Article
My wheelchair is called Maria, after my late Nonna. My friends often ask for Maria updates, because they know I’ve been on a journey with Maria – and my other wheelchairs.
The saga began in 2021, when my second-hand wheelchair stopped working. It’s now 2025, and though I have a wheelchair of my own, the saga continues.
I’d been warned that getting a wheelchair through the NDIS would be an exhausting and elongated process, and it was. What I didn’t realise was that my fight against ableism and incompetence was only just beginning.
One day, Stella, the second-hand wheelchair, had a battery deterioration issue. I’d set off from my apartment, having charged her overnight. The display told me she was at 100% power, yet just a few minutes later, she slowed down, the display now telling me she was at 50%.
I called the wheelchair repair company, and the technician – let’s call him Callum - told me “You can walk around, so there’s no rush.”
I am ambulant, yes. And I wouldn’t want my case to be prioritised above those of full-time wheelchair users. But his dismissal of my situation (and clear lack of disability awareness) stung.
The next week, Callum “fixed” the problem, and spent most of his visit complaining about how difficult it was to have a daughter who was a wheelchair user, how she restricted where they could go and when, how he and his wife wanted a break.
This old man seemed oblivious to the fact that it might not be appropriate to vent about the “burden” of having a disabled child to me, a disabled person. To top it off, when I used Maria that afternoon, he hadn’t actually fixed her.
It’s far from the most damaging thing he could have said, but by pointing out a feature of my disability, of which I have no control and of which I am often self-conscious, he left me feeling anxious and upset.
Callum the told me that he’d replaced Maria’s battery, but warned me to, “only take it places you really need to go.”
Places I really need to go?
My wheelchair is not a luxury. It’s my right and my gateway to the rest of the world. The fact that this non-disabled man saw no issue with telling me to restrict my participation in society is mind-boggling.
When my friend approached the company on my behalf (I didn’t have capacity to raise a complaint at the time), we heard that we weren’t the first people to raise concerns about Callum. And still, the company did nothing about it.
Since then, I’ve changed wheelchair repair companies several times. With the next company, I had similar experiences. And I’m not expecting to find one that’s much better. It seems like ableism is entrenched into the attitudes, behaviours and processes of such companies.
At a minimum, wheelchair technicians should all receive regular disability rights and awareness training, which has been designed and delivered by disabled people.
They should account for staff shortages, respond to requests in a timely manner and take our issues seriously. And they should show us the respect, dignity and empathy we deserve.