January 2008 was the first and only time a stranger reported me to the cops for what they thought was misuse of an accessible parking spot.
I didn’t “look disabled,” at least on the outside, but what was happening inside my body was a different story.
People with disabilities don’t always use wheelchairs, canes or walkers, or they may need them sometimes and not every day.
The future, as I see it, will be one where people don’t make assumptions, judge or act in discriminatory ways against those with disabilities.
Of course, minds can’t be changed overnight and maybe not at all.
Though based on my personal experience and what I’ve learned, raising awareness and educating society can and does make a difference.
I was attending DePaul University as a commuter student and was four years into living with rheumatoid arthritis.
For me winter has never been my thrive season.
I’m able to enjoy all that the holiday festivities have to offer, spending time with loved ones, but arthritis never seemed to get the memo to behave.
During that era in my life, classes resumed shortly after the new year.
It so happened that I was experiencing a flare-up.
Achy joints, an inflamed wrist and elbow and fatigue were accompanying me on the train ride to the Loop for my 9 a.m. class.
To even be approved for a disabled parking placard, I needed to have a medical evaluation and a doctor’s signature.
Prior to having my rheumatologist fill out my application, I struggled with whether I needed one. I wasn’t ready to accept my new circumstances.
Once it was mailed to my home, there were some days I was embarrassed to use it.
The stigma around invisible illness and my stubborn reluctance to accept that I needed help lead to suffering in silence.
By coincidence, I was working as an intern at the Arthritis Foundation Chicago chapter to help raise awareness of arthritis and disability during this time.
But something switched in me when the cops were called, and I was accused of faking my disability.
I felt a swirl of emotions. Anger, sadness, disbelief, shock and utter disgust that someone would do that.
Now I understand people do abuse the system, but that isn’t always the case.
That morning, I was running late, tight and tired from a flare-up, but I happened to snag a parking spot right in front of the train.
Like a Greek Xena Warrior Princess, I flung my car door open and lunged my arthritic body up the three small steps, somehow miraculously managing to make it into the closing doors of the train as the conductor yelled for everyone to board.
Inside, the train wobbled. I had to catch my breath. It felt like I had just run a marathon. I winced as a sharp pain stabbed my feet. I searched for an empty seat, nodding and smiling as I passed strangers.
If it hadn’t been for the extra-long hot shower and prescription-strength ibuprofen, I doubt I would’ve managed to make it out of my house.
At the end of the day when I got home and put on a pair of pajamas, the doorbell rang. It was a cop.
The conversation I had with him lasted less than a minute.
When I informed him that the placard was mine and necessary because of my chronic disease, he nodded and left.
I can’t blame him; he was doing his job.
The pandemic has been an eye-opener for many when it comes to illness, disability and accessibility.
People worked from home, telehealth was made available, and virtual events became the norm.
The pandemic showed us we’re all vulnerable.
Let’s do a better job seeing each other for who we are.
