A nurse practitioner and I have just been talking. Mostly we were talking about herbal teas, of which we are both aficionados. Prior to that, I was talking with a staff member of the Recreation Dept. Mostly we were talking about Washington, visiting the monuments, and cherry blossom time. Before that, I was talking with the director of Social Services and some vice president or other. They were functioning as quality control and trying to get the facts about a night nurse who threatened to take away my medicine because I said the re-order prescription had been sent to the wrong nurse practitioner—said nurse practitioner being the one with whom I was talking about tea.
So here’s the thing: nurse practitioners and above are the people with whom I have good conversations because they are functioning at my intellectual level. The recreation lady is 62 to my 69: we have things in common about which to talk. And when I have these people with which to speak, it makes me happy. It makes me smile.
I have been in a power wheelchair for ten or fifteen years. I have invited many, many people to visit me in my home but they haven’t done it. However, when we connect outside my home then we have long and interesting conversations. Why is that? Why won’t people visit me in my home?
My life has been largely wasted because nobody knows me; nobody gets to talk to me because I am disabled. I have so many good ideas to share and so many good stories to tell but nobody knows me because I am in a wheelchair.
You all have wasted my life because you wouldn’t come and visit me; you wouldn’t get close enough to hear me because I sit in a wheelchair.
Shame on you. How many other peoples’ lives have you wasted because you couldn’t get past the disability barrier?