The Difference A Foot Makes…

The victory of getting a wheelchair was short lived. In concept, it was wonderful news that social services was making an exemption for me despite my palliative status (which disentitled me to no-cost, loaned assistive equipment), but unfortunately the type of wheelchair isn’t suitable for me.

It’s just too heavy for any of my volunteers to lift into a vehicle, and has been sitting now for weeks idle and taking up valuable space in the middle of my apartment. So back it goes. And the red tape with insurance begins once again (I really thought I had dodged that bullet when I decided to forego any further experimental treatments, but here I go again despite perhaps not having the energy required for the protracted interaction with the insurance company and other parties involved with the application).

There are some places I’ve visited over the last few months that make scooters or wheelchairs available to their customers and I have availed myself. This has allowed me to run occasional simple errands with friends and volunteers (or maybe not so simple sometimes – some stores offer better quality equipment than others, not to mention differing widths of aisles for manoeuvrability issues). I’m grateful when I get access to a mobility aid, otherwise the trip has to be either shortened considerably or forfeited altogether.

The most fascinating aspect of the transition to a “less able bodied” individual has not so much been about equipment as it has about peoples’ actions and attitudes.

Shrinking down about a foot in stature when I’m in a wheelchair changes how many strangers treat me. Although there are some very pleasant surprises (kudos to two stores that helped me last week, I can’t say where or I’ll spoil a small Christmas surprise for my daughter. The service was outstanding, no pun intended of course), but often I’m treated as invisible or seemingly unworthy of the same courtesy as the customer ahead of me in line.

If you’ve met me in person, you’ll know me to be quite friendly to everybody. I enjoy making eye contact and sharing a smile with strangers. If someone appears to be ill-tempered I try my best to imagine that they’ve got a tough challenge on their mind and try to be friendly even when they’re not.

Sitting in a scooter or wheelchair a foot lower than where I’d normally be has been a learning experience to say the least. If I thought it was bad when I was walking awkwardly on my own or with crutches, I was in for quite a surprise! Very seldom does anyone make eye contact, even when I’m paying for a purchase. I walk away (wheel away to be more precise) – later asking whomever I was with if it was my imagination. Was I being my usual self? Am I doing anything to make the cashier or salesperson uncomfortable? I’m assured that I’m acting no differently than in other interactions with strangers, but yes – they’ve also noticed the difference in how I’m treated and relay similar stories coming from others with physical disabilities.

I’ve point blank asked trusted friends how they feel when interacting with a stranger who’s physically challenged, if they find themselves treating the person differently. And in response I’ve received some very honest and appreciated feedback. Some of it was difficult to hear, but I wanted to know.

It sounds to me like it comes down to what our families taught us, and what sort of exposure we’ve had before with the “less able bodied”. I hear that some had been taught not to make eye contact for fear that the disabled person might interpret it as staring. Others have been taught to engage as if the mobility aid were invisible.

The latter is a far more enjoyable experience for me, and it just might be for the person who’s a foot or so taller than me at that moment too. I’ll continue to offer a smile to anyone who’ll accept one. Just look down about a foot to find it.