D for Disabled H for Handicap
Waking up in the recovery room of Virginia Beach General Hospital after having a total hip replacement was pain free and peaceful. As I awoke from my medically induced slumber, my surgeon Dr. Morina greeted me with a warm smile. As he examined me, I spoke of all the day to day things that I would be able to do without the extreme bone pain that I had felt in the past. I was reminded by Dr. Morina that I would be disabled during my six weeks of recovery. Just a minor inconvenience I thought to myself. I would soon learn that being disabled was not just a physical condition but a social one as well.
The first two days of my recovery in the hospital consisted of eating, taking pain medication and standing between the parallel bars in the physical therapy room. By the third day I was given a walker. I thought that using a walker was going to be an easy task. How hard could it be? Old people use walkers all the time and seem to have no problem, I thought to myself. After an explanation of how to use the walker was given by the physical therapist, off I went on my first try. Standing with my hands firmly gripped on the walker I started to shimmy down the hallway. I realized the hallway that was fifteen feet long a couple of minutes ago had grown to a hallway that was fifteen miles long, or so it seemed. The next two days consisted of trial and errors with the walker and the occasional race with Charlie, the 86 year old man from the room next door to mine. I was never able to beat Charlie at a walker race and needless to say I learned to respect the elderly.
I was discharged from the hospital five days after surgery. With a disabled driver placard, medication and instructions on how to sit and bend I was free. I felt like an inmate breaking out of the penitentiary. My escape vehicle, a Chevy S10 truck soon approached with my husband behind the wheel. As I tried to enter the truck I noticed a couple standing off to the side of the curb staring at me. Maybe they were staring because they wondered what had happened to me or that I was getting in to the truck awkwardly. I sure felt awkward. My husband’s voice distracted me from the staring couple and I soon forgot about the awkwardness I felt.
Soon my days were filled with trying to stay awake on pain medication and the daily visits from the physical therapist from the Jewish Rehabilitation Center. Ah, yes, Jean the physical therapist whom on the first visit seemed so sweet. By the third visit I had affectionately dubbed her, The Nazi. The Nazi was not only visiting to make my life a living hell; she was there to educate me on the world of being a disabled person. I did not realize how much there was to learn about being disabled. Height restrictions were a serious topic, especially when it dealt with toilet seats. I learned that the height of a standard toilet seat was about 14 inches high. As a disabled person that is unable to bend past 90 degrees a 14 inch high toilet seat would be to low for me to use. I needed to use a handicap toilet seat since they were between 16 and 20 inches high. I was on crutches which made climbing stairs almost an impossibility due to my bending problems so handicap ramps and elevators were the way to go. I thought that being handicapped was not going to be all that difficult after all businesses were suppose to be handicap accessible. Parking would not be an issue I thought to myself. I had the handicap placard which allowed me to park in front of an establishment.
Two weeks after leaving the hospital I had my first night out on the town. My husband and I decided to have dinner at AJ Gators. As we walked into the restaurant I noticed the stares coming from people around the room. Soon the memory of the couple standing on the curb at the hospital came flooding back. The feeling of awkwardness soon made me feel uncomfortable to the point it was almost stifling.
I excused myself from the table to use the restroom. The bathroom was small and full of women primping and talking. The handicap stall was occupied so I waited patiently for it to become available. A couple of minutes passed and soon a young woman came out of the stall. She was perfectly healthy with no disabilities. I was mortified that she was using a stall for a handicapped person. In the past I had never used a handicap stall in a bathroom. Nor had I ever stood up and told someone that was not disabled that it was wrong to use handicap stall. As I crutch my way past the young woman I mentioned to her that it was wrong for her to use the stall. She looked at me with irritation, shrugged her shoulders and said “You disabled people think you are special. Well you’re not!” and she walked away. I slammed the stall door with anger. When I turned around and looked at the toilet, I noticed that it was a standard toilet 14 inches high, which was to low for me to use.
Since that night I have come across many businesses that are not handicap accessible as well as people that were not accepting of someone that was physically different. Even though I had no control over my disability I found myself uncomfortable and at certain times embarrassed. My physical disability had somehow handicapped me socially.
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