By Tiffiny Carlson
At age 14, I became a complete C-6 quad, without the ability to transfer. Typical story: shallow water, drowning, resuscitation, three months of rehab, then shipped back home.
Of course, depression followed. Mine lasted nearly three years. I simply couldn’t see any reason to be happy. Little did I know a one- month trip to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico—four years after my injury—would help me see something other than self-pity, and that was gratefulness.
My family decided to take us four kids on a month-long vacation to Mexico around Christmas 1997. I was in full-swing, post-high school rehab at the time, in a program to learn independent living skills. I was, needless to say, overwhelmingly excited to leave medical rehab behind and delve into a completely new experience. I was sick of everything related to being disabled. This trip to Mexico was a long time coming, even though I was fully aware—in theory—that our destination wasn’t going to be wheelchair-friendly.
We flew to Puerto Vallarta via Mexicana Airlines. So far, so good. It seemed like any other airline experience within the US. The realization of what, exactly, I was getting into, however, dawned on me once we landed: There was no ramp from the plane to the airport. I had to be carried by two Mexicans down the stairs then pushed nearly a quarter of a mile off the tarmac through the back entry of the airport, in order to go through Customs.
Puerto Vallarta is poor—extremely poor. Wheelchair accessibility is only to be found at larger resorts, popular restaurants, and if you’re lucky, at the major streets in town. That’s it. The rest of the city might as well be a gigantic stop sign that reads, “Sorry, friend. You ain’t going anywhere in that wheelchair!”
I was resigned to this fact. After going through Customs, employees of the airport bungee-corded my chair to the top of a Dodge Ram truck, lifted me into the cab, and drove my family and me to the three-story inaccessible villa we rented 10 miles away. Thank God I left my powerchair at home!
The scenery was what I expected. I expertly looked for signs of wheelchair access. It was sparse. Let’s just say if they had dumped me on the side of the road, I would’ve been horribly screwed. Never before did I feel so vulnerable. I tried to forget about that and think about all the fun we were going to have. And we did have a glorious time, but I can’t even begin to count the number of times my bony butt was hoisted up over some stranger’s shoulder to be carried into a boat, up some majestic stone stairs to get into a top-rated restaurant, or just pivot-transferred into the back of a cab. Every ounce of out-in-public forms of independence I learned in rehab at home were utterly useless in Puerto Vallarta.
It’s strange, but I actually became accustomed to living in this completely inaccessible land. It was gorgeous and the people were friendly and always willing to help me at the drop of a hat. But could I live there? Most definitely not.
After our trip ended, I flew home. Everything about home suddenly seemed different-and better. I appreciated all of it more. The first thing that stuck out was the ease of moving about in my city of Minneapolis, Minnesota. Zooming up and down the curb-cutted streets, hopping on and off the city bus via the automatic ramp system . . . I was gleeful. It seriously felt like I was floating in water; completely effortless, weightless. I realized I had taken all of this for granted before my trip. Gratitude flowed through my veins and the self-pity that was such a constant presence in my post-injury life virtually disappeared.
It’s not a huge revelation that a month in Mexico made me appreciate the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) more. But it’s noteworthy to realize that it helped me replace a poisonous emotion with a beneficial one: self-pity to gratefulness. The fighters and founders of the ADA are not merely heroes. They’re more than that. Words simply cannot describe all that they’ve done for us.
Justin Dart and everyone who fought the “insurmountable” fight: I don’t know how they did it. I honestly don’t think I’d be able to do what they did. What I do know is that I’m happily resting on their laurels, and for that, I’m humbly grateful.
Tiffiny Carlson is a freelance writer who lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota.
