Mind the Handi-Gap

A few years back I had surgery for a calcified Achilles tendon.  This was one of those surgeries that is elective, though slowly becomes imperative.  It is also barbaric, involving the severing of the tendon, the removal of degenerated material at the back of the heel, and then reattachment of the remaining healthy tendon into healthy bone with surgical screws.  When I first talked to the orthopedist about the procedure, he said, “You’ll know when you need it because you will come back begging me to for it.”  Sure enough, a year and a half later, after failing to get any relief from physical therapy and a strange treatment involved electrical current and cortisone, I was ready.

After the surgery, I was bedridden for a full ten weeks.  When I say bedridden, I mean that I was not permitted to let my foot touch the ground.   I could not even rest my foot on the floor to have dinner at the table with my family.  Eventually, I developed adaptive behaviors around my decidedly “unfootfriendly” house, where even my bedroom is sunken down a step from the en suite bathroom.  We rented a wheel chair, which helped relieve my hands from the growing burden of crutches—although that was only useful in the main living areas.  I brought all the essentials down from my upstairs office so I could communicate with the outside world.  After a few weeks I began to manage in the kitchen, even whipping up Nutella crepes one afternoon for my daughter and her friends.

The one bright side to this story is that it involved my left foot.  As soon as I was placed in a walking air boot I got in my car and sped away.  Of course, getting up and down the four steps in the garage was problematic, but let’s just say I got to the 'bottom' of it quickly!  At the advice of the doctor’s assistant, I applied for a temporary disability tag for my car.  It was valid for a six month period, after which they assured me I would be better than ever.  (I was!)

At first, it seemed like a cool thing to be able to find parking right in front of a restaurant or a mall entrance.  Mixed metaphorically speaking, I had the golden ticket and I was in the front row!  But the first time we went on a mall outing there was no available handicap parking at any of the mall entrances.  Over several weeks, the reserved parking spots remained elusive.  I began to feel a bit guilty that I accepted the permit at all; there were so many people who seemed in need of this extra help from society.  Certainly, with my boot and crutches I could amble up to the door from the far end of the parking lot, even if I had to rest at the bench just inside the entrance to regain my strength.  Leave those spots for the truly needy.

Then one day, as I was circling the mall lot looking for a place to land, an acquaintance from my town came dashing out of the mall toward her car.  She stopped at a minivan parked in a disabled-reserved spot and clicked her door open.  As she jumped inside, she removed the handicap tag from her rear-view mirror and pulled away.  Even though this provided a spot for me, I was livid.  Pulling a book from my purse, I decided to hunker down to wait for the next person to claim their car along “disabled row.”  Finally, a couple with a few years on me but nonetheless chipper and able, approached a car two spots over.  They piled the spoils of their shopping expedition into the trunk and sped away.  Right on their heels, a woman with two children in tow claimed the next car.  I was beginning to see a pattern emerge.

A few days later, I was fortunate to find a great spot right in front of the Cheesecake Factory where I was meeting a friend for lunch.  I hesitated to pull in because it was one of those paired van spots: two disabled parking spaces with a wide painted area in between to accomodate specially-accessible lifting equipment.  The adjoining space was vacant and I was properly tagged to use either one;  I grabbed my spot just as it began to pour.  I was glad for that extra margin of space as I lowered myself to the ground and engineered a way to carry an umbrella while on crutches.  After lunch, the storm had intensified as only nor’easters can.  I came out to find that someone had squeezed a non-permitted car in the painted area between the two disabled spots.  On their passenger side—my driver’s side—they left only about an inch and a half of space.  There I was, my umbrella no longer useful, on crutches and in an air boot, soaked to the skin with no apparent way to enter my car and drive home. 

As I stood there, trying to decide whether my insurance company would forgive me if I smashed this person’s headlights with my crutches and “keyed” their car with its wingnuts, one of those security people driving a golf cart approached to ask if I “required assistance.”  Duh!  I showed them what I was dealing with and suggested that she call to have the offending vehicle towed.  She said she could not do that.  I asked whether she could get some “real” police to ticket the person who had violated both the letter and the spirit of the law.  Again, no.    She drove away, leaving me, ankle deep without a proverbial paddle.   Defeated, I went to the passenger side of my car and squeezed in, hoping that if I waited long enough I would have a chance to confront the offender.  After half an hour I really needed to get home and get dry.  Desperate and shivering, I removed the boot from my left leg in order to bend it and then lifted myself in the car with my arms, hoping I could straddle the bulky console and slide to the left into the driver’s side without landing on my healing foot.

I share this experience with a higher purpose.  It is our nature to want the best for ourselves; so much of this world rewards those who are first, or best, or clever.  I learned in economics that "cheaters usually prosper," at least in the short term.  Many things we grasp from the hands of serendipity, however, come to us at the expense of someone else.  I know many people who have held on to handicap placards that rightfully belonged to an elderly parent or spouse.  Once departed, it is easy enough to appropriate the card for one’s own use.  Many look upon this as their own good fortune; but beware the karma, as this is not a victimless crime. 

Tomorrow's blog:  Let's Not Give Birth to an Old Debate