Accessibility: Obvious or Overlooked?

My recent experiences have me reconsidering what accessibility means.

We don’t usually think about accessibility.

That is, we don’t usually think about it until we find ourselves disabled by something. Using the word disabled feels wrong to me most of the time. I don’t consider myself disabled, but Cushing’s can certainly be disabling. The word disabled has a negative connotation from the start, since it’s the inverse of being able to do something. Being disabled should mean we can’t do something, right? While that’s true some of the time, other times it just means it’s harder to do something because of an illness or injury. Sometimes the illness and our need for accessibility is temporary, but other times it’s a permanent change, or it has been lifelong.

Part of accessibility includes a wide range of adaptive equipment designed to assist people who need help with a task due to physical limitations. The wheelchair, probably the most iconic mobility aid, is what I suspect most people immediately imagine. It’s posted and painted on the ground in parking lots, it adorns signs above restrooms, and hangs from rear view mirrors on handicapped placards. When you see someone in a wheelchair, whether in real life or in a movie, it serves as an immediate indicator of disability. They’re far from the only mobility aid, but they are one of the most noticeable examples. How many pieces of adaptive equipment can you think of? Take a minute. Can you name ten? Your list probably included things like crutches, but what about things like orthotics and glasses? I’d wager that because they are so common, many people don’t even recognize glasses as an assistive device anymore.

The truth is, many accessibility products get overlooked.

I wrote recently about how I can’t find a pain-free way to stand and how I use a stool at my workbench. I don’t feel weird about sitting there, because that stool isn’t meant to be a mobility aid. Other people use it too, and it’s not an aid to them. Except I recently realized that I do use it as one, even though no one else knows that. And I realized it’s not the first time I’ve done something like that either. Last year I bought a tiny three legged stool for a camping trip. It folds up quite small, it’s got a little sling to throw it over your shoulder, and it weighs maybe 2 pounds.

It didn’t end up working out for me when I went camping, and it stayed in my garage for a while. But then I realized the county fair was the following weekend, and I was dreading the thought of standing in lines for hours. My daughter loves the fair, and I wanted to give her that experience, but I wasn’t sure how I would be physically capable of managing it. I didn’t want to let her down. I didn’t know what I was going to do, until I saw that stool sitting in the pile of camping gear in the garage, and then I made the connection. If I could just sit down when waiting in line, that would cut the physical labor in half. I would still have to walk a lot but I could do it if I didn’t also have to stand so much.

I’ll tell you what, the other people standing in line in the baking sun, hoping the nearby cool water misters would blow in their direction while waiting for their turn on the Ferris wheel sure thought I was a genious. I got many comments about it, from “smart!” to “Dang, I should have brought my camping chair,” and “I never thought of that!” None of them realized I had spent two weeks prior to the fair making sure not to do anything too active so I could be fully ready to walk around all day. None of them realized I had ibuprofen in my backpack ready to go as soon as enough time had passed from the first dose that morning. No one realized that this wasn’t just carefree family fun, it was a carefully planned excursion.

In short, no one, not even myself at that point, realized that my stool was in fact a mobility aid, the exact same way a wheelchair is. However, I strongly suspect no one would say the same kinds of things to someone in a wheelchair.

And this brings us to yesterday.

I took an uncomfortable step, both literally and figuratively. I needed to pick up a prescription. Simple enough. I do that pretty often, but I hate it. It’s always uncomfortable, either because the wait is so long, and I’m in a rush to get it done between work and all the other things on my schedule, or it’s that and I’m in physical pain from standing around. It doesn’t seem to matter when I go, either. There’s always a line, and I always leave wondering how I’m supposed to start feeling better and being more active when just doing basic daily tasks ends up meaning I’ve over exerted myself.

And so, while thinking about that on my drive home, I once again thought of the camp chair, and realized I should do it. I should put it in my car so that when I stop by the pharmacy, I can grab it and sit while in line. Then, when I arrived in the parking lot, I reached for it. I admit, there was a moment of hesitation. Wouldn’t this be weird? No one does this. That’s what scooter carts are for, right? But I don’t need a mobility cart. Do I?

I’d never considered them to be an option, but suddenly I was realizing they could be very helpful for me. Although, what if someone needs one more than I do? They can be in limited supply. No. I grabbed the stool, went in, and for once there wasn’t a single person in line except for the customer currently being served. I thought perhaps I would just stand, since it wouldn’t be long, but then I reminded myself that I need to do what’s best for my body, not my ego.

I placed the stool on the ground, and sat.

It was so comfortable. I immediately knew it was a good decision, and by sheer cosmic coincidence, the person in line in front of me was using a mobility cart. The pharmacist was somewhere in the back, and the person in line was waiting quietly. Then she caught me out of the corner of her eye. I could see the ever so slight double take. She hadn’t expected to see someone sitting on a camp stool in line. “Nice idea!” She said. It felt different coming from her than it had coming from the people at the fair. We had a nice chat about our respective injuries, and the pharmacist returned with her prescription.

I could tell it wasn’t her first time using a shopping scooter by the way she told me I could go to the counter so she had enough room to turn it around comfortably. They are unwieldy, and people seem to lose common sense when walking around them. She told me to have a good day, I said the same, and we went our separate ways.

It felt nice.

If not for the fact that I was feeling particularly nervous about my first time actively choosing to use something I viewed as a mobility aid, I might not have noticed the woman had been using a scooter cart. One of my first jobs was at Safeway, and I got used to seeing people using them every day. My family members have used them frequently, and I’m accustomed to playing “defense” against other shoppers. Which is just to say that they don’t seem noteworthy to me in general. It does make me wonder though, if one day things like crutches, wheelchairs, or walkers will be as overlooked as glasses or my camping stool.