By Elizabeth M. Treston
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Wouldn’t it be nice if architects used stairs for decorative purposes rather than functional ones? When the term “Universal Design” actually becomes archaic? Imagine being able to go into your family and friends’ homes without the hassle. Perhaps that day is coming, but for now, get used to being tossed about like airline luggage.
When I was discharged from rehabilitation as a teenager, I lived with my mom and younger sisters in our inaccessible rent-controlled six-story apartment building in Queens, New York. We purchased a commode chair with four mini wheels that would fit through the bathroom door. My sister would then transfer me onto a wobbly tub bench as I held on to whatever I could grab for dear life. Some days my mom would wash my hair in a large basin by the kitchen sink using a hose. This was not the most dignified situation.
We could not afford to buy a home that would fit my new life as a quadriplegic. Like many of my peers with spinal cord disabilities, awkward adjustment was my only option.
My mom’s apartment, as well as those of all my friends, could have been major obstacles to my path forward through life. Somehow we managed. During my first few years in the wheelchair, I was fearless. Living in the city, the elevator was bound to be broken a few times a year. I never preplanned what I would do in case the elevator did not work. So when it did happen we knocked on a neighbor’s door or called out to the schoolyard that I needed help going up the stairs. No complaints were ever made carrying me up six flights of stairs. We were young.
I lived in that apartment for a number of years with my family. I came home on the weekends from college clean as a whistle because Hofstra University, where I attended school, had roll-in showers! After graduating, I continued to live in that inaccessible apartment. I made the best of the small kitchen by putting in a tiny island on wheels with a toaster oven and hot tap, and somehow was able to cook a few meals by myself.
My friends were moving into their own apartments and having parties on the weekends. The thought of not going because of the stairs, or lack of bathroom access, never occurred to any of us. We would roll through dark service entrances at two in the morning. They’d push me up steep and curvy ramps meant for trash receptacles. We would empty leg bags into cans in a hallway and toss them down the incinerators.
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My friend Carol bought her first condo in Elmhurst, New York and called to invite me to her house warming. “Crap, I forget that you’re in a chair!” she’d say. “The new place has friggin’ steps!” After a pause, she would add, “Oh, but they have a hell of a service ramp!”
Was I annoyed? Nah! I was smiling, even as my friends always forgot the chair. To them I was still me.
We’re getting older. Mom remarried and moved to Westchester, New York. Her place isn’t particularly wheelchair-friendly, but we gather there nevertheless. My sister married and bought a house. While renovating, she had the contractor widen all the doors (she was smart and planned for a free babysitter).
My friends and I moved from the city to suburbia. Some have ranch style homes and some two level colonials. I go to baptisms and graduations. They come to my accessible home for barbecues.
As people with disabilities, we need to address the lack of available housing. We need to be more vocal at zoning board meetings and contact developers. Let’s make the term Universal Design known. It’s cost effective. It benefits all, not just the few.
As I get older, I have considered a few times that the hassle of steps is too much. But then Carol will call and say, “Remember the night we let you go down that service ramp?” We laugh.
I live a barrier free life.
Elizabeth M. Treston is a freelance writer who lives on Long Island, New York.
