Following a nasty skiing accident while holidaying in Europe, Keryn Curtis was glad to take up the airline wheelchair service to fly home for medical care. But she hadn’t bargained for the impact it would have on her sense of self and personal dignity. Is this what it’s like for everyone who has a disability?
The 3rd of January just gone marked two years since my ‘most recent’* skiing accident: a complex knee injury involving substantial damage to my anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) and my medial collateral ligament (MCL), as well as a fractured tibial plateau (the flattish, load-bearing top part of the shinbone that adjoins the knee).
It was extremely painful and totally debilitating, but further complicated by the fact that it happened in a small family-style ski resort in the Pyrenees in northern Spain, near the French border. Unlike the more glamorous and popular resorts of Europe, La Molina’s medical services were basic. Staff spoke Catalan first, Spanish second and French third. None spoke English.
Most people drove their cars to La Molina. We had travelled by train from Barcelona to a tiny village lower down the slope from La Molina, then taken a rare taxi the remaining ten or so kilometres up to the resort. Getting home would involve the same awkward trip in reverse, then onward to Sydney via London and Dubai, all while seriously incapacitated.
At Barcelona airport, I was immensely grateful to avail myself of the airline wheelchair service but was unprepared for the psychological impact it would have.
From the moment I took my seat in the wheelchair, it became clear I had surrendered much more than my ambulatory independence. For the first time, I saw how truly disempowered, dependent and marginalised elderly people and those with a disability can be made to feel in a busy world.
“It’s that thing of being needy and feeling child-like. That thing of well-meaning people doing ‘for you’, not ‘with you’.”
I don’t want to criticise the services themselves. Without these friendly, efficient people who collect and deliver you from flight to flight and airport to airport, getting you smoothly through the various security and passport checkpoints, modern airline travel for the non-ambulant would be barely possible.
But… well… it’s that thing of being needy and feeling child-like. That thing of brisk, well-meaning people doing ‘for you’, not ‘with you’. While I was still quite capable of presenting my passport and boarding pass (and indeed I had my family in tow to help there), it was the first thing I lost to my cheerful chair-pusher, kicking off a series of encounters with authorities and processes in which I unwittingly became the subject and a mere observer.
Aside from a glance to ensure I bore some resemblance to the person pictured in my passport, officials addressed the questions and the small talk to the person doing the pushing. It’s this person who had the interactions, showed the documentation, unpacked my laptop and handed over my handbag. It was all quite unexpected and somewhat disturbing.
“Envisaging a concourse-level, fully accessible version of the Qantas lounge, you can imagine my surprise to find myself ‘signed in’ to a soulless space not unlike the waiting area at the motor registry office.”
At Heathrow airport I was advised that there was a special room for people using the wheelchair service where we could relax for the hour or so before ‘collection’ to the gate lounge for advance boarding. Envisaging a concourse-level, fully accessible version of the Qantas lounge, you can imagine my surprise to find myself ‘signed in’ to a soulless linoleum floored space not unlike the waiting area at the motor registry office.
A wall mounted television babbled in the background and staff, having successfully delivered their various cargos to this holding bay, chatted cheerily with the defeated looking fellow in charge about their weekends.
With only one exception – another injured soul like me – every one of the people there that evening was elderly. A tapestry of nationalities, many carried walking sticks and most sat silently or dozing on their plastic chairs with accompanying family members or partners. They spoke mostly in whispers, their body language apologetic. Nobody looked happy.
Here were people who had richly textured lives: places to go, people to see, things to do and stories to tell. But the environment and the processes and procedures, though well meaning, had diminished them.
I admit it diminished me too but I am fortunate. After a long haul in physio, my knee is almost as good as new. But for others who have more permanent health and mobility problems, it is no doubt a frequent, if not universal part of the travel experience.
It’s really hard to put your finger on that sense of dignity and human agency that is the birth right of all of us as individuals and that we take so much for granted – until we experience its loss. And for what? Because we can’t get around without a bit of help?
It was my wake-up call. I didn’t like it and it made me think hard about how I would like to live and be treated and valued as a member of society should I find myself vulnerable again one day.
Have you had a similar experience? Is this just a part of life for you? How can we ensure we retain respect and dignity when accessing help services? What would you like to see change?
* Having grown up in Queensland and first hit the slopes in my mid twenties, injuries have sadly been a frequent feature of my skiing experience.
