Facing life in a wheelchair

On any given day, I can hop into my car, drive to work, find a parking space, alight and rush up the stairs to the street and then onto the office.

I had never noticed the scheme of events in detail; it’s usually just one rushed blur, which I loosely called a “commute”, until I tried to spend a workday in the life of a wheelchair-bound person – specifically, wheelchair-bound me.

For starters, I could not park in my usual parking spot but had to make do with a private car park (this is also because I did not have a disability badge), which provided a modicum of accessibility in the shape of a lift and relatively smooth surfaces on which to drive my chair.

Getting out of the car is an art in itself. First, you have to find a parking space that can accommodate the width of your car and of your wheelchair. You open the door to its full width, get the wheelchair frame from the seat next to you, place it on the ground, attach the wheels, apply the brakes and then, finally, hoist yourself out of the seat onto the other wheelchair. If you’re forgetful enough to leave your phone or bag in the car, getting back in is really not fun.

When trying to enter the lift, an elderly lady politely made way for me and offered help and when trying to access some pavements via so-called “ramps”, people around me were very anxious to offer help – help which, for the most part, I politely declined. My non-wheelchair-bound self does not need anyone to go up a pavement so why should I require someone’s help to perform such a mundane task just because I’m in a wheelchair?

It turns out that things I do mindlessly everyday become amplified disproportionately when trying to do them in a wheelchair. Getting in and out of cars is a chore in itself. Wearing a backpack hurts your back while driving and, if you put it on back to front, you can’t see what your front wheels are treading over.

A five-minute stroll becomes a 20-minute obstacle race, avoiding potholes and trying to find a space where I could move without being run over. Finding a pavement which I could access and run smoothly over is quite a chore.

After negotiating the road and the traffic – drivers were very willing to stop and let me cross the road – I was faced with a pavement I couldn’t access, which an elderly man helped me climb, only to be faced with further obstacles in the form of steps.

Finally, I got to work.

Sitting at my desk was not such an issue. But when I reached for my mug to make some coffee, I woke up to a horrible truth: If you need two hands to move around, you can’t use those hands to carry cups of steaming coffee and placing a container of potentially scalding liquid between your thighs isn’t really an option!

I popped out of the office during the break I popped down to a nearby arts centre. I managed to go onto the pavement but a grille threatened to wreak havoc with the wheels and, potentially, my face.

Ramps leading to pavements are just excuses for ramps. While a pushchair can easily negotiate the occasional crack in the concrete and the discomfort of having an angled ramp on an incline, a wheelchair cannot.

Upon arrival at the centre, I was pleasantly surprised. A large part of the building – bar the stairs – was easily accessible on a wheelchair and I could do whatever other patrons could do.

But not all wheelchair users are art aficionados. All of them, however, need to buy clothes and food and this is where Valletta performs woefully. An astounding proportion of shops and complexes – and this included some renowned international franchises – have a massive step welcoming you or, in my case, telling me to stay away. When I asked around – at random – none of the shops had a ramp available, barring any possibility of me becoming a customer.

A lot of people volunteered to give me a hand and hoist me up but this time round I refused. I expected that a main street in a Unesco World Heritage Site in 2009 would have proper accessibility for people who used a wheelchair and tried to live an independent life.

The city built by gentlemen for gentlemen, it transpires, was not built for gentlemen in a wheelchair.

As I write this, two days after, my hands are blistered with all the friction and my arms are still numb with all the work I gave them. I’m back walking on my feet, doing tasks mindlessly without calculating each and every step.

I was glad that people showed compassion but people with a disability deserve more than compassion. They deserve a chance to lead lives without steps having to get in the way.