into the opening and pull firmly to bring the sock all the way up to your ankle. There are devices for everything: socks, pants, bathing. You manage to get yourself dressed. No time for breakfast.

Seven o'clock. It's time to go to work. Today, you begin a new job. You have to be there by eight–thirty. When you wheel yourself to your car, you transfer yourself as you did in getting from bed to wheelchair. In the car, after collapsing your wheelchair and putting it on the passenger side, you're not surprised to see that your car is equipped with hand controls. These too, work as if you've used them for a long time.

Seven forty–five. You drive to the office building where you are to work. There's one handicap space left, but it is blocked by an Airborne delivery truck. You notice that one of the cars parked nearer the entrance has neither a handicap placard nor handicap license plates. You're steamed. Don't these people know that some folks depend on being able to park with some facility? You maneuver around the Airborne truck and manage to get into that last space. Take a deep breath, you coach yourself. You don't want to start your day aggravated.

After wheeling yourself over the ramp from the parking space to the sidewalk, you move along until you reach the main entrance of this ultramodern, new building. You look for a sensor or a button that you can push to open the door. There is neither button nor sensor. You can't open the door with one hand and wheel your chair with the other. There's no one around. You have to wait until someone else enters or exits the building. It takes five minutes before a man in a business suit arrives for work and opens the door for you.

The elevator doors slide apart in response to your pressing the up button. As your wheelchair crosses over the threshold, the door begins to close, but quickly opens again when the sensor detects an obstruction. Still trying to maintain your composure and hide the extent of your frustration, you approach Suite 300. The closed door to the suite is half–inch thick glass. Once again, there's no way to open the door. Through the glass, you see the male receptionist engaged in an animated telephone conversation. He frowns, puts the telephone down, and comes to open the door for you. Despite feeling aggravated, you cordially thank him for his assistance.

As you get oriented to your new digs, a coworker takes you around to show you the break room where you can get coffee, eat lunch, and store food in the refrigerator. Down the hall is the rest room. May as well stop in here for a quick one, you think. There's no door opener. Not a problem; you've done this before. You just position your feet against the door, and wheel yourself through, opening the door as you go. Oops. There's a hitch. A marble threshold, more than an inch high, appears below. With that obstruction, there's no way you can get enough momentum to push the door open and enter the restroom. You wait. Good thing it's not urgent! A few moments later, a neighbor from the office next to yours emerges to go to the bathroom, too. The person who opens the door for you waltzes past you and into the handicapped access stall. You're stuck waiting, again. You can see feet moving under the door, stepping in and out of what appear to be trousers. Then the talking begins.

"No, I can't get there by noon, Terry. I'm just changing now, and I have to get gas before I can get on the road."

The person on the other end of the phone is now talking. Raucous laughter erupts. "You're kidding! What did he say when she threw the drink in his face?"

Although your need to use the facilities was not urgent in the beginning, it's becoming urgent now. You can't believe it! The person in the stall is changing clothes and talking on a cell phone! What are they thinking? Finally, the stall door opens, and the person exits as if their behavior was perfectly normal.

Within a few moments, you're in that stall. But wait. There are no grab bars. How can you transfer from the chair to the toilet without support? You do the best you can by holding on to the water pipe above the toilet, trying not to fall. The toilet paper receptacle –– one of those bulk dispensers –– is mounted low on the wall. It's so low, in fact, that you can't get your hand under and up into the dispenser to extract tissue paper. What are you supposed to do now, drip dry?

Your new coworkers invite you to lunch. You offer to drive. At the restaurant, there are no handicapped parking spaces near the entrance. Rather, the handicapped spaces are at the farthest end of the restaurant building. The spaces nearest the entrance are regular parking spaces. Again, you wonder, what were they thinking?

When you return to work, you discover that there is an electrician's panel truck blocking the one remaining handicapped parking space. One of your coworkers calls the receptionist and has him ask the electrician to come down and remove his truck. Twenty minutes later, your coworkers have returned to work, leaving you to deal with the driver, who is spewing and cursing the whole time, angry at being "inconvenienced."

By the time the workday is over, you're exhausted. You wonder if you're going to have enough energy to get through your evening class at the local university. Much as you'd like to go home and rest, you decide this is not a good night to skip class. The good thing about this campus, you think, is that there is always handicapped parking available. Situated in your wheelchair, you approach the lower–level door, push the button to open the door, and wait. The button's not working. Finally, another student comes by and lets you into the building. You have ten minutes before class begins. At the elevator, you notice the button's already been pressed. After five minutes, it's clear that the elevator's not working. You must go back down the hallway, out of the building, and pump your arms very hard to get your wheelchair up the steep hill that leads to the second level of the building. Fortunately, your class is on this floor.

Several days later, you need to go to the hospital for an examination having to do with your "condition." In the garage, there is a handicapped icon with a left–pointing arrow, indicating handicapped access. You park in a handicapped space. So far, so good. Once outside the car, you follow the signs for the elevator and get on. The elevator door stops at the main plaza level, which leads to the main entrance. To get there, you must exit the garage through a doorway, and go outside and across the plaza to the main entrance. The only problem, is that the door from the garage has no button! Because there is no one nearby to help you, you position your feet on the door, using one hand to turn the door handle and the other to attempt to wheel yourself into position to keep the door from locking again. Finally, you use both hands to wheel yourself through the doorway. Did all of these places without door openers run out of money just when they were about to install openers? This is a hospital, for goodness sake. There's no one around again, and the main entrance is also without a button.

Later in the day, you make several stops to do errands. More often than not, there's no door opener, and the parking is either inaccessible or misused.

Ten o'clock. At last, it's time to go to bed. These days, trying to live normally while using a wheelchair is exhausting. Once more, you transfer from the wheelchair to the bed. Each night, at bedtime, you wonder how you got to this point. Sleep.

It's a perfect day for a ski trip. The sun is shining so brightly on the snowy slopes that shades are a necessity. Without them, the light is near blinding. The sky lift is one of your favorite parts of the skiing experience. From the lift, you can see far down into the valley. You've been thinking about trying a new slope, and with the weather so perfect, you decide today's the day. As the sky lift approaches the crest of the slope, you push off; with the grace of a ballerina and the strength of a gymnast, you sail off down the slope. Without warning, your skis turn unexpectedly, and you're flying through midair, high off the ground. The only thing below you is disaster. As you anticipate the devastating landing, your scream echoes throughout the valley.

Awake. Another nightmare. You raise your hand to wipe the sweat from your brow. Is that how you ended up in the wheelchair? The room, however, it's different. There is no wheelchair. When you swing your legs off the bed, you're totally amazed: they work! You can stand! You realize you just came full circle –– a nightmare about having a nightmare.

Spread around on your desk are various printouts, books, journals and other documents. You remember, now. You've been researching the American's with Disabilities Act. It had started out as a boring project, but now, you have new insights. You understand what it must be like for a disabled person to do some of the things that others don't think about at all. You understand how hard it must be for a person who is mobility–impaired to get around when there are barriers at every turn. You understand that parking in a handicapped space for a "quick minute" to dash into the cleaner's is more than an inconvenience for the person from whom you have deprived a space. You recognize now what you should be looking for as you research this topic. You understand that the ADA requires only limited accommodations, and that at a minimum, they are woefully inadequate.

Having spent this time with me, going through the typical of one person with a disability, you will remember what is meaningful, beyond the text of the law books. On the count of three, you will open your eyes. One. Two. Three...