“I bet some of you feel sorry for me. Well don’t. Having an artificial leg has its advantages. I’ve broken my right knee many times and it doesn’t hurt a bit.”
– Terry Fox
Getting through airport security screening with my mobility scooter always presents some challenges.
The lithium-ion battery is the subject of much discussion and serious facial expressions; the requisite explosives test must be performed; there are endless questions about why I am travelling with the scooter and the odd (old) joke: “I wish I could have one of those.”
It’s a repeatable playbook that I could recite in my sleep.
The only thing that still has the power to surprise me is the depth of people’s behaviour and reactions to me. I’m not sure why I am continually caught off guard. Perhaps it’s because I operate on the belief that you treat people how you would like to be treated.
A recent incident at the airport as I saw my mother off is a prime example. We were waiting patiently for the results of the explosives test. A female security officer was hovering nearby, watching me, when suddenly, without any preamble or direct eye contact, she kicked off the following conversation:
Security Officer (pointing at my mobility scooter): “I want one of those.”
Is all the originality gone from this world?
Security Officer: “Why are you in THAT?”
THAT, of course, being my mobility scooter.
Me: “I have a disability.”
A myriad of expressions flashed across her face: Horror. Discomfort. Pity.
Security Officer: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I asked!”
Me: “Don’t be sorry. I’m fine.”
Security Officer: “I’m sorry I asked.”
Yeah, well great, that makes two of us.
I figured the conversation was over. I was wrong.
Security Officer: “But you don’t look sick. So what’s wrong with you?”
Thank you for just invalidating my condition and conveying your disbelief that my condition is real. Bravo!
Me: “I have chronic full-body nerve pain, chronic fatigue, sporadic paralysis and muscle weakness as a result of a neurological condition known as Guillain–Barré Syndrome.”
I didn’t get a chance to elaborate on my big medically-wordy diagnosis any further. The security officer flailed her arms at me in that unmistakable ‘stop talking now’ gesture.
Security Officer: “I’m sorry I asked, I’m sorry I asked, I’m sorry I asked!”
Then the final kicker:
Security Officer: “I feel sorry for you.”
*Deep inhale and exhale*
Don’t make a scene in airport security.
Me: “Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t feel sorry for me so why should you?”
I scooted away without a backward glance.
My Mum and I rehashed the encounter (as we women tend to do) for a good half an hour later, dissecting the conversation and trying to somehow rationalise her behaviour. It made for some pretty interesting reflections:
So, to the strangers I have yet to meet:
I am the girl with the walking sticks.
I am the girl who hoons around on her kick-ass mobility scooter.
I am the girl who is so much more than the sum total of the visual impression you get when you first meet her.
I am the girl who is living an amazing life, enjoying it the best way she knows how.
The girl I am today, the girl who people describe using words like brave, determined, adaptable and courageous, know that I am that girl because of my journey, not in spite of it.
So please, don’t tell me you feel sorry for me. Don’t tell me you shouldn’t have asked. Don’t apologise for who I am. Don’t apologise for what makes me different.
I’m not sorry, not one little bit. You shouldn’t be either.
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