Remembering the Father and Mother of the Independent Living Movement

Judy Heumann and Ed Roberts are both recognised as prominent figures in the international Independent Living Movement. It is remarkable to think that two complete strangers from opposite ends of the United States would come together to spearhead what would evolve into an International Disability Rights Movement. This month, as we mark the anniversaries of their passings (Judy – 4 March 2022; Ed – 14 March 1995), I find myself reflecting on how the actions of these two individuals led to the formation of an army (in modern terms, a collective), that fought for equal rights for disabled people worldwide.

When I first started working with Offaly Centre for Independent Living in 2008, my first assignment was to research and understand the origins of the Independent Living Movement. I knew about Personal Assistance, but nothing about the existence of a civil rights movement for disabled people. I also knew about Rosa Parks’ refusal to give up her seat on the bus, but I’d never heard about the feisty New Yorker, Judy Heumann, who led a demonstration shutting down the streets of New York, before orchestrating what would become known as the β€œ504 sit-in”. Nor had I heard of a young Californian called Ed Roberts who conquered his self-pity and established the first Center for Independent Living, after setting up an informal team of assistants that helped him live independently while he studied at the University of California in Berkeley.

Ed and Judy (I refer to them by their first names as I think of them as comrades or allies, not faraway idols) are often referred to as the Father and Mother of the Independent Living Movement. Both had polio, but Ed had acquired polio later in life, at the age of fourteen, and so he perceived himself differently to how Judy did – his journey to self – acceptance saw him transform from β€œhelpless cripple” into a β€œstar”, whereas Judy says in her autobiography,Β Being Heumann,Β that she always believed that she had a right to exist on an equal basis with others. Ed was also more significantly impaired than Judy, and one of the obstacles to his attending university was finding somewhere that could accommodate the 800lb lung he slept inΒ at night. Ed was the first wheelchair user to attend the University of California and eventually, he was offered a wing of Cowell Hospital, the on-campus hospital, which he accepted with the caveat that he could treat it as a dorm, not a medical facility, with the same freedoms that non-disabled students enjoyed.

The establishment of the first Center for Independent Living in 1972, led by Ed and a group of disabled University of California students who dubbed themselves the Rolling Quads, marked the beginning of a battle for disabled people to have their civil rights recognised. By sharing their experiences and witnessing the nitty-gritty of each other’s lives, they formed a strong bond among themselves based on a mutual desire to enjoy a better quality of life, as equal citizens in America. Progress proved slow. In 1973, the Rehabilitation Act was passed, but Section 504 – which rendered it illegal for state-funded services to discriminate against persons on the basis of disability – was vetoed. Age-old excuses of cost of adaptations were trotted out as valid reasons to not sign the regulations, so passing the Act was merely paying lip service to equality for disabled people.Β 

By 1977, a frustrated Judy had had enough. In her eyes, and the eyes of her supporters and fellow activists, sitting around waiting for something drastic to happen was time wasted. Using her experience of successfully suing the State of New York for denying her a teaching licence as she was perceived to be a fire hazard, Judy and what was referred to at the time as an β€œarmy of the handicapped” gained access to and refused to leave the offices of Health, Welfare and Education in San Francisco. Judy was highly organised, and soon various committees had been established to organise food and bedding, as well as entertainment. Nonetheless, the physical impact of sleeping on mattresses on the floor was roughly felt by many protestors, many of whom developed bedsores. Despite this, it seemed that the protestors in San Francisco knew that there was too much at stake to back down.

In the later stages of the sit-in, Evan White, a news reporter, had amassed an impressive amount of footage of the protests. He described his jubilance at having the honour of sitting in during β€œmeetings of strategy” with disabled protestors, as Judy led long meetings with fellow protestors every evening that often lasted into the wee morning hours. Everyone was given a say, and a job to do. By a stroke of luck, a nationwide television strike enabled Evan’s recorded reports to become front and centre of the country’s viewing schedule. This worried Califano more than the sit-ins themselves; it had the potential to damage his public image as a politician. On the twenty-fourth day of the sit-in, Section 504 was signed, a feat that was achieved by the will and determination of a strong collective of disabled people. (If you want to find out more about this sit-in, I recommend watching the award-winningΒ Crip CampΒ on Netflix).Β 

Indeed, if we as activists can learn anything from Ed and Judy, it is that disabled people working together is the best way to attain our human rights. Having experienced discrimination and exclusion firsthand, we know best what we need. Although our lives are better than they were fifty years ago, we still battle to hold onto those hard-won rights that activists such as Ed and Judy, and here in Ireland, that Martin Naughton, Michael McCabe, Dermot Walsh, Ursula Hegarty and so many others fought for us to have. We must also come to accept that we work best as a collective. Nothing will change if we wallow in self-pity. Instead, we must use our experiences to make a better, more inclusive future for all of us. We owe it to Judy and Ed, and we owe it to ourselves, to never settle for a lesser life than the one we aspire to.

Dear Martin Naughton…

A letter to Martin, eight years after your passing

(written after going to see No Magic Pill in the Black Box Theatre, Galway on 9 November 2024)

Dearest Martin,

There are around six hundred thousand people with disabilities, the term you used, in Ireland. Yet, for some reason, you seem to have had the biggest impact on many of our lives, regardless of disability. You were an extraordinary man, even though, just like your peers, you were probably made to feel β€œless than” for not β€œmaking an effort” to walk or try to conform to mainstream society. You taught us that the discrimination we faced was not our fault, through discovering this fact yourself.

I consider myself an intelligent woman, yet until we met, I genuinely thought that it was my duty to push myself to become almost normal. I did not believe it appropriate to highlight my own weaknesses and shortcomings, for fear they would be used against me. Until I met you, I thought I was great for hiding my struggles, for beating myself into a world that I didn’t seem to fit into, for doing everything myself rather than asking for help. When we met for the first time in 2005, the first thing I saw was an older man with greying hair. What could this auld one possibly know about life, I thought. Little did I know that it was down to the actions of you and your friends that had enabled me to have the relatively sheltered mainstream life I enjoyed, and by β€œsheltered”, I mean I was sheltered from feeling the full effects of institutionalisation, exclusion and rejection. 

That June day, in Chief O’Neill’s in Smithfield, you shattered my world into pieces, and I found myself questioning myself and everything I’d ever been taught. Was it heroic or folly to try to hide the elements of myself that made people uncomfortable? You led me to realise that there was nothing wrong with me, and that there never had been.

I remember our first conversation. You asked me if I knew what a Leader Forum was, and I said yes. We both knew I was lying, because at the time, there was no such thing. Yet something about you told me that I had to β€œfake it β€˜til I make it.” From that moment on, I watched as an entire movement came to you looking for answers. It seemed that you always knew what to say and do. What was that like, were you honoured or did it piss you off from time to time?

From that fateful June day, you have been in the background of everything I have done and achieved; living independently, working with Offaly Centre for Independent Living, and when I was presented with the opportunity to get married and have a child. I thought of you and how you and others had led the fight that enabled me to have these luxuries (yes, they should be rights, but I think we’d agree that we’re not quite at that point yet). You lived as you pleased; you didn’t answer to anyone, something that so many of us continue to aspire to.

Like many of us, I put you on a pedestal. I always expected you to have the answers. Did you like this, as so many people intimated, or did you feel lonely? Please know that watching you spurred myself and so many others to find our own answers. If you could do it, anyone could. I recall when I worked for you that summer of 2005, how frustrated I became with you for asking me to set up a Leader Forum, but neglecting to give me any hints as to how to do this on a practical level. Now, twenty years later, I understand why: you wanted me to find the answers myself, to take risks, to fail and learn from my mistakes. I guess I should thank you for trusting me, because since then I’ve taken plenty of risks which have led to a life that was beyond reach for many of your generation.

I remember watching the last β€œaction” you would ever take in September 2015, and shaking my head in frustration as members of the general public asked what it was about. It made me wonder why you even bothered trying to make a difference. Then I remembered that you have seen the grey walls of an institution. You truly understand what losing freedom and liberty is like, and that’s why you dedicated your life to ensuring that it didn’t happen again.

I guess all that’s left is to thank you. Thank you for coming into my life during a formative time, when I was still ashamed of being associated with the β€œdisability sector” in any way. Thank you for changing how I value others and myself. I’d always connected my own self-worth to the tasks I could carry out unaccompanied, buying into a widespread consumerist belief that wearing yourself out in the name of productivity was akin to a badge of honour. Thank you for teaching me that my wobbly body was not the cause of my exclusion. Thank you for granting me the permission to speak out against the systemic discrimination that we face on a daily basis.

I don’t think you truly realise the profound impact you had on people. Christian O’Reilly has made it his life’s work to capture your story, not giving up until he had captured the essence of you. I have seen β€œNo Magic Pill” twice now, and although the actors portrayed the characters to an Oscar-winning standard, it’s the feeling that seeped through my being both times I’ve watched it. Paddy Slattery and Eric Fitzgerald portrayed you in different ways, but watching them, it was you I felt beside me, as if I was being given a second chance to say goodbye properly. That said, it might be argued that even after eight years, we are not ready to say goodbye. Between β€œNo Magic Pill” and your autobiography which was co-written with Joanna Marsden, we can hold onto you for that little bit longer.

Most importantly, thank you for being you, without which many of us would not be enjoying true Independent Living. May we always be strong enough to protect everything you and others ever fought for.

Love Sarah xx

Tuesday Thoughts: Pain in the Ass

(aka JP’s affectionate term for me. Just kidding)

Β (This post was inspired by Julie Helen’s column about her quest for a new wheelchair. I strongly encourage you to read her weekly column on EchoLive, where she writes about a wide variety of topics from a personal perspective.)

It was the weekend of my mother’s fifteenth anniversary that I discovered the letter in my postbox outside, and I took this as a sign. I opened it excitedly, knowing exactly what it was. At last, after fighting for the guts of three years, I had an appointment to administer a pain injection into the buttock of my right leg. This couldn’t come at a better time. The appointment was for Friday, 7 June 2024, and we were due to go to Australia on 1 July. I shivered in excitement at the thought of running around after my sister Alex’s little ones, Cathal and Grace, playing with them on the floor. For the first time in four years, I might sleep for more than two hours straight! Imagine waking up refreshed! Thus, I’d have more energy to write, and do courses, maybe even start cycling on the trike again (I do 2/3 45 minutes sessions on the exercise bike a week, but it’s not the same). 

As the day drew nearer, I did an extra physio session every day, as I dreamt about my pain-free life, smiling as I imagined folding up the wheelchair and throwing it into the spare room. I was tired, but I didn’t care. All of my hard work would be worth it when I was back wobbling around the place.

I don’t know what I was expecting from a little pain injection but suffice to say I will never know. Friday, 7 June was a sunny morning, and I beamed broadly as JP drove us up the M50 towards Tallaght. It seemed the universe was working in my favour; there was hardly any traffic, we didn’t miss our turn-off, and we were parking outside Tallaght University Hospital at 9.15am for our 10am appointment. JP was excited too; I’m sure I wake him often, tossing and turning all night. We found our waiting area quickly, and at 10.20am my name was called. When we reached the room, everything was waiting: the team of doctors, the ultrasound machine, the bed covered in tissue. It was a moment of triumph. I’d been fighting for this moment since November 2022, when they told me that there was nothing they could do for me. And now my recovery was about to start at last.

I was helped onto the bed and a team of doctors carefully pulled down my trousers and started the scan. Suddenly, one of the doctors asked for the head of department to come down. Apparently, even though I maintained that he was rubbing his scanner over the painful area, they couldn’t see my sciatic nerve. Now, I’m crap at biology – my Junior Cert teacher regularly read out my test answers to entertain the rest of the class for the comedy effect – but I do know the sciatic nerve is the main nerve, and if they couldn’t find it, I wasn’t sure I wanted them anywhere near my ass with a needle. 

 I was asked to sit up and I was helped back into my wheelchair. I tried to act like a professional patient, but I couldn’t stop the stinging tears rolling down my face. Your injury is probably just a contusion, they told me. You couldn’t stay still enough for the scan, and we can’t really see any damage. We’re sorry.

This has gone on for four years,Β I said.Β So you’re saying this pain is all in my head?

No, no, of course not. We’re saying there’s no silver bulletΒ (Martin Naughton might say β€œNo Magic Pill.”)Β Keep up the physio, painkillers, TENS etc. Pain management must be a priority in the long term.

Dammit. They warned me that would happen, but I’d pushed for the injection anyway. I have never felt more stupid. Driving home in the car, I saw my fantasy of getting my twenty-year-old body back disappear. More importantly, my dream of walking around Australia on my holidays vanished into thin air.

I never used a wheelchair in my life until I was nineteen years old. Day after day, I pushed through pain and tiredness as I trudged around the Sacred Heart School, going up and down stairs, navigating through the crowd. This was on top of cycling to and from school, every day, for six years. I was pretty darn proud of myself, I won’t lie. I developed an irritating superiority complex where I thought I was better than other disabled people. I was integrating myself like a fridge into a kitchen, becoming invisible in the process.

I have never felt more valuable as I did in my younger days, and now I can see how problematic that is. I’ve written before about my experience of internalised oppression, and even at the ripe age of forty, I struggle to shake it completely. The truth is, I am ashamed of how my mobility has deteriorated. I tend to view it as a personal failure to push myself, to take care of myself, rather than the result of years of trying to make my body do things it’s not designed to do. Sure, I made a choice to use a wheelchair so that I could have energy to write these blogs and hopefully, with Ali in secondary school now, re-enter the workforce and get involved again with the Independent Living Movement. I know the reasoning behind my decision was sound, and yet I haven’t fully dismantled the years of internalised oppression, so let’s face it – I’m an awful hypocrite.

The realisation that I wouldn’t be walking around by the time we went to Australia hit home like a sledgehammer. However, when we stayed with my baby sister in Australia this summer, I was determined to show her that I was still the same active rogue I’d always been. She’d sourced a steel walking frame from her neighbour Dell, and not having the heart to explain that I don’t really walk too far anymore, I accepted it with a grateful smile, while loading up on painkillers. For the first week or two of the holiday, I hobbled around the house, knowing what I wanted to do, but too ashamed to say anything. The second weekend we were in Oz, we all took a road trip up to Jurien Bay. Our accommodation was accessible, so I could use my wheelchair the entire weekend. 

When we got back to my sister’s house in Clarkson, without prompting or any pre-discussion, my sister Alex greeted me at the car door with my manual wheelchair. No words, no β€œI know you need this”, not even β€œI think this is a good idea.” That evening, I set the table, unloaded the dishwasher and hoovered, and I know my sister was struck by the difference in my independence and energy levels.  Not having to pretend was a relief for both of us, and I was surprised by how easily she accepted my need to use the chair – without question. She didn’t say she was sad, or disappointed, or ashamed – that was purely the narrative I’d woven in my own head, a stick I was using to beat myself up with. 

It got me thinking about the wider issues of equality and acceptance which, if you’ve read any of my other blogs, you’ll have gathered is something that I’m passionate about. But how can I expect other people to subscribe to the idea that disability is located outside the self, if I don’t? If I continue to connect my self-worth to my body’s ability to adapt within a society which, directly or otherwise, serves to exclude me, my self-esteem will plummet through the floor! More pertinently, I am handing the systems that discriminate against me a viable excuse to do so, on a silver platter. And whether I like it or not, I am not just an β€œI”. I am a β€œwe”, a part of a wider collective trying to change attitudes and remove barriers, something I will not be able to do until I change my own attitude towards myself and accept myself in all its wobbly entirety.

Being underemployed at the moment, I cancelled a load of my subscriptions, but one I held onto was an affirmation app, which sends me random affirmations during the day. I admit I don’t always read them when my phone pings, but this morning I just happened to flick through them on my watch, as I sat on the toilet. β€œI am allowed to take up space,” β€œIt is okay to have a hard day,” β€œI am patient with myself”, and β€œI have the motivation to create change,”” are just snippets of the messages that come through hourly. We need to change the messages that we as Disabled People are absorbing and, consequently, sending back out into the world.Β Most importantly, we need to change the stories we tell ourselves, about ourselves.

I often feel like a right pain in the ass when I write this kind of blog, but this – along with other authentic voices of Disabled People – is the only way to change the narrative around disability, for ourselves as well as within wider society. When we take control of the narrative, we can write our own endings, hopefully depicting a fairer world of acceptance and inclusion.

Tuesday Thoughts: Empty Batteries

(written Wednesday, 20 March 2024)

There’s nothing more annoying than when your day is scuppered by a minor inconvenience. I can’t speak for anyone else’s kid, but I know mine is tired. It’s been a busy term with schoolwork and projects, bake sales and fashion shows, football matches and National Slow Down Day, mingled with visits to her new secondary school, weekend basketball matches, meeting up with friends and sleepovers. And as much as I want to sit on top of her sometimes to slow her down, I restrain myself, reminding myself she was practically locked up for six months of her childhood. No wonder she wants to do everything and make up for lost time.

Anyway, back to my day. Wednesday mornings are always slow, because of basketball training on Tuesdays, so I wasn’t surprised that the sprog ran out the door this morning with no lunch and, more importantly, to her mind at least, no mouthguard, without which she wouldn’t be allowed to play in her school football match. Luckily, we live ten minutes away so I hopped into my wheelchair and flew down to the school to drop it off. Now, the school is a kilometre away, which makes it a two k-round-trip, which is nothing to my wheelchair, an Invacare Storm. However, coming back into my driveway, I noticed that one of the β€œbars” had disappeared. One bar of five. 

So, logically, you might think, well that means you could get ten kilometres from a full charge. And you would be correct, if it wasn’t for the fact that my wheelchair is long overdue a service. Any seasoned powerchair user will tell you that four bars left doesn’t necessarily mean your battery capacity’s at eighty percent. If you’re a gobshite like me, you might even try to push the limits of your wheelchair battery, a dangerous game. You know in your heart, as you set out to the shop a mere four hundred metres away, that the sodding thing could stop dead without warning at any time. You know it, and yet you still take the risk, trying to ignore what the universe tells you.

Because the world goes on, right? Who has time to wait for parts to come when there’s dogs to walk, basketball training, shopping to do? My front tyres are beyond bald, and my back tyres aren’t far behind. You can actually see the rubber underneath, which I’ve never seen before. Beyond threadbare. Realistically I shouldn’t be using it at all.Β 

And it made me think about how we push ourselves to keep going, even when all the signs are telling us to stop. Resting and taking time off have become dirty words in our culture. I read somewhere recently that, thanks to the convenience of remote working, some of us are working sixty/seventy-hour weeks, for no increase in wages. We live in precarious and stressful times. The cost of living has become untenable. (I read a 1984-esque article the other day, which said that the cost of living was starting to come down. Sure, coming down from a twenty-year high). We’re working harder than ever, with little extra to show for it. 

In addition, this winter (in my unqualified opinion) has been one of the worst for bugs and viruses. Alison has missed eleven days of school this year. This is a child who was never sick; who, until COVID, had near-perfect attendance records. Now I find myself trying to ply her with vitamins and tonics in the hope of keeping her well. The obvious reason is that because we were locked up for so long, we weren’t exposed to any viruses and now our immune systems have gone to pot. And it isn’t just children, either; so many adults I know have been wiped out in the last few months by various complaints. 

The saddest part of this is that lockdown taught us some valuable lessons that we seem to have forgotten. Many adored the slower pace of life and swore that they’d never go back to normal. People started exercising more, cooking healthier meals, pursuing the hobbies they’d never found time for. We promised we’d always make time for our loved ones, and for ourselves. Now, we’re busier than ever, desperate to make up for lost time. Coupled with the barrage of news about Gaza and Ukraine (and as I write this, Leo Varadkar has just stepped down as Taoiseach. Never liked him; he never did answer my open letter), we continue to live in uncertain times. Then, haven’t we always lived in uncertain times? The Troubles, 9/11, the London bombing, Paris and so on. Such is the nature of the world we live in: it doesn’t stop.

That doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t, as I was reminded a few months ago when I hit a wall. Funny how it’s only when the battery has fully drained do I acknowledge that there might be a problem. I won’t go into the boring details of what caused it, but I will admit that I ignored all the warning signs. My chronic pain was flaring because of the cold weather, and I was wrecked from lack of sleep. But I was still able to keep house and parent, so it wasn’t serious, right? Wrong. Nonetheless, I completed the first stage of my editing course, but at a cost. I was like a zombie, with a chip – the slightest thing made me either angry, or cry like a baby. The more I tried to push through, the harder it got. It felt as though a force from beneath was trying to suck me into the ground.

When did you start feeling like this? My husband asked.

October, I sheepishly admitted. 

This was the end of January, after Alison’s confirmation. I was so exhausted, and I didn’t know why. I don’t have a taxing life. I don’t work 9-5, my child is now a preteen and I get help around the house. Yet, I ignored the warning signs. My chronic pain was through the roof, and instead of taking note and putting on my TENS machine, I was pretending it didn’t exist. Instead of napping to make up for the broken sleep, I was sitting in front of the laptop writing gibberish. I was officially empty. It was scary, but I’m slowly coming out of it now.

My wheelchair needs a full service, having not had one in nearly four years. Chances are I might have to apply for a new one, because at the moment I don’t trust it, and even the best wheelchairs have a shelf life. And we humans also have a shelf life. I am a huge fan of Mel Robbins, motivational speaker, (I wish I could apply all her advice to my life; I think I’d be on my tenth bestseller now), and in one of her podcasts, she pointed out that we have not taken time to heal from the collective trauma that COVID has triggered, and that as we rush back to normal, we need to find ways of processing that, as well as looking after ourselves physically and mentally. Coupled with international unrest and whispers of another economic crisis, we have not allowed ourselves to heal. So how can we be our best selves?

At the end of the day, my wheelchair is a tool, which can be repaired or replaced. But we are not tools. Our sole purpose is not to produce, but to live, love, and experience the world. In the grand trajectory of the lifespan of the universe, we are here but for a few short seconds. And in order to make a difference, we have to be in tip-top condition.

Our Fallen Comrades

(In tribute to Selina Bonnie)

β€œβ€¦and those who once paved the way for us

Are dying, one by one…”

This is a quote from my own poem,Β Fight, Fight, Fight,Β which I wrote in November 2017. John Doyle had just passed away, and I was upset and extremely pissed off. Bereavement and death is a fact of life; we all deal with it at some point. Many of us spend our lives grieving a grandparent, parent, friend or, unthinkably, a child. Death is a natural part of life; yet it doesn’t feel right to say that I can list, off the top of my head, at least thirty people who have died in the last ten years. Perhaps more than thirty. Disabled people, that is. Peers. Companions. Life-long friends. And no matter how many times we lose a friend, the sting is always acute.

I have been trying for the last ten years to understand the unique bond that holds disabled people together. It may be that organisations such as Independent Living Movement Ireland and the Irish Wheelchair Association created spaces over the years for disabled people to come together. Maybe it’s because only we, with our wealth of lived experience, can truly understand the exclusion and discrimination that we face on a daily basis.Β Β When we share our experiences, we come to understand that it’s not β€œjust us” and, over time, we realise that we are not the β€œproblem”. And when one of us decides to challenge the system, we all do. As difficult as it can be, we understand that our personal must become political, in order to help those coming behind us. Of course this isn’t fair, but knowing that you’re supported by a unique movement, motivated by a genuine thirst for social justice and a desire to make life easier for everyone, makes the life of activism a lot more bearable. People who look out for you and genuinely care about you.

When we were born, our parents were told not to have high expectations. That we would never amount to anything. And that we wouldn’t live long. That speech seemed to have been given to parents of disabled children everywhere; I have heard and read those exact words, verbatim, so many times in my life. Thereafter comes the next part of the story: we proved them wrong. We earned our place in the mainstream. We progressed in life, despite the low expectations. Then we became examples, beacons of hope for the generations coming behind us. And as disabled people, we bonded through our victories and shared disappointments and became stronger. We became family. A modern-day family, with favourite brothers and sisters, and pains-in-our-arses that we begrudgingly admire, sometimes even partners and soulmates.

Very often, disabled people came together for a common cause, but as we began to open up to one another, we realised that our commonalities went much deeper. We shared the trauma of overmedicalised childhoods, and as we became more comfortable with each other, we started to wonder if we could, in fact, have a better quality of life. With our peers behind us, we felt emboldened to take risks, to reject the pity of strangers in search of equal rights. As children, or newly disabled people, no-one told us that we didn’t have to put up with injustice. Through getting to know our peers, we figured that out for ourselves.

That’s why it’s always such a bitter pill to swallow when one of our precious family members is taken from us, far too quickly. As a collective, we have broken through so many glass ceilings, but in a personal sense, disabled people have become my closest friends, the people I trust most. If I need advice on parenting, on adjusting to life with chronic pain, or even on what kind of dress would suit me, it just so happens, without me thinking twice about it, that I will seek out a fellow disabled person. I have bonded with people over finding the right Personal Assistant, the pros and cons of working freelance, how to pace myself during pain flares, how to eat a healthy diet on a budget and with minimal effort – all things that, with the greatest of respect, a non-disabled person may never have to think about. I have friends who’ve taught me parenting tips; how to maintain my wheelchair; how to apply for benefits and council housing. Sometimes, after writing a disability-related blog, a friend will share it with an organisation or a new group of people, and I in turn return that favour. We’re not all happy-clappy all the time, but we do help each other, and we know we have only to ask.

It sounds terrible, but I’ve developed a sort of β€œdeath fatigue”. I’m so tired of bad news, of funerals, of grief. This thought floods my mind as I try to comprehend the loss of Selina Bonnie, who was one of Ireland’s fiercest activists. It still feels wrong to speak of her in the past tense. Not only did Selina fiercely believe in the importance of accessibility, so much so that she worked as an Access Officer in South Dublin County Council for twenty-two years, as a proud Indian-Irish woman, she embodied the meaning of intersectionality, supporting LGBTQI+ rights, as well as becoming heavily involved in campaigning for the reproductive rights of disabled people. 

In fact, she was a proud Ambassador of the (Re)al Productive Justice initiative, a project which is the brainchild of the Centre of Disability Law and Policy (CDLP) in NUI Galway. Through this project, Selina was generous in sharing the physical and attitudinal obstacles she faced in accessing fertility treatment and, subsequently, maternity care, and in doing so has made a real contribution to the advancement of reproductive rights for disabled people. I had the honour of working with her on this project, and I was floored by her boundless energy, her tireless mission to educate others on the importance of a rights-based approach, and her willingness to become vulnerable by allowing her story to be used as an educational tool.

Selina also contributed to Conversations about Activism and Change, and in recent days, I’ve felt simultaneously grateful for and awful about this. When I pitched the idea to Independent Living Movement Ireland, I stressed the importance of capturing a history of disability rights, in our own words. The unspoken insinuation was that over the years, so many stories have been left unwritten and are now lost, with many of those involved in the early days of the movement passed away. In promoting the book, Selina herself acknowledged the loss of these stories, and was adamant that we begin documenting our own history. I only hope that she was happy with how her story was captured, and that Selina’s words inspire future activists for generations to come.

The only thing left is to offer my condolences to Selina’s family and all who knew her and to offer them a virtual hug. I also extend arms around my own disabled family, who have endured too many losses over the years. May we always speak about them, may we live the lives they fought for us to have, and may we continue the fight. Selina, and indeed all the disability activists who have sadly left this world, will never be forgotten, for their activism and their friendship. 

Tuesday Thoughts: Life is But a Dream…

Getting up at six isn’t easy, but I know I’ll feel better afterwards. While my husband snores beside me after coming home late from work, I pull on the tracksuit that I’ve laid out the night before. I always hate this part, and find myself questioning the auld sanity, but I know I’ll feel better afterwards. I always do.

Down the hall, I can hear the familiar sound of the front door opening, the clinking of my favourite bowl being extracted from the cupboard and the shaking of a cereal box. I look at my watch: 6.30. Right on time. I sit into my wheelchair and go down to my kitchen, where Mary* is waiting for me. She’s poured me exactly a third of a pint glass of orange juice and half a bowl of Bran Flakes, though she’s waited for me before pouring the milk; she knows I don’t like soggy cereal. She also knows I don’t like too much milk. As I munch it down, she clears the breakfast things away, wipes the counter and sweeps the floor. Then it’s 6.45. Time to go.

As always, Mary has started the car so that the windscreen is clear and, of course, so that it’s nice and toasty on this frosty morning. She lowers the ramp and I drive into the car, waiting for Mary to secure the chair with the clamps, just as I’ve trained her to do. Then I’m whisked to Aura, our local gym, for my morning workout session. Mary has sat in on my physio sessions, so she knows exactly what I should be doing. She sets up the equipment for me, making sure that I’m seated correctly so that I don’t strain myself, and so the physical torture begins. Mary laughs, saying that the only weight she’s lifting will be her cup of coffee to her mouth. Too early for this shite, she says.

Afterwards, it’s back to the car and a quick stop at the shop for milk and bread. I give Mary my card so that she doesn’t have to undo the clamps for the sake of a few minutes. She returns with my card, a receipt and the groceries, standard procedure although I’ve trusted her with far more important and delicate things. Then it’s a quarter to eight and back home, where the preteen has just risen. I put on two slices of toast. Mary takes out the plate and the butter. The preteen is unusually chatty today. She’s used to Mary; she knows what Mary’s purpose is, and more importantly, what it is not. Mary never comments on my child’s behaviour. She knows that it’s not her place.

After the child leaves, Mary leaves too. Everything is tidy, meaning that nothing will distract me from my work (apart from my dogs barking at each other, or at random birds flitting past the window). It’s nine o’clock, and I normally have my first thousand words completed by eleven. By that stage, I’m fit to drop, and typically at this time, depending on what household chores await me, I take a forty-five minute nap, just to keep myself right. Then it’s dogs on leads and we go for a short walk, to clear the cobwebs from my brain.

When I return home, Emma* is waiting for me. We cook the evening meal together: she chops the veg and preps the meat, I fry it up. She also cleans as we go, so that we don’t have a big job ahead of us later. My favourite is homecooked lasagne, or chicken stir fry. I’ve taught Emma how to marinade the chicken in garlic and soy sauce. It’s the young’un’s favourite meal.

No two days are the same. Sometimes I might need Emma or Mary to accompany me to Dublin for medical appointments. Other days, I might need help in organising the materials for the Creative Writing Classes that I teach across Laois and Offaly, or the grinds I give to Leaving Cert English Students. We also tour the country a couple of times a month in my accessible van, giving disability awareness training to secondary school students. On those days, a Personal Assistant might have to work longer hours, and so I allow them to take time in lieu on a less busy day to compensate. After all, it is their dedication and attention to detail that allows me to live the life I do, a life entirely of my own choosing.

I jest.

This is not my life. Well, it is and it isn’t. I wish I was motivated enough to get up at six in the morning, but alas, here we are. It’s certainly the one I aspire to, the one I try to fulfil. And, to be fair, I have a good life. I’m married, I have a child, I work as much as I can freelance. And I do have three dedicated, hard-working Personal Assistants, who are always willing to go the extra mile for me. They are simply wonderful people and I love them to bits.

However, I don’t necessarily have a service that offers the freedom and control that I might like. Nor can I choose my own times, owing to the demand on the service. I cannot emphasise enough how dedicated my PAs are, and how much pride they take in their work. It is nothing short of remarkable, considering how exhausted they must be; all of them are required to work with multiple clients on any given day. It takes a special kind of person to remember the preferences of each individual Leader, to try and fulfil somebody’s needs in a limited space of time, and to do all of this with a smile and not a hint of a complaint. For this, I am truly grateful.

That said, this style of service provision does not do the Leader or PA justice. For the Leader, it offers no opportunities of spontaneity and, depending on the nature of their impairment, leaves them at risk of isolation from their communities, especially in this post-covid world where everyone (rightfully) is sick of online meetings, and in-person events are becoming more prevalent. Remember during the height of Covid, when we weren’t β€œallowed” to meet each other, go for coffees or even take our time looking around the shops? For some disabled people, this continues to be their reality. During lockdown, I found it interesting, and admittedly amusing, to hear that some people couldn’t hack it, and yet for some reason, it’s okay to imprison disabled people in their homes as long as they have access to the internet (or not, as the case may be).

For the PA, this style of work – hopping from client to client – is more lucrative, but exhausting. At the moment, there is little distinction between PA and home help. Typically, a home help is given approximately forty-five minutes to help a client out of bed, get them washed, dressed and have breakfast. Then off that person goes to do the same for somebody else. Home help agencies have high turnover of staff, and it’s not difficult to see why. Often, they might have to drive from one end of the county to the other, just to do an hour’s work. I’ve heard of home helps working twelve-to-fourteen hour shifts, visiting six or seven different people in this time. Six or seven people, with different needs and care plans, who may only be allocated enough time to be washed and fed, if that. What kind of life is that, I ask you? Could you live like that and not lose your brain? A study conducted by Pauline Conroy found that a Leader who is lucky enough to receive a service has a PA for about 45 minutes per day. How is it possible to squeeze a meaningful life into less than an hour a day?

This is why I find myself writing about the same thing over and over again. I’m sick of reading about the β€œpoor, vulnerable disabled people, suffering at the hands of cutbacks.” I know hundreds of disabled people, and I cannot think of a single one that I would classify as β€œvulnerable.” Those I consider β€œmy tribe”, in the words of artist Mary Duffy, are intelligent, strong, confident, capable and willing to contribute. Willing to fight for the quality of life that they deserve, and always have deserved. Committed to ensuring that the authentic voices of disabled people are heard and taken seriously by the powers that be. But they are also tired. Tired of having to fight for every little thing. Tired of the excuses β€œthere’s no staff”, β€œwe don’t have that kind of money.” Tired of being made to feel guilty for their lack of gratitude: β€œThere’s so many people who don’t have what you do.”

As a collective, disabled people have achieved so much in their lifetime for the advancement of their human rights. But wouldn’t it be lovely to be able to focus on the minutiae of everyday life instead, such as β€œI want to go for a coffee with friends at one o’clock” or β€œI think I’ll have a lie-in in the morning”?

Independent Living Movement Ireland (ILMI) are committed to making this a reality. Formerly known as the Center for Independent Living, ILMI have been working since 2018 on their #PASNow Campaign, which calls for the legislation of the Personal Assistant Service (PAS). This would have many benefits. Firstly, it would offer some protection against the savage cutbacks that the service has endured since 2008 onwards, as ideally, the funding for PAS would be ringfenced. Secondly, it would be a step towards recognising that the PA service should be rights-based, not just something given on the basis of an impersonal, medical assessment. This would mean that Ireland could fulfil their obligations under Article 19 of the UNCRPD, which details the right to independent living. Thirdly, and perhaps most significantly, disabled people would be independent of their families and loved ones, absolving them from labels such as β€œburden” or β€œobject of care”.

On Wednesday, 22 November 2023, ILMI launched their research paper β€œNot in the Driving Seat: Reliance on family for supports and the impact it has on disabled people.” The reference to β€œdriving seat” comes directly from Martin Naughton, who is internationally recognised as being one of the main figures behind bringing Independent Living to Ireland. The report offers a counternarrative to the traditional spiel of disabled people as vulnerable. The struggles of family carers experiencing burnout has begun to be recognised over the last few years, but this is the first study focusing on the physical and psychological impact that relying on family has on the disabled person themselves. Des Kenny, close friend and ILMI Chairperson notes: β€œInvestment in supports that liberate disabled people will also liberate family members to move from roles where they provide support for their partners, children, or siblings and can focus solely on their family relationships.” I would like to personally commend all involved in this work and to thank ILMI for continuing to push its #PASNow Campaign.

I know I have written about this many times before; this blog might as well be called β€œThe fight for independent living.” And I’m sorry if you’re sick of reading it; trust me, I’m sick of writing it. Yes, we have made great progress in shifting the thinking around disability from pity and oppression to empowerment and rights, but even after thirty-one years, there is still so much to do. It’s tiring, and easy to lose heart, but the only way we can counteract the narrative of pity is to keep pushing our own, in the hope that one day, it will be universally understood. In the hope that one day, in the not-too-distant future, disabled people will have the freedom and choice to do what they want, whenever they want to do it.

*Mary and Emma are entirely fictional, similar to the right to Independent Living in 2023

The Important Conversations – Tuesday Thoughts 4

(Published Sunday 25 June 2023 due to holidays)

Let me take you back to January 2008. I’m working with the Offaly Centre for Independent Living, my first job after graduating from Trinity with an English Degree. I’m twenty-three, and I think I’m the cat’s pyjamas. I’ve landed a job here on the FAS Scheme with little to no experience. Trouble is, I don’t quite know what my role is. I want to add something, but I’m not sure what I’m adding to.

I google Independent Living and read definitions that at one stage, I could recite verbatim. I’m starting to think that my new job isn’t all that exciting. Then I come across the story of Ed Roberts, and suddenly I’m captivated. It’s the story of a very ordinary boy who, in his early teens, contracted polio and was left almost completely paradise. He’d written himself off, fervently wishing to die until he was told that if it was truly his wish, then so be it. Suddenly, Ed realised that it was freedom of choice he was craving and that he wanted to live.

I’m hooked. I need to know more. I come across another name, Judy Heumann, and my mouth falls open as I learn that she and Ed were at the centre of the establishment of an entire human rights movement. There’s more information about them both – interviews, short films – and I realise, as I waste away another day in front of my laptop, that it’s these stories that are making me more curious about Independent Living. These real, personal stories.

I gain permission from my manager, the late Michael Nestor, to capture these stories. But I’m young and inexperienced, and my overall efforts are a bit crappy. I don’t prepare the questions properly, I don’t bother to prod people or encourage them to talk. I’m going in with my preconceived ideas about what people are going to say. As a result, the finished product is a flop, and there’s no uniformity in the collection. No common theme emerges. And I convince myself that maybe I’m not as interested in Independent Living as I once believed.

Still, the idea of capturing the Independent Living Movement in some tangible way never strayed far from my thoughts. It’s said that one reason for writing a book is because as a writer, you wish to discover something, rather than to impart wisdom that you already know. In 2014, I decide that I wanted to write full-time, a decision that frightens me to this very day. I’ve always loved reading stories, and I want to capture some of my own. I start to move away from disability activism. Alas, something terrible would happen and whether I like it or not, I’m about to be roped back in.

On the 13 October 2016, RTE announces that the father of the Irish Independent Living Movement, Martin Naughton, has passed away at the age of 62. It can’t be true. Surely Martin is invincible? I genuinely believe that the bottom has just fallen out of the disability movement. Who would take over? Little do I realise that nobody needed to β€œtake over”, that for years, several other disability activists had been coming together to bring about much-needed social change. I know that there had been a historical protest in September 2012, rallying against the eradication of Personal Assistance for disabled people in Ireland, but who had been involved? What had been sacrificed? Were they scared? Did they ever just get tired of the whole bloody racket and vowed to give up? For some reason, I need answers to these questions. I need to know that, if I’m going to join a disability movement, that it’s not going to be a waste of my time and energy. I need to know that this movement truly belongs to disabled people.

I’m being arrogant again. I know nothing. A week after Martin’s passing, a group of us are brought together to discuss a commemorative event. I’ve heard of many of these people, including Ann Marie Flanagan and Shelly Gaynor, but I’ve never met them before. I was following them in a quest to create a space to talk openly about rights and self-determination, but I was joining the motorway from a different exit. I wanted to know more. I asked permission to set up a blog to gather these stories. But it still wasn’t enough for me.

Another reason for writing a book is to create something that you’d want to read yourself. I’d always wanted to read about the history of the Independent Living Movement in Ireland, not just about dates, but I want to capture the human passion behind it. How do you nurture that inner self-belief that you truly belong in the world? Working on the commemorative event, I realise that camaraderie is a huge part of it. Activism isn’t just about marches and policies; it’s those little chats in the pub afterwards where you expose your vulnerabilities to other people. That’s how you learn to trust in each other, and come together for a collective cause. As I hear other people talking about Martin Naughton, what struck me was how many people remark β€œI didn’t know that I could do x, y or z, but Martin believed I could, and so I did it.” That, to me, is powerful, and I wondered how I could collect these stories and inform others about the power of the collective.

One thing I learned when I worked in the area of independent living is that people don’t always relate to academic definitions or legal jargon. They connect to each other, something that became increasingly obvious in the early days of the COVID pandemic. Independent Living Movement Ireland committed to creating online spaces where seasoned and emerging activists alike could share experiences with each other. In April 2020, with no hope or expectation whatsoever, I approach Des Kenny, Chair of Independent Living Movement Ireland (ILMI), with an idea that we could capture these stories. His support and encouragement led me to approach Damien Walshe, CEO of ILMI, with a rough proposal. To my surprise, he agreed that ILMI and the Independent Living Movement should document these histories, and would I like to have the honour of doing it?

I was thrilled. – But shouldn’t you call in a professional? I asked.

-You are a professional, I was told. You’re a disabled writer with lived experience. Now put that useless doubt to one side and get on with it. That wasn’t what I was told, of course. Damien and Des are kind, diplomatic gentlemen. What they actually said was: β€œWe wouldn’t let you near it if we thought you weren’t up for the job.”

And so, we invited a number of activists to recount their stories to a live Zoom audience on Wednesday nights during the summer of 2020. Ellis Palmer, talented BBC journalist, suggested that the sessions should be made into podcasts, and made available on the ILMI website. 

I admit, I didn’t really give much thought about what I’d signed up for. I’d done transcription work before, but I was nervous about doing this. I wanted to capture the unique voices of those who were to be included, so the transcriptions were word-for-word, then edited so that I wasn’t tempted to include my own slant on their stories. The actual progress is laborious and time-consuming, but completely worth it. It’s the only way to capture the authenticity of these pieces, and for these activists to have ownership over their own words.

I cannot stress enough that the final product, Conversations about Activism and Change: Thirty Years of Independent Living Movement Ireland and Disability Rights is not a definitive history of the disability movement, but rather my first attempt in capturing part of it. If I had my way, I would still be interviewing disabled activists and transcribing their stories, but alas, I’m only human, and we needed to agree an end goal. These stories are intensely personal. Details of personal and political struggles can be sad to read. What shines through the entire collection is the recognition on the part of all the storytellers that they were not alone. Once they wrestled with the internalised oppression, which is a byproduct of an over-medicalised childhood, they learned how, through working together, to recognise and tackle societal and attitudinal barriers. Some stories include subtle nods to fallen comrades who influenced them as activists. There’s a consensus that although much has been achieved, we still need to keep fighting to be recognised as citizens with rights as opposed to objects of care.

Conversations about Activism and Change is the book I yearned to read when I started working in the area of Independent Living, and I am so relieved to know that younger activists coming up behind me will have some sort of blueprint for campaigning for equal rights in the future. It is my dream that the language of equality and human rights will override the long-seated discourse of pity, charity and helplessness that is so deeply intertwined with disability in Irish culture. And the only way this will ever happen is if we continue to use our own voices to create those important counter-narratives, to have the courage and conviction to speak for ourselves and own our own histories. 

Conversations about Activism and Change: Independent Living Movement Ireland and Thirty Years of Disability Rights

Available on Amazon as paperback and for Kindle:

Should I Be Fixed? – Tuesday Thoughts 1

Apologies folks for the long silence. I was trying to decide what to do with this here blog, whether to shelve it or archive it, and after a lot of soul-searching (and talks with my patient husband and some writer friends, including the long-suffering Ken Mooney), I’ve decided to commit for the next number of weeks to have something ready to post every Tuesday, but – full disclaimer – this may or may not happen. Watch this space!

The topic of this week’s unmissable instalment is timely, linking in with two separate things – the novel I’m hacking away at, and a new programme that will be available soon on BBC Reels featuring activist Paddy Smyth entitled Should I Be Fixed? Like myself, Paddy also has Cerebral Palsy, and like many of us, he’s had his own journey to self-acceptance and feeling comfortable with his disabled identity. I learned about the programme by accident, when I was farting around online this morning instead of writing my novel. 

Paddy did a radio interview with Ray D’arcy, discussing the upcoming programme. He spoke candidly about the aftermath of his experiences on the RTE programme, First Dates, which aired in 2019. β€œI thought I’d be loved,” he said, recalling that some of the comments he received following the show were quite negative. β€œSome people accused me of using my disability to win.” I can only imagine how hurtful that was.

Paddy’s journey to self-acceptance shares some parallels with mine, and also with Rachel’s, the character who I’ve been trying to write a novel about for the last eight years(!!!) Lately, I’ve managed to gather some momentum with telling Rachel’s story (nearly back up to 60k, yay!), but only because I took some time out to do some real self-reflection. I had to learn to be comfortable with some heavy realisations. The first one is, crucially, that I seem to have a penchant for punishing myself for my impairment. Since starting to use a wheelchair, my output and productivity has gone through the roof. My sleep has improved, I’m writing every single day, and I also manage four sessions a week on my exercise bike. And once I sort out the flat tyre on my tricycle, I’ll be back on that as well, especially in this good weather. My life has become so much richer, and yet I still berate myself for not walking more, because the overarching message from society continues to dictate that I am somehow worth less if I’m not at my physical best.

I caught a glimpse of a programme the other night, This Time Next Year hosted by Lorraine Kelly, where one of the guests were a wheelchair user and more than anything, she wanted to relearn how to walk using a prosthetic limb. And of course, that was the happy ending of the programme. That was her wish, and she worked long and hard to ensure that wish was realised. Healthwise, it is better for this lady to be walking than to be sitting in a wheelchair all day long. But this particular message – of fixing one’s body or hiding or minimising one’s impairments – seems to be more palatable to a wider audience than the idea that disabled people/people with impairments are perfectly acceptable as they are, and that self-acceptance is more productive and healthier than becoming obsessed with cures.

Technological advances aren’t always the blessings that they appear to be. For example, AI (Artificial Intelligence) can now write content for websites, threatening my job (nooooo!) and the jobs of many other content creators across the globe. Think about it: why should a company pay me for content articles when they could save money and use an algorithm instead? No proofreading needed there, because there is no human error. Similarly, prosthetics and robotic limbs have helped many disabled people regain their independence, but they aren’t for everyone. To ask a disabled person if they have considered prosthetics may come across as offensive, given the struggle that many of us have with our bodies. Technology has advanced to a point where there is now a wheelchair that can scale a flight of steps (not available from the HSE though, I’m sure). Some people think that’s beyond cool. 

But this obsession with finding ways for people to overcome physical barriers puts the responsibility back on the disabled person, which isn’t right. Surely making our world accessible to everyone is a more sustainable and measured approach? Isn’t it weird that we live in possibly the most accepting time in history in terms of sexuality and identity politics, and yet it’s still an act of rebellion to embrace and love one’s disabled self? If a venue doesn’t have ramps or lifts, it’s a safe bet that there’s no Braille, or induction loops for hearing aid users, or easy-to-read menus and promotional material. In the absence of provisions, disabled people are forced to adapt to a world that was not built with them in mind. Because of the inaccessible environment, we are often left on the outside.

We are all getting older. People are living longer, making them susceptible to illness and disability. COVID have left many people wrestling conditions like Fibromyalgia; it’s estimated that 20% of those recovered from COVID have Long COVID or lasting effects from the illness. The pandemic reminded us of the frailty of the human condition. Why are so many people obsessed with finding a β€œfix” or a β€œcure” for disabled people in a world that is so broken? And in an age of social media, will it always be an act of rebellion to be our true selves?

Should I Be FixedΒ will be on BBC Reel on 21 June 2023.

A Wheely Wise Decision

(Don’t worry, I’m groaning at the awful pun. too).

Three weeks ago, I finally reached my breaking point. It had been coming for a while, and I had dodged it successfully all this time, but I couldn’t avoid it any longer. I had been awake with pain for two nights in a row, and was so painfully tired that I thought I would vomit. I actually did no less than ten Covid antigen tests, thinking that there was another explanation. There wasn’t.

I was just tired. Tired of pretending that my pain didn’t affect me. Tired of trying to keep myself mobile, without having the energy to do anything else. I hadn’t written anything in days, and consequently I was snapping at my daughter over the slightest thing. I was crying at the smallest, insignificant inconvenience. Three weeks ago, I’d had enough, and so I sat at my laptop and opened the pinned tab that had been saved since October, and I said fuck it, and I bought the wheelchair that I’d been himming and hawing over since I received my long-term pain diagnosis in November.

Then I cried. Big, ugly, wailing tears. What had I done? Was I admitting defeat? Holding up my hands and saying that I was giving up hope of getting my mobility back? I wondered what my mum and dad would think, after all my years of physiotherapy and cycling to school. I only started to use a wheelchair in my twenties. Would they be disappointed, or would they understand?

When I calmed down and thought about it rationally, I knew my parents wouldn’t mind as long as I was happy (besides which, I’m almost thirty-nine, so I have to stop worrying about what they, and indeed other people, think). And I also had to consider my priorities. I need to write more than what I’m currently producing, and I also need to look after my family, physically and mentally. I won’t be able to achieve any of this if I am exhausted. Those I love deserve better – hell, I do, too. For too long, I have been obsessed with proving my worth, a worth tied up in the traditional mantra of lots of output and productiveness. But even a machine cannot work to its full potential if its parts aren’t working properly.

I’m not a machine, I’m a person. And the wheelchair isn’t a part of me – it’s a tool.

The wheelchair arrived at last on Monday morning, in a big cardboard box. Initially, I was going to put the box straight into the spare room, but my husband stopped me.

β€œYou’ve not spent all that money on a wheelchair just to have it gathering dust,” he said, hauling the box into the kitchen. 

After unboxing the wheelchair, I realised that I was looking at the answer to many of my problems. I tested it out around the house, leaving the footplates off so that I could propel it with my feet. It’s light, and for me, it’s far easier than trying to use an electric chair in our house, as I’d been doing on and off for the last three months. Today (Wednesday) marks day three of using the manual wheelchair, and since Monday, I’ve done four loads of laundry, written this blog and added 1,500 words to my novel, prepped meals and swept floors. And I’m still wrecked, but at least now I’ve something to show for it, which wasn’t the case this day last week.

Photo shows a lovely blue manual wheelchair, sans footplates.

Cerebral Palsy is not progressive. However, years of unsteady gait, falls, kneeling on the floor, and pushing ourselves to do things that our bodies were simply not made to do are bound to take a physical toll. You might have noticed that I’ve had a hard time accepting this. And as a dear friend pointed out to me recently, I shouldn’t. I’ve always been fiercely independent, and deciding to use a wheelchair more often will only enhance that. Less falls will lead to less pain. It might even lend me the energy and impetus to get back on my exercise bike, and hopefully onto my tricycle in the summer. My friend’s tough love approach has prompted me to focus on the future with excitement and hope (although if she reminds me again that I am pushing forty, she may get a clip around the ear).

Today (1 March) is International Wheelchair Day (which I didn’t know was a thing until this morning, but is quite timely, all things considered), a day for reflecting on and celebrating the positive impact that wheelchairs have on the people who use them (it is estimated that over 40,000 people in Ireland alone use wheelchairs either full or part-time). It is also worth remembering that the barriers that wheelchair users encounter – steps, inaccessible buildings, undipped footpaths – can all be fixed in order to promote inclusion for us all. And although we have made great progress, there are always improvements that could be made to ensure that services and amenities are accessible to everyone.

There you have it, my first blog in months, all thanks to me using my shiny new wheelchair to conserve my energy. Now off I go to tidy my kitchen, make some dinner and hang up some clothes.

Grasping the Nettle

I believe in the importance of words. I’m a writer, someone who tries every day to forge a career by stringing words together. I know that some words can have more impact than others. Some words are deliberately provocative, while others can hurt as silently as a nettle’s sting – irritating, but unnoticed by the nettle itself. The nettle’s sole purpose isn’t to hurt; it’s to protect itself, to grow. In fact, nettles have fantastic healing properties. And though I’m not an adventurous eater, one day I hope to accumulate enough courage to try nettle soup.

It’s also said that if you grasp a nettle, tight in your hand, it won’t sting, or at least not as badly as it might if you just brush against it gently. And of course, the good old dock leaf is a tried and proven antidote to that peppery red rash. But, I needed more than a dock leaf to draw out the sting of the consultant’s words in Tallaght two weeks ago.

I’ve had pain on and off for over two years now. I’ve been on a strict physio regime, which I’ve obediently adhered to, but some nights, the cramping in my leg keeps me up for hours. Which means that I’m tired the next day, too tired to use my exercise bike or do any writing. My physio said that I have to choose my tasks carefully, and frankly, I detest being told what to do. Granted, some of the things I’ve been known to do is downright ridiculous. I used to dust my skirting boards on a regular basis. I like hoovering on my knees because it’s easier to keep my balance, also, it’s easier to spot the dirt on the floor. The physio has forbidden me from doing these things, which only makes me do them more. Surprise, surprise!

So, when I went to see the consultant in Tallaght, after travelling all the way up on the train, I was devastated to hear him say the words β€œlong-term chronic pain condition.” I hadn’t been calling it that; I’d been referring to it as β€œa bit of leg pain,” β€œsciatica” at worst. (They don’t think it’s sciatica, but they reckon the nerve is trapped inside the periformis muscle). The thought of having broken sleep indefinitely was devastating, but there’s nothing they can do. I’ve refused the medication offered because I’ve read about the side effects, and owing to the involuntary movements, I’m not a candidate for pain injections. Go home, and do physio. It may improve, it may not. Nobody knows.

The guilt I felt was overwhelming. Despite all of my best efforts, I was now feeling like a burden to my husband and daughter, something I’d never wanted to happen. I felt like I’d failed my parents as well, after they’d invested so much time in making me mobile and independent.Β Chronic Pain condition.Β A different CP, another label used to define me. Hadn’t I enough of those already?Β Β The consultant said that all I could do was go home and do my own research. I’ve changed my diet, and I’m starting to come around to the idea of pacing out more onerous tasks. One thing that my husband and I discussed was getting a manual chair for knocking around the house in, on days when the pain is particularly bad. But I can’t bring myself to do it. Every time I look online for chairs that might be suitable, or asking the HSE for one, I end up folding the laptop screen down and sayingΒ not yet. I’m not ready. I might become lazy, or overdependent on it.Β I’m tired of being tired, though, and something’s gotta give.

Yesterday, I was trying to write, when a friend of mine called in unexpectedly. I was so excited to see him, having not seen him in person since the beginning of Covid. We had a good chat about various things, and suddenly he smiled and said, β€œDo you realise that something you said changed my life?”

I laughed. β€œSomething I said? Take all my advice with a grain of salt.”

He recounted the incident. It was about seven years ago. We’d been at a personal development day together, and the facilitator asked us to set out our short term, medium term and long-term goals. My friend’s long-term goal was to be able to walk from his house to his gate, without his stick. And in front of everyone, I’d asked him why this was so important to him.

I relived that horrible feeling of shame. β€œI regretted it the minute I said it. I’ll never forget how hurt you looked.”

He smiled at me. β€œIt was the best thing you could have said to me. After that, I decided to concentrate on what was important, and what I could do.  And to re-evaluate my relationship with my stick. This stick enables me to walk and keep my independence. Because of the stick, I can stay mobile. I can go to meetings and get involved in local activism. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You taught me that.”

It’s true – I did. I really wanted my friend to understand how the social model liberates us from blaming ourselves for our disabilities.Β Β And yet, here I am now, having to wrestle with a whole new meaning of what independence means for me.Β Β A definition that, for much of my life, focused on my physical abilities and strengths. I’ve always been fit. I used to cycle everywhere. I’m still walking a bit, something I didn’t think I’d be doing when I fell and acquired my injury, two years ago. But as difficult as it is, I need to reassess my priorities. Is it really important to be able to scrub the grouting of my tiles with a toothbrush? Can I successfully balance the roles of mother, wife and writer while avoiding as much pain as possible?

If I had the answers to those questions, I’d be laughing. The only way I’ll know is trial and error. Isn’t that how we make all our greatest personal discoveries? I wish I could be a little easier on myself. If I can find the courage to grasp that nettle, maybe it won’t sting too much in the long run.