It is well-established that lifts should not be used during a fire, and very few people give this notion a second thought. This renders my own opinion on the subject rather radical, as I believe (and hear me out here) that disabled people shouldn’t be left behind to wait for rescue or simply to burn to death.

Like many disabled people, due to the lack of availability of affordable ground-floor apartments, I live a few floors up in my block of flats. As with most residential buildings, the lifts are not safe to use during a fire, lacking the insulation and separate alarm system indicating if the lift shaft is in danger that renders a lift safe to use in this scenario. This meant that when the fire alarm loudly announced it’s presence when home alone one Saturday morning, I grabbed my walking stick and hobbled to the designated evacuation point.

An evacuation point should have fire doors, a fold-up evacuation chair that emergency services can use to carry someone out of the building, and a call point so that if help is needed the fire service can rapidly be notified of exactly where someone is. My evacuation point had fire doors, at least.

I sat down on the stairs, as far over to the side as I could be so as not to impede people’s escape, and tried not to panic that I could not readily tell emergency services where I was. I told myself that it was probably an over-zealous smoke alarm, or at worst someone had burnt their breakfast.

As residents poured past me, most still in their pyjamas, one woman stopped to check I was OK. When I explained I couldn’t use the lift, she kindly offered to help me out of the building. She helped me onto my feet and then, leaning on the banister with arm and supported by her on the other side, I slowly and painfully began to make my way downstairs. After one story my legs burned. After two I started to lose my balance. After three I stopped and let the traffic jam that had built up behind me past, apologising profusely. I lost count of the floors at this point, my heart pounding and my breathing heavy. I was relieved when we reached the ground floor.

The cold air hit me like a brick wall as I made my way out onto the icy decking. My walking stick slipped but I managed to keep my balance, perching myself on a wall next to a flower pot. I thanked my helper and she disappeared into the crowd before I realised I never even got her name.

Several fire engines had already arrived, and another tore around the corner as I sat gathering my strength. I could hear what they were saying quite clearly as hoses were unraveled. The fire was real.

The chill that ran through me was colder than any winter weather. Were it not for the kind stranger, I would have been stuck inside a burning building. With a loud crash, the glass protecting the taps for the hoses was smashed open, and firefighters jogged into the building. I hobbled off the decking and down some more steps to ensure I was definitely not in anyone’s way, staggering onto the pavement at the bottom. Finding a suitable spot out of the way, I sat on the icy floor next to some hardy weeds and waited.

The news that the fire was real made its way around the crowd. For a group that size there was very little noise as we watched the firefighter’s work. Fortunately, it would seem the fire was small and quickly put out, and no one was hurt.

I don’t know how long we were outside, but when the fire service said it was safe for us to go back inside there was a cheer and a round of applause. I hauled myself to my feet and slowly made my way back indoors. I was given priority when queuing for the lift, for which I was grateful. The unmistakable smell of smoke lingered in the corridor as I made my way back to my apartment, and collapsed onto the couch. It took a while for the shaking to stop.

After taking a while to calm down, I decided to get on with my day, but even as I browsed shops looking for Christmas presents, I found my thoughts returning to what would have happened without the assistance of a total stranger. I would have known the fire was real when I smelled smoke; would I have had to try and climb down the stairs on my own? When I’m walking around my apartment, I sometimes find myself wondering how disabled I actually am, but struggling with the stairs and the subsequent pain (which I’m still experiencing several days later) was a harsh reminder of how sick I actually am.

The notion that disabled people are simply abandoned as too much of a burden in emergencies is deeply engrained into our society, and it is completely unacceptable. The trauma caused by waiting for rescue and not knowing if the danger is real is reason enough alone, even before considering the risk to life that this attitude imposes upon disabled people. Fire-safe lifts and proper evacuation points are not nice accessories; they are essential for accessibility, and they benefit everyone. After all, if disabled people can evacuate independently, firefighters can focus on quelling the flames instead of rescuing us.

Do fire safe lifts really cost more than the life of a human being is worth?