Eric and I arrived in Buenos Aires a week ago, and he drove me to my mother’s home . After he helped me get settled, he went back to Beacon. Since then, I’ve had a full team – my mother’s live-in maids and two nurse aids – taking care of me twenty-four hours a day. But in spite of that, fear is lurking always in the back of my mind: fear of not being heard; of being helpless in an empty room; of not being able to walk over the cliff separating me from the wheelchair to get to my destination. It brings back memories of my stay in the ER. I was sitting in the wheelchair in the middle of a large corridor, and many people in uniform were running back and forth around me. I sat there drowning in fear for (it seemed to me) endless hours, until one of them heard my screams for help.
When days break sunny and warm, I’m eager to go for a walk. But I need someone to push my wheelchair: sidewalks are bumpy or cracked, making it impossible for me to wheel myself, let alone travel over the irregular ramps at the intersections. When I asked a friend if coffee shops had refitted their bathrooms to make them wheelchair-accessible, he said he didn’t know – Argentineans have gradually become aware of the needs of people with physical disabilities, but awareness has not been followed by government policies and laws or by their enforcement. But so far, I’ve been too tired to go out of my mother’s home. Even the idea of riding a bus with someone coming along with me is scary – the memory of my youth in Buenos Aires where I was riding buses that were unprepared for people with disabilities is enough to discourage me.
So, regardless of the kindness of porteños, who offer their help right away when they see me in a wheelchair, and the willingness of my nurse aids and my mother’s maids to come to my aid at all times, being in Buenos Aires turns my bed and wheelchair into unsurpassable borders – the carpet and the sidewalks look like endless expanses challenging me to cross them.
When days break sunny and warm, I’m eager to go for a walk. But I need someone to push my wheelchair: sidewalks are bumpy or cracked, making it impossible for me to wheel myself, let alone travel over the irregular ramps at the intersections. When I asked a friend if coffee shops had refitted their bathrooms to make them wheelchair-accessible, he said he didn’t know – Argentineans have gradually become aware of the needs of people with physical disabilities, but awareness has not been followed by government policies and laws or by their enforcement. But so far, I’ve been too tired to go out of my mother’s home. Even the idea of riding a bus with someone coming along with me is scary – the memory of my youth in Buenos Aires where I was riding buses that were unprepared for people with disabilities is enough to discourage me.
So, regardless of the kindness of porteños, who offer their help right away when they see me in a wheelchair, and the willingness of my nurse aids and my mother’s maids to come to my aid at all times, being in Buenos Aires turns my bed and wheelchair into unsurpassable borders – the carpet and the sidewalks look like endless expanses challenging me to cross them.
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