Ableds Are Weird and So Was I

(Both abled and weird)

Two of my extended family members (but not on the same side of my family) were born without forearms—let’s call them Bjorn and Gyda (yes, I’m rewatching season 1 of Vikings at the moment, how could you tell?)

A few years ago, I was visiting Bjorn’s grandparents. For some unknowable reason, in the middle of one of our conversations, I felt the need to mention Gyda. Not that I actually knew Gyda. She’s my second cousin’s cousin—I knew of her existence through Facebook photos on his profile, but no more. I’ve never met her, or talked to her. I basically haven’t the faintest idea who she is or how she deals with her disability. And yet I mentioned her, like, “hey look, this is neither here nor there and doesn’t help anyone at all, but I know another person with the exact same condition.”

Bjorn’s grandmother laughed—not meanly—and said that my reaction was typical of people hearing or talking about her grandson. They always tried to link it to some person or some situation in their own life. I now know about this habit of able-bodied people because people do it to me all the time. And I cringe when I remember that episode, when I think that I did the same thing when I wasn’t as disabled as I am now.

One of the questions I get the most often is, “do you have multiple sclerosis?” Non-disabled people ask me that when they first meet me (sometimes it’s literally the first thing they ask me, as if the presence of my rollator cancels the need for any small talk, introduction, or greeting), probably hoping that I’ll say yes and that they will then be able to tell me a story about someone they know who has MS. Hoping to impress me with their knowledge of an “obscure” disease and their open-mindedness for having an acquaintance with it.

So I say, “no.” If it’s someone I can’t escape, or I absolutely have to be polite with, I add, “I have ataxia.” Cue them staring at me in awkward silence, because they have no idea what ataxia is. Nobody knows what ataxia is. I have literally only met one person in my life who knew what ataxia was because she’d had another friend with the same disease (and told me about him in a non-weird way).

Oh, I’m sorry, no, I’ve met two people who knew what ataxia was before they met me, but the other immediately said, “[this person I know] also has ataxia, he lives in [place that is nowhere near me], do you know him?” Thinking disability is a club and that once you’re in it you know all its other members: another way ableds are weird.

“You should take the opportunity to educate them about your disability!” is probably what you’re thinking. And sometimes I do, if the person is polite and seems genuinely open to educating themselves. But often they are not (polite and/or interested), so why would it be my responsibility, why should I take time out of my day to teach them something they’ll probably have forgotten as soon as I’m gone? If they’re really curious, Google is there for them.

So, why do ableds do that? Why do they always need to find a way, even if it’s ridiculously tenuous, to relate to us and commiserate with us, as if we were equals on that particular topic? In other words, why are ableds weird?

I’m sure psychologists could answer this question better than I can, but this is the reason I could think of: to fill an awkward silence.

A lot of able-bodied people think, consciously or subconsciously, that being disabled is a fate worse than death. So facing a disabled person who is clearly not dead, or talking to someone who loves a disabled person, tends to make ableds flail and spout the first thing they can think of that relates to the subject and is not insulting: they know someone disabled too!

We understand (or at least hope) that this reflex doesn’t come from a bad place, just a place of not knowing what to say, but like… disabled people are people. You can just say normal things to us too, you know. I mean, when you see someone with glasses, you don’t feel the urge to tell them about everyone you know who also wears glasses, do you? So why would you do it with wheelchairs, walkers, white canes, missing limbs, or anything else? That’s why we think it’s weird.

I can’t end this article without mentioning the weirdest (and funniest, in hindsight) thing that was said to me because of my disability.

It was back in 2015, before I had my rollator. I was going to get some blood drawn, and for some reason I was having an off day, balance-wise (this was back when I sometimes still had on days), and was walking with my hand against the wall. At some point, a middle-aged lady came up to me and said, “I also have Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo, do you want to know how I got rid of it?”

I simply answered, “No…” because 1) that is not what I have, 2) what I do have is none of her business, and 3) who is this lady and why is she talking to me right now?

So she snapped at me, legitimately irritated at my refusal of her offer of help that would not have helped, “Fine, if you want to live your whole life this way!”

Uh…

I still have no idea what that was about, but it gets funnier every time I think about it.

In conclusion, three lessons to take from this article:

1. Disabled people are people. You can talk to us about whatever you would talk to your able-bodied friends about. I promise we all have a life outside of being disabled.
2. Disability is not a club. No, I don’t know your friend with ataxia who lives in the next province. I mean, I don’t even know my neighbours’ names…
3. Mind your own business. Good advice in most situations, really.