Fran’s School of Hard Knocks

I have crawled across roads….

This report  which I read recently on Facebook, is a chilling reminder of the real human cost of the government’s brutal cuts to the welfare bill.  (If the current administration were less wedded to the idiocy that is Trident, the costs of welfare would be affordable, but that’s another story.)

In what feels like a former life, I used to keep lists of everything we had to get done at weekends, when Eddie was free and had a car to drive us around in.  The nadir or my attempts to manage without a vehicle of my own, came one Saturday, when we spent the entire day in Eddie’s car, shuttling between the supermarket and the shops.  It was awful, and a chilling reminder of how much my life had reduced to a few very narrow windows of opportunity.

With a young child, it is easier to spend the entire day at home making pancakes, drawing pictures or playing rowing games, but still. Mummy had to grow up and get her own transport, precisely because single tasks which took her three of four hours to manage by bus – going swimming, shopping, collecting from play-dates – would easily be managed in an hour or forty minutes by car.  Now, I can do three relatively trivial jobs in one morning, whereas one task used to take me all day.  That the jobs are trivial in no way diminishes the importance of getting them done, so that we can reach to others more worthwhile: laughing, having fun with friends, being happy.

So, now, once again, I and thousands like me face the prospect of fighting to maintain independence: my riding, my visits to the swimming pool and to the supermarket.  These are small pleasures, but vital to my health and sense of personal worth.  Do I want my life to recede?  Do I want to become a ghost palely loitering, gazing out at the world from the windows of my home, unable to get to even the simplest appointments?  Depression, anxiety, feelings of worthlessness all end up costing families – and the exchequer – dearly.

“Get a taxi” people say.  It costs a lot to rely on cabs.  Over the course of a year, thousands of pounds, which we don’t have, as a rule.  So, the alternative is to stay at home.  Which means, no job, no life, no socializing.  And, on occasion, the very real prospect of having to crawl across the road, rather than risk being run down by a bus.

Does the government think it is saving money, to take away all these specially adapted vehicles?  No, it is merely flooding the car market with lots of second hand vehicles that we desperately need to maintain any hope of a normal life, and which no-one else gives too hoots about.  The government is not saving money, merely postponing the costs, or shunting them sideways from the DWP onto other departments.  The government is wasting money to pursue a political stance that is false and damaging.  And ensuring that thousands of otherwise able and conscientious citizens are unable to participate in civil life, in civil debate and discourse.  Maybe we should stop being quite so polite, then, and become a little less civil.

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How should I act when I meet a disabled person at a social gathering?  There it would be normal to say, “hi”, yet at what point, if at all, should I mention the disability, and what can I say that’s neither hurtful, nor annoying, nor tactless?

All of life is a learning curve – and mine has been perpendicular, at times!  Being disabled offers no special access in itself to wisdom, tolerance or kindness.  But, with the benefit of some hindsight, I might say that meeting people at social gatherings is no different from meeting people while out walking, or at the supermarket.  Really, people don’t change, just because they gather together, though they might be drinking and laughing a bit more than usual….

Do you like this person?  Then talk to them.  Do you see them alone and feel regret that they are sitting by themselves?  Then make a point of introducing yourself, “Hi, nice to see you here, I’m Alison…” and see where the conversation takes you.

By and large, it’s a safe bet that people who self-identify as impaired in any way, would rather not.  So questions like, “What’s wrong with you?” “What happened to you?” or “What’s that all about, then?” are not our favourite topics of conversation.  Best leave them out, and kick off with something ordinary and inclusive, like, “Can I get you a drink?”, “Is this crap music or what?” or “What do you think of Donald Trump’s nomination as the republican candidate for the next presidential election campaign?” (On second thoughts, maybe avoid politics until you can trust them not to be upset.) (And don’t try saying all that if you’ve had a few too many.)

The idea that a disabled person deserves special treatment makes me cringe.  We do not need or want special treatment, though our particular challenges mean that we would like to be recognised as we are, allowed to participate fully in the world, and offered the tools to do so.  We have the right to be happy, just as everyone else expects to be.  But without extra consideration, time and resources to make that possible, happiness is much harder to reach, while we will lag behind and lead teeny tiny lives, narrow and constrained by the complete futility of trying to keep abreast of the rest.

What a waste that is.  Only recently, I finally understood, I can do what you do, it just takes me longer to do it and there is no shame in taking twice as long as you do.  There is no shame whatever in being disabled, and if a lovely guy goes to a party and starts to chat, I don’t give two hoots whether he has one arm, blond highlights or a funny accent.

People with impairments may feel self-conscious, but so may a shy person, or a woman wearing a new dress, or someone unsure about their latest contact lenses.  If you treat a person with impairments just as you would treat anyone else, that is the best you can do, and all that anyone can hope for.

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