I want you to speak to me - not the person behind me

Too often, when someone sees me in a wheelchair, they speak to the person pushing it (Picture: TyneSight Photography)

Edging closer to the front of the shop’s till line, my partner, Bryan, pushed me in my wheelchair. 

‘Next waiting!’ the cashier boomed. 

He made direct eye contact with Bryan – not me – then beckoned him forward. So Bryan rolled me up to the desk and I handed over the items I was buying. Apart from one or two uncomfortable glances, the cashier barely acknowledged me.  

When it came time to pay, the cashier looked straight at Bryan and said: ‘That will be £130,’ despite the fact that I was the one holding the card. 

I paid, said ‘Thank you’, and he nodded awkwardly – finally interacting with me, if only briefly. 

This exchange happened in summer 2019, and it was frustrating, but not surprising. 

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the first time I’d been treated like I didn’t exist while in a wheelchair.  

Sadly, it probably won’t be the last. 

I am now an ambulatory wheelchair user, which means I am able to walk to an extent (Picture: Sam Teale Productions)

Too often, when someone sees me in a wheelchair, they speak to the person pushing it. Not to me. It’s as though the chair erases who I am, making me somehow invisible. 

But I’m not. I’m right here. 

My life changed overnight when I became a mum at 21. After my son’s birth, I started experiencing excruciating hip pain, so I went to see my GP. 

It would be another three years before a doctor would discover I had unknowingly lived with hip dysplasia all my life. Essentially, my hips were the wrong shape, and it had gone undiagnosed. 

The pain was so bad that I was already using ambulatory aids before my diagnosis in January 2016. I would need to undergo major reconstructive surgery, but the waiting lists were long, and slowly, I became more reliant on a wheelchair. 

I finally had my first surgery in July 2018 and a second in August 2020. The operations I needed, a periacetabular osteotomy, can only be performed on one hip at a time, so as one was healing, the other was still deteriorating, and my recovery was long and slow.  

Due to my pain, self-propulsion was not an option, and I relied on someone pushing me. I am now an ambulatory wheelchair user, which means I am able to walk to an extent, but my needs vary considerably.  

Spending over seven years in a chair has opened my eyes to the everyday exclusion disabled people face. It’s made me far more passionate about inclusion. 

On one occasion, Bryan and I went on a day trip to a castle. Every time we approached a member of staff, they addressed him. Not me. He was the one standing, so they assumed he was the one with a voice; he was the one calling the shots. I was just a passenger. An inconvenience. Something to be contained. 

Of course, I’ve had positive experiences too (Picture: Stephanie Ward)

At various points, I was abandoned in a terminal, told ‘other people’ needed the airport wheelchair more than me, and left sitting, shivering, in front of an open door for half an hour.  

It was as though I was baggage to be contained, not a human who wanted to experience the delights of a pre-flight Duty Free. 

I was ignored when I spoke up for myself, as if the airport staff assumed they knew more about my needs than I did.

However, October 21, 2020, is a date that will be forever etched in my memory. On this day, I decided I was going to take back control of my life. 

I’ve learned to speak up, through therapy, coaching and some hard life lessons.

My friend helped me reframe how I see my wheelchair, which has been invaluable. She told me to think of it as my ‘Beyoncé pass’ – something that gets me where I need to go with confidence. 

Wheelchair users are not invisible (Picture: Stephanie Ward)

So if that shop assistant moment happened today, I’d smile and say, ‘Hi – I’m the one paying, thanks.’ 

I think a lot of people’s discomfort around disability comes down to fear. People are afraid to say the wrong thing to wheelchair users like me – so they say nothing at all. But that discomfort leads to exclusion and that’s something all of us have to confront. At the end of the day, I don’t want special treatment, just basic respect. 

The solution really is simple: ask questions. Find out how you can help or what’s needed, and most importantly, speak directly to the person living the experience, not the one who’s pushing them. I can’t stress how much this matters. 

Wheelchair users are not invisible. We are highly capable in many ways, and we deserve to be seen. 

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing [email protected]. 

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