Article
At the age of 22, I became disabled with an energy limiting chronic illness that (among other things) made it difficult for me to walk very far. I was 41 by the time I got a mobility scooter. I’ve had my beloved “Bluey” for a year now, and it’s hands down the best investment I’ve ever made. I’m sad I didn’t make it sooner. So, what held me back for 19 years?
The standard line here (the one AI spat out when prompted) is that society tells semi-ambulant disabled folks that using a mobility aid is “giving up”. We should aim to walk. Walking is “healthy”. Walking is “normal”. Using a mobility aid when you could struggle on without one is a weakness of character. We are shamed for not trying harder.
We internalise these messages and we delay our own access and inclusion.
Before becoming ill, I was peripherally aware of these ideas. When walking became difficult though, I did not feel shame. I skipped over that particular flavour of internalised ableism and jumped straight to anger. Grieving the life I previously had planned – sadly out of reach with my new limitations – I was outraged in the certainty that I would be judged for using technology to make my new life manageable.
Judgement from medical professionals, it turned out, was the real barrier. To own a mobility scooter, you either buy it outright or apply for funding, and funding depends on the support and advocacy of doctors.
There are days I’m too unwell to leave the house, when walking at all is a struggle. Doctors never witness this though, because if I’m well enough to visit them, I'm also well enough to walk from a waiting room to an office without apparent difficulty. Talking about a mobility scooter with a doctor who’s just witnessed this feat is generally futile - their polite confusion, their “encouragement” to push through, a much more effective barrier to access than any set of stairs.
Eventually, I started hiring mobility scooters from Travellers Aid for day trips. The first time was unexpectedly overwhelming. The sensation of getting from point A to B without having to calculate steps and pain and exhaustion evoked the (by then) decade old memory of what it once felt like to walk.
The joy of mobility was tempered by heartache over what I could have had all along if only I’d been dubbed worthy of support.
When I finally cobbled together the cash for Bluey, the positive impact on my life was dramatic. I can get all the way around Coles or Target or Bunnings now (no more darting in and out in a rush to avoid collapse!). I can pick up medication or send letters whenever I want, without help. No more stopping for breaks halfway down the train platform or hospital hallway. No more Uber rides so short you get side-eye from the driver.
A mobility scooter is freedom.
The judgement I quietly dreaded from strangers - the reactions I feared for easily hopping on and off to access a shop or bathroom - have thankfully not materialised. People seem more inclined to make small talk about the weather or my outfit than before (filling an awkward need to demonstrate that they see me and not my disability I suspect) but it’s generally inoffensive. The moral judgement, it seems, was reserved for the act of obtaining the mobility scooter – a cultural deterrent against accepting disability and adapting.
Once you’re using it though, in my experience, the naysayers disappear into the ether.