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Here is the paradox of being disabled: Most, if not all desire a life where they simply blend in, not to be singled out in any way based simply on their appearance or physical ability. Yet to live this independent, anonymous and unencumbered lifestyle requires a tremendous amount of awareness, not only from the individuals around you, but in the physical configuration of the world itself – ramps, accessible entryways and even handicapped parking spaces must be in place to insure that you can navigate successfully in public. Rules designed to protect and advocate the rights of those with disabilities must be known and adhered to by everybody, not just the disabled community. So what we ask – I, in particular, ask – is for everybody to know my rights, know my disability, know and look out for me, but just don’t notice me. It’s an impossible catch-22, yet one I’ve doggedly pursued since day one, March 22, 1984, all the time knowing , despite all the swimming, scuba diving, hand cycling, fishing, sailing, that I can never truly have it both ways.

The company where I work everyday as an Information Technology engineer is one of the largest insurance companies in the world; the main headquarters located in Hartford Connecticut is a gargantuan brick pile erected sometime in the 1930s and for some reason designed to look, as are many insurance company structures built in this city, like an over-sized Greek temple. It features one of the largest dedicated handicapped parking lots I’ve ever seen, with nearly 40 spaces requiring a handicapped permit. I am the only one in a wheelchair who parks in this lot, yet if I do not arrive before 7 am, all forty spaces are taken. Of the remaining 39 motorists, none are in wheelchairs and many seem to have little or no discernable signs of physical impairment; a few may limp, and a few more are overweight or nearing retirement age and have trouble ambulating, however most could literally skip to the front door if their lives depended on it.

I suppose I have it easy. All you need to do is look at me to realize that I’m a bona fide handicapped permit holder. But for others, it’s not that easy, in fact it’s nearly impossible to tell what’s wrong with some of these people. They in turn shoulder a very different kind of burden. I feel a bit sorry for the perfectly normal looking nineteen year old girl I just watched spring from her car seat and sprint into the building. Poor thing; we all assume she’s faking it, probably using her house-bound grandmother’s permit, or as a recent study confirmed, she could be among a significant number of people – more than you could ever fathom – who actually have used the handicapped parking permit that once belonged to a deceased spouse or relative. But maybe she’s concealing some tragically grave physical circumstances; for all we know she could be the Bionic Woman with space-aged, motorized appendages to prove it. Or the forty-ish fellow who parks in the first handicapped spot every morning, carries his giant gym bag over his shoulder, and spends 2 hours before work doing power-lifting and heavy cardio on the treadmill in the basement fitness center, all the while looking like he is in the healthiest percentile of forty-ish adults in the country. But perhaps he has a Kevlar heart, or flat feet; anything - please let it be anything - other than something far more believable like: his brother the M.D. prescribed him a phony parking permit, in return for some other favor. Please confirm for me that people wouldn’t be that heartless, that going to such devious lengths to screw a paraplegic with an hour long commute out of a parking space with a phony permit is actually one of the most wicked and horrible things a perfectly able-bodied person could do. Based on what I witness every day, I can’t quite believe it. And my cynicism grows with each year that I have to live dependant upon these wheels.

I’ve tried to make the following deal over and over, but to no avail, for there are no takers: Let me exchange bodies with a perfectly normal ambulatory person who is just dying to park in the handicapped lot. They will now be legit – albeit really in need of handicapped parking; meanwhile my side of the bargain, in exchange for losing the wheelchair entirely, is that I will take the farthest parking space in every parking lot, every time I park, for as long as I live.