Amy & Disabilities

I am telling this story for several reasons:

1. honesty is good & kind of therapeutic for me

2. My husband says I don’t tell enough stories about my work, and a lot of them are really good

3. It’s really funny in a horrifying, embarrassing, & non-PC way.

Anyone who knows me well, knows I have an on-going particular problem.  Despite my ardent (and very sincere) defense of social justice and equality, I have this horrendous track record with those living with physical disabilities.  I honestly doubt that there is anyone who has said more ridiculous things accidentally to the disabled than myself.  It’s like word vomit, it just comes out & and I am standing there like a character from Scrubs imagining the repurcussions.

 My first social work job was as a tech in a group home for girls with severe behavior problems. Most of these girls had rough backgrounds and serious mental illness, but were typically average, physically healthy individuals.  Then, on the other hand, was Maria (not her real name).  Maria was a great kid, and one of my favorites, who suffered from two problems  1.) intermittent explosive disorder, which is exactly what it sounds like & 2. A congenital birth defect that left her without forearms. 

 After working with Maria several times a week  for more than a year, I no longered even noticed her disability because she functioned so well.  This is where I always get into trouble….My social work training has so rewired my brain, that where most other people are interacting with someone who has a physical or other problem,  they are typically watching everything they do and say to make sure it’s both politically correct, and not offensive.  If you have ever watched someone do this to the extreme, it’s painfully embarassing, like watching Michael Scott from the Office talk about race.

Me, on the other hand, I, naturally to a fault, treat them the same way as I would anyone else, and the more comfortable I am, the worse it gets.  It’s like saying things to a family member over dinner that you know you would never, ever, say to a friend or acquaintence.  Familiarity can breed disaster. 

 So one day I roll into work, already frustrated from unrelated problems earlier in the day, and as I walk up to open the door, I literally remember saying to myself, “Amy, be graceful, be patient, drop the frustration or you won’t make it through the shift (on the last shift, a  patient tried to yank my hair out).”  Midway through my soothing, Dr. Phil self-talk, I try to open the door. Nothing happens.  I push harder, still nothing.  A third time, I put the weight of my hip into it, and really slam the door, when I hear a resounding metal CLANK!  In my mind I am like, ‘WHAT? SERIOUSLY? WHAT IS THE ISSUE?!!” I push the door again, CLANK! CLANK! At this point, my Dr. Phil moment has completely dissipated, and I am literally out of breath, carrying a book bag and pushing this stupid door CLANK! CLANK! CLANK! til it is wide enough for me to squeeze through. 

As I get around the door I immediately see that what has been blocking me is a wheelchair in a very small entryway, that had wedged one of those foot rest thingies in such a way that I was not able to get in.  Maria is on the couch, absolutely losing it with laughter as I yell, “what is with the wheelchair?”  She looks at me and through laughter says, “I needed it, I sprained my foot,” as she brandishes an ace bandage clad foot as evidence.  Myself, not losing a beat of my brilliance, then said, “Why didn’t you just get crutches? This thing is blocking the door!”  What happened next was one of my top five worst moments as she held up the stubs of her arms and yelled, “Cause I don’t have any arms!”

Before you crucify me as the worst social worker ever, and I just may be, know that Maria followed up this interchange with more laughter.  As I blundered apologies, she reassured me that she knew I said that because I did not notice her problem, and that actually made her happy.  Small consolation for someone whose life work is defending the defenseless, but it was better than receiving hatred.