I was talking to a friend recently about parenting with a disability.
Shelley and I have both spent many years using wheelchairs in order to lead a
full life, (in her case for her whole life). We talked about how ingrained
ableist attitudes are in our society, so much so that we even contribute to
them ourselves. I met Shelley when we were both playing wheelchair basketball,
a lifestyle that led both of us to really underestimate just how difficult it
can be for people in Australia, living with a disability. We were both young,
fit athletes, often traveling in a team. Now, as mums, less young, less fit,
with a whole lot more responsibility and whole lot less support, we are seeing
things from a different point of view. While Shelley used to be able to handle
a couple of small steps, with a baby on her lap, those two steps are suddenly a
whole lot bigger. We both find ourselves in situations where we have had to
hand our babies to complete strangers, (something that is a risk in itself), in
order to access parts of our communities.
A third friend, also an old team-mate, recently shared a
post on social media about the way able bodied people talk to us about our
disabilities. Now I am someone who has always been quite comfortable talking
about my disability. I’ve always taken the attitude that the more people know,
the better equipped they are to treat you appropriately. This post though,
addressed the fact that what is actually happening, is a complete stranger is
asking you a whole heap of incredibly personal and often invasive questions,
with barely a ‘hello’ to preface it. How would we consider this appropriate
behaviour in any other situation? Shelley shared how she was doing groceries
one day when a woman stopped to say hello to her baby, before turning and
asking her if she had a caesarean or vaginal delivery. I’ve had many people ask
me when I was pregnant if I’d have to have a caesarean delivery. Now yes, woman
often share our birth stories, but usually with people we know, or at the very
least, within context. (God knows I probably share mine more than people want
me to!)
By answering these questions, I’ve been reinforcing this
behaviour. I don’t know how the next person they ask these questions will feel
about it. We accept that sexual assault is a traumatic and personal experience
and treat people accordingly. For many people with an acquired injury, their
story can be just as traumatic (and it’s nigh on impossible to tell from
looking at someone how long they’ve had their disability). For these people, to
be asked ‘what happened to you?’ while going about their business, can be just very
distressing. And don’t get me started on ‘what’s wrong with you?’. I actually
lead a very full and happy life, the only thing ‘wrong’, is societies
perception of my ability.
I find it secretly amusing when someone sees me out alone
and offers me some encouraging words, telling me I do a good job getting my
chair out of the car or some other mediocre task. I know they mean well, but it
just shows how little we expect of people with disabilities. I’m capable of so
much more. I find it amusing because I wonder what those same people will think
next time they see me, with my two small children- we do live in a small town,
after all.
I think my disability makes me a better parent. I know it
makes me a more considerate, patient and empathetic person. I know I can take
an extra breath (most of the time) when I watch my toddler struggle to get
dressed, because I have a very real understanding and memory of how frustrating
it is learning to do those things. Learning to dress yourself again as a
19-year-old is a very humbling experience. I am reminded of myself trying to
learn to sit up again, to roll over, to shuffle across the floor, reach for
something out of my grasp, as I watch my babies struggle to do the same.
I will still answer peoples questions, because I still
believe that the more we know, the better we can respond, but I feel the need
now to also gently remind people to consider if they would ask an able bodied
person such intimate details, or how they’d feel if a stranger approached them
to ask them such personal questions.
Now, I’m off to go fill out a highly invasive, totally
irrelevant NDIS questionnaire…
