Disability – Diary of a Disabled Person.

The D-Word.

With each generation language evolves, & one of the driving factors behind this change is the words we use to describe each other. While the n-word was once a common term for people of colour, most white people today will never let the word pass their lips. When I was at school, we were taught not to use the term faggot due to it’s homophobic connotations. Finally, it seems that the focus has shifted onto how we talk about disability.

Disabled people frequently refer to themselves as disabled. I mean, you are currently reading Diary of a Disabled Person (for which I thank you). We are comfortable with the word disabled as it hasn’t been used as an insult very often, & it neatly describes the vast range of conditions & characteristics that can render someone disabled. However, most “ableds” seem to disagree. They think that referring to ourselves as disabled is demeaning and belittles us, when in actuality, denying us the right to determine how we are described for ourselves is far more belittling.

So, if we’re not supposed to call ourselves disabled, what do we say? Differently abled is a common suggestion, although my personal favourite is access inclusion seekers. Both of them are long-winded & can hardly be said to roll off the tongue, & the former implies that no matter what resources are made available to me, I simply cannot function on their level. The latter is just an excuse to be inaccessible given that, if everywhere were accessible & inclusive, we would have nothing to seek.

It should also be noted that I’ve already purchased the domain name Diary of a Disabled Person, and I had the word disability permanently etched onto my skin (along with some other words).

More specifically to those of us who have wheels, it is still common to hear wheelchair-bound being used to describe us. Bound has lots of problematic connotations, such as being limited by our wheelchairs, or perpetuating the stereotype that all of us are paralysed from the waist down & cannot walk or stand at all. The term wheelchair-user is significantly preferred by those of us who use them, but we are shouted down as we couldn’t possibly know for ourselves what we want.

If the reluctance to use the word disabled wasn’t bad enough, there are words still in use that generations of disabled people have said are unacceptable. Retard. Spaz. Cripple. More recently, idiot, a term that I still find slips out far more often than I’d like. These are the words with offensive connotations that we want people to stop using, yet this is ignored and the term we want is denied to us. Is there anything more patronising than out desires being over-ridden in favour of someone who knows nothing about our realities?

If people want to support the disabled, they need to start by listening to us. They need to start respecting our wants and needs. They need to stop condemning things which shouldn’t be condemned, & start shouting down those who park on pavements & block access routes, those who treat us as if we were a particularly unintelligent toddler, or those who make us invisible. They need to start with the man in the mirror (sorry, couldn’t resist).

Live Long & Prosper.

There is a certain type of Star Trek fan that likes to wax lyrical about how Star Trek Discovery, the latest iteration of the science-fiction saga, is just an excuse for left-wing propaganda. This is because the main protagonist is a black woman, two of the scientists were in a homosexual relationship, & one of the top engineers (who is a woman) mentions her deceased wife. Look closely & you can also spot an extra in a wheelchair. These fans claim that all of these characters are purely to pander to liberals & their political correctness, & that Star Trek should return to its apparently conservative roots. To that I say, bollocks.

Star Trek was one of the first television shows to depict an inter-racial kiss, between Captain Kirk & Uhura, in 1968. As if that wasn’t ground-breaking enough, William Shatner went out of his way to ensure that the kiss made it on screen, by crossing his eyes on the take where Uhura was out of shot & rendering it unusable.

Since then there have been multiple characters of varying ethnicities taking up leading roles in the subsequent series & films, & many strong female characters accompanying them. Deep Space Nine contains excellent examples of these in Benjamin & Jake Sisko, & Major Kira Nerys. It is even arguable that beloved characters such as Spock & Data represent autism. Considering all of this it is perhaps not surprising that I have yet to find a better example of consistently positive representation for disabled characters.

In the pilot episode of Star Trek we meet Captain Pike, before Captain Kirk took the helm of the USS Enterprise. Captain Pike meets a group of telepathic aliens on Talos 4, & over the course of the episode it is revealed that a federation ship crashed on the planet leaving the lone survivor severely injured. The telepaths use their powers to make her look & feel as if she were a healthy woman once more.

Part way through the first series it is revealed that, due to a heroic sacrifice, Captain Pike is left severely disabled. He uses a wheelchair with a built-in life-support system, & can only communicate with “yes” & “no”. At first he will only allow Spock to accompany him, & soon it becomes clear why; Spock manages to ensure that Captain Pike returns to Talos 4, where the telepaths “heal” him.

During the journey there is a tribunal when Spock’s interference is uncovered, & at first the admiral seems reluctant to host the tribunal due to the lack of Federation leaders available. It is pointed out, quite rightly, that Captain Pike is still a captain & the tribunal is allowed to go ahead.

The story-line did not make Captain Pike look weak, nor did it turn him into “inspiration porn”. He had a duty to perform & he did it. The characters learnt to recognise that Captain Pike still existed behind the machinery, & the audience learns this with them. Nor was Captain Pike subject to a mercy-killing, but was able to go and live out the rest of his days peacefully (and in the company of a very attractive woman).

Captain Pike is now a main character on the prequel series Star Trek Discovery, a staggering 50 years after audiences first came to know the character. Without giving anything away, Pike has a vision of his future but continues down that path regardless, as the fate of all sentient life in the universe is at stake, naturally. He fears for his future but tells no one, facing the truth without making a scene, & it is his stoicism that is admirable, not the fact that he will become disabled.

Captain Pike isn’t even the only disabled character in Star Trek. There is Melora in Deep Space Nine, who must use a wheelchair as the gravity on her native planet is nowhere near as strong as Earth’s, & Geordi La Forge who is blind in The Next Generation.

So, if you are one of those toxic fans who thinks that left-wing politics doesn’t belong in Star Trek (although for the life of me I cannot fathom why you would be reading this blog in the first place), you couldn’t be more wrong, because I am completely unable to find such a consistently excellent representation of disability in pop-culture at all. Let it live long & prosper.

Living in Leeds: Saturday Streamer.

Having thoroughly enjoyed doing the odd live-stream on Twitter over the past few months, & having got excellent feedback to boot, I’ve decided to take up live-streaming on a regular basis!

Every other Saturday at 6 pm (BST) I’ll be discussing recent blog posts, providing an exclusive look at what’s to come on Diary of a Disabled Person, sharing anecdotes, reading comments & more!

Born Survivor: Yet Another Short Story.

I was at home when I encountered my first victim of the sickness. My mum had come back from work early saying that she didn’t feel very well and was going to go to bed for a little while. A couple of hours later she shuffled out of her bedroom and came into the living room, where I was watching the news.

“Have you seen this?” I asked without looking at her, turning the volume up, “There’s some kind of disease going round; it looks really bad.”

When my mum made no effort to respond I turned to look at her. Her skin had taken on a pale, jaundiced hue, and her eyes were vacant between puffed up eyelids. She was drooling slightly from the corner of her mouth and her hair was falling over her face.

“OK mum, very funny,” I laughed. There was a short pause.

“Mum?”

I glanced back towards the TV where they were showing pictures of those who were already sick, and advising people to distance themselves from any victims. My mum wasn’t faking it.

I hauled myself shakily from the sofa to my wheelchair and left the room as fast as I could, slamming the door behind me. While I scrambled for my coat and shoes I could hear her rattling the door handle. I grabbed my bag and quickly checked that my wallet, phone, and keys were inside before bolting out of the door to our flat and locking it behind me.

I looked down the corridor towards the lifts, and saw the old lady from the flat next to ours shambling away from me. She had dementia and no one ever visited her bar the nurses, so I decided to guide her back to her flat where she could remain safe until the sickness could be quarantined.

“Mrs Owen?” I called. There was no answer. I approached her and tapped her gently on the hand.

“Best stay indoors right now, Mrs Owen, there’s trouble outside,” I said calmly.

She turned around slowly. She was drooling from both corners of the mouth and her eyes appeared to be oozing some strange, pus-filled tears. I dropped her hand immediately and made towards the lifts as fast as I could, hammering the button repeatedly as I waited for its arrival, all the while watching Mrs Owen head towards me. The lift arrived just in time; the doors closed as Mrs Owen made to step into the lift, crushing the toes on her right foot with a sickening sound. Somehow I managed to stop myself from being sick, and I pulled my phone out of my bag.

“Steph?” I said, relieved when my friend answered my call, “My mum’s sick, I need somewhere to go.”

“My entire family bar me is down with whatever the hell this is, I was just about to head over to your place,” she replied.

“We’re gonna need somewhere to hide out for a while. Somewhere secure,” I was pressing the phone to my ear with my shoulder in order to give me two hands to push my wheelchair.

“What about the gym?” I asked after thinking, gazing down the empty street. I had never seen it so quiet; if tumbleweed had at that moment drifted past I wouldn’t have been surprised.

“Food, water, showers, and decent security. Sounds like a good place to start,” Steph replied.

“And accessible,” I added.

“See you there,” she replied, and then hung up.

I turned left towards the main road where there was a deficit of traffic. I didn’t have to wait for the traffic lights to be able to cross safely, and I couldn’t help wondering where everybody was. It was hard to believe that everyone had been affected.

As I approached the gym it started to rain lightly, and I regretted not bringing a blanket to keep me dry. I could see Steph already making her way across the gym car-park and I called out to her. That was my first mistake. As soon as the first syllable had left my mouth a group of sick adults came rushing out of the nearby houses, attracted by my shout. They were moving faster than either my mum or Mrs Owen had been able to.

I pushed myself as rapidly as I could, and when I got to the car-park I glanced back over my shoulder. That was my second mistake. I should have kept moving; I felt a sharp jolt as one of the sick ones sank his teeth into my wheel. There was a sharp popping sound and then a gentle hiss as the tire began to slowly deflate. I looked up to see Steph hurtling towards me, and I reached out. She grabbed my hands and pulled me forwards out of the throng of sick adults, and then pushed me as fast as possible all the way into the gym. We slammed the doors shut behind us, sliding the security bolts into place.

“Any more of you?”

We jumped, and turned around. Leaning against the reception desk was a young woman in skinny jeans and a leather jacket, her short hair scraped back into a ponytail.

“No,” Steph answered first.

“OK, let’s go and meet the others and discuss what to do. You were sensible enough to come to the gym so I’m sure you’ll be able to pull your weight,” she stared straight at me as she spoke.

“This bothering you?” I pointed downwards.

“Right now it’s survival of the fittest, and you don’t look the fittest to me,” she replied casually.

“She’s an expert archer,” Steph blurted out angrily, “She’ll be a valuable part of whatever team you’re building.”

The woman raised an eyebrow slightly before turning away, and led us into the café overlooking the swimming pool.

“I’m Ruby,” the woman said, “and this is Vicky and Zelia.” She indicated to two more women of about her age sat by one of the vending machines. Both of them looked up, and their respective gazes settled on my wheelchair.

“I’m Jo,” I said, “and this is my friend, Steph.” We all gathered around the one table.

“Right,” Ruby said, “we’re gonna need to be organised if we wanna get outta this. You’re friend said something about being good at archery.”

“Err, yeah, I guess so,” I said as they all looked at me, “I spend a lot of time on the archery range, it’s one of the few sports disability doesn’t affect that much.”

“Cool. And what about you?” Ruby turned to Steph, “Any special talents?”

“I’m an apprentice electrical engineer,” Steph said.

“Wow, full of surprises,” Ruby replied, “There’s an old radio in the basement; do you reckon that you get that working for us? And modify the vending machines to get food out without spending any money?”

“Sure, it’s certainly worth a shot,” Steph said.

“OK. Well, Vicky and me do kickboxing, so we’re good for on-the-ground defence, and Zelia is our resident genius,” one of the women, small, with a dark pixie cut framing her face, blushed, “so she can do rations and medical stuff, and modify equipment.”

“So here’s the plan,” Ruby continued, “Zelia and Steph will put barricades in place on all the doors bar the back entrance and sort out the radio and stuff. Vicky and me will fashion some melee weapons out of gym equipment and patrol the car-park, keeping it clear of the zombie-things. Jo, you’re gonna select a bow and get all the arrows you can, and get to the roof where you can see what’s going on. We’ll reconvene here in an hour. Understood?”

We all nodded and set off for our various tasks. I took the lift, which was fortunately still working, down to the archery range. I selected my favourite bow; a lightweight, long range piece, with enough tension to fire arrows at tremendous speed. I went around all the store cupboards collecting every arrow I could, amounting to about 100 in total. My only problem was that the arrows weren’t designed to be used as weapons, and probably wouldn’t do that much damage if I tried to shoot someone. I looked around the room for ideas, a fruitless search that sent me into the rest of the basement where I bumped into Zelia.

“You OK?” she whispered shyly.

“Yeah,” I replied, “it’s just that these arrows aren’t going to do much good as weapons.”

Zelia looked around the corridor and reached out to touch one of the roughly whitewashed walls.

“You could probably sharpen some against this wall, but it might take a while,” she said thoughtfully. There was a short pause.

“Hang on,” she added, “there’s some bandages and alcoholic hygiene solution in the medical kits. If you soak the bandages in the alcohol and then wrap them around the arrow-heads, you could make fire arrows. Ruby has a lighter.”

“Good idea,” I nodded, “where can I find a medical kit?”

“There’s one in the café we were in,” Zelia replied.

I headed back towards the lift and pressed the button. As I did all the lights in the corridor dimmed, flickered, and went out.

“Powers’ down,” I heard Steph say from somewhere to my right. A couple of seconds later, a phone torch cast a white light down the corridor. I pressed the lift button again but nothing happened.

“There’s a hand crank for the lift upstairs behind a panel in the café, for emergencies. But we’re gonna need to lever open the doors,” Zelia impressed me with her quick thinking.

“Yo, I made a crowbar of sorts out of one of the cross-trainers. Best use for ‘em,” Ruby’s voice came from somewhere behind Steph. She sauntered towards me as if she hadn’t a care in the world, swinging a metal bar casually by her side. I moved to one side and let her crank open the doors, albeit slowly with a lot of heaving and sweating.

“I’ll go do all the other floors,” Ruby swaggered off the way she had come.

“I’ll go sort out the crank,” Zelia said reassuringly, “don’t worry, we’ll get you sorted out in no time.”

I thanked them and 10 minutes later I was sat in the café wrapping bandages around arrow-heads, and dipping them in alcohol solution.

***

The radio crackled and fuzzed as Steph delicately fiddled with the settings. Out of the unintelligible white noise came the occasional fragment of what sounded like a man’s voice, but we couldn’t make out any words. Suddenly, a clear string of words seemingly erupted from the speakers.

“…can hear this…military operation…rescue all citizens trapped by the plague who are not sick…signal us using this bandwidth…tell us…location…will aid…” the crackling noise overwhelmed the last of the words.

“I think it’s a repeating message,” Steph said, still tinkering among the mass of wires in the radio, “if I can just…there.” She sat back proudly as the message came pouring out of the speakers loud and clear.

“To anyone who can hear this, a military operation to rescue all citizens trapped by the plague who are not sick is in place. Signal using this bandwidth,” a small string of numbers followed, “and tell us your location. We will aid you as soon as we can… To anyone who-“

“Can you send them that signal?” I turned to Steph.

“Yes,” she returned, “but I may need a little time.”

“Take whatever you need,” Vicky spoke for the first time.

“In the meantime, here is my daily ration plan,” Zelia pushed forward a piece of paper covered in pencil scribblings, “the food here could last us for two weeks, after which point we would need to go out and look for more. The most important thing for now is to stop anyone sick from getting in.”

“Well, sounds like we have a job to do,” Ruby looked across at Vicky and myself. We both nodded, and I set off for the lifts.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” I said, stopping just before I entered the lift, “I need your lighter, Ruby. These are fire arrows.”

“Sure,” she tossed it over to me.

“Cheers,” I said as I positioned myself in the lift, and Zelia started turning the crank.

The trip to the roof was slow and dark and when I finally opened the door to the rooftop terrace, the sun was beginning to set. I moved to the edge of the terrace overlooking the carpark and put on my brakes. Below I could see Ruby and Vicky doing a circuit of the grounds, warding off the few sick people that still lingered there. A small group had gathered in one corner and as the two women set to work, they failed to see another small group walking towards them from the opposite corner.

I plucked an arrow from the sports bag slung over the back of my wheelchair and pulled Ruby’s lighter from my pocket. Once I had set the arrow alight, I didn’t have much time to aim before firing it, for risk of setting my bow or even myself on fire. I pulled back the bow and exhaled, then released the arrow. Had it been a video game, I’d have probably unlocked an achievement for hitting three people with one arrow. This being an unfortunate reality I had to make-do with watching the other sick people reel back in fear, before turning and shuffling off in the other direction. Ruby and Vicky dealt with the rest.

It was getting too dark to see properly so I called down to Vicky and Ruby to let me down in the lift when they got back inside. As I waited in the lift I pulled my phone out of my pocket but the battery had run out, leaving me staring at the blank screen.

***

It was three days before we managed to signal the military and tell them our location. There were so many people trying to reach them that the bandwidth was flooded with messages and they couldn’t possibly receive them all at once.

Each morning started with a cereal bar and bottle of orange juice for breakfast, and then I would go up to the roof armed with my bow and arrows, and with lunch rations by my side. I stayed on the roof until sunset, firing arrows at any troublesome groups. I burned through arrows, no pun intended, at an alarming rate as the group of sick people grew larger and larger each day, getting closer and closer to the gym. Occasionally Vicky or Ruby would wander around the car-park, clearing away any waifs and strays, but for most of the day they rested as they guarded the gym overnight.

Steph maintained any barricades and melee weapons that happened to get damaged, retrieving what arrows she could as well, and Zelia assigned rations and treated any injuries. It was actually quite dull compared to all the books, movies, and TV series dedicated to Earth-destroying diseases, and all of us felt particularly trapped.

It was approximately midday on the fourth day when I heard the sound of whirring helicopter blades in the distance. A minute or so later a helicopter appeared on the horizon, and within 10 minutes it was hovering over the gym. The others having heard the commotion came hurrying up to the roof as a soldier was hoisted down to us.

“We’ll hoist you up one by one,” he shouted to us as he landed on the roof. Ruby practically leapt into the man’s arms.

It was then that I noticed my wheelchair was slowly being blown backwards by the helicopter, creeping towards the edge of the roof. Safe in the knowledge that my brakes and the low wall around the rooftop should keep me safe I started to laugh, the first time I had laughed since the outbreak. Steph started to laugh with me, as did Vicky and Zelia, and I think I saw a small smile flash across the face of the soldier too as he ascended towards the helicopter with Ruby. None of us noticed that one of my brakes wasn’t on until it was too late.

I was gaining speed as I was blown towards the edge and when I hit the wall, I was going just fast enough to tip the wheelchair backwards. Suddenly I found myself precariously balanced over a three-story drop onto the tarmac below, where a group of sick adults had gathered to watch the spectacle. I screamed as I felt the wheelchair tipping further and further.

Steph grabbed my hand and Zelia the other, pulling me back onto the roof, but as soon as they had set me down I was rolling towards the edge of the roof again.

“Undo your seatbelt,” the soldier, who had returned to the roof for the next of us, shouted.

“But without my wheelchair-“

“We can get you another at the base,” he yelled. I hesitated.

Zelia dived towards me and yanked loose the seatbelt that was across my lap, pulling me onto the roof at the same time. I looked up to see my wheelchair go flying off the roof, clattering to the ground below. Needless to say I was the next to be hoisted into the helicopter.

***

When we arrived at the military base a new wheelchair was waiting for me. We were examined by a medical team in a quarantined area before being allowed to mingle with the other survivors, of whom there were surprisingly many. We were based there for a month while a nation-wide military operation administered treatment to all those affected by the disease. Finally, after a weeks’ quarantine period to ensure that the disease would not make a reappearance, we were allowed to return home.

It would take a long time before the country was running normally again; many people remained missing, presumed dead, for months or even years. Even 60 years on some people were never found, my mother among them.

Steph went on to complete her apprenticeship and set up her own business, despite being a single mother of two. Ruby pursued a career in the police force, which had always surprised and amused me, and Vicky joined the army. Zelia returned to her job as a junior doctor and worked in various hospitals throughout her career.

As for myself, I moved in with Steph’s family for a few months until I could support myself, and then I continued to spend a great deal of time on the archery range. After all, being a gold medallist at three Paralympics in a row is no mean feat.

Ow (again).

Time flies when you’re having fun. I’m already a month into my mini-pause & today I got the next injection. In my abdomen. Which hurt.

Inspired.

Being referred to as an inspiration should be a compliment. It means your influence has impacted others, caused them to change their behaviours, or take action on a particular problem. It means you are respectable, even exceptional. Unfortunately, as any disabled person will tell you, this isn’t always the case. Being called an inspiration can be flattering, uplifting, and empowering, but it can also be embarrassing, patronising, and downright ableist.

Recently I went for drinks after work with several colleagues, my boss, his boss, and the boss of my boss’s boss. It was a fairly small and quiet affair, with the alcohol flowing perhaps a little too freely, and all pretence of professionalism left behind at the office. As the evening progressed I ended up in conversation with Supreme Leader Debs (the boss of my boss’s boss). We had discussed a few elements of work as I was still fairly new to the team, but conversation naturally drifted towards our activities outside of work. I mentioned the whole writing thing very casually, as well as my activities in support of equality and inclusion both in and out of the workplace, and also that I was soon to be married. After listening to me talk about my very full life, all of which happened outside of a full-time job while living with a debilitating chronic illness, she told me I was an inspiration. Was I uncomfortable in any way with this? Quite frankly, no. I was actually pretty excited.

Just a few days after that I paid a quick visit to the corner shop to pick up a few essentials, nothing major, and nothing as exciting as the glamourous lifestyle I like to project on Instagram (hey, we’re all guilty of that, right?). An older man at the self-service checkout next to me tapped my arm and told me I was a true inspiration, very loudly and very much in earshot of everyone else in the shop. I stammered an awkward thank you, knowing he meant well and not to offend, and tried to hide my beetroot-red face from the rest of the shoppers. I was extremely uncomfortable, and would have made a quick exit had it not been for the fact that I hadn’t yet paid for my groceries and would have been arrested for shop-lifting.

Two very similar things had been said to me, and yet they evoked two entirely different emotional responses. Why?

There are several factors to consider here. First of all, Debs was not a stranger; she knew me and my capabilities, and could make a much better judgement of my lifestyle because of that. Secondly, this was said in one-to-one conversation in a noisy pub, not projected loudly across an entire shop. The fact that a little alcohol was involved in the first instance may well have reduced social inhibitions on both our parts, making it even less likely to be embarrassing for either party. Perhaps most importantly of all was the topic of discussion at the time; I wasn’t just doing something as mundane as getting groceries, but was talking about essentially having two jobs and quite the double life, managing to perform well in both, all while I was ill. Put blatantly and a little arrogantly, this is no small feat.

It can be hard not to feel patronised or even a little exploited when a random stranger declares you worthy of knighthood for existing, loudly saying as much in public. I know that no offence was meant and that’s why I try to be patient, just smiling and nodding before carrying on with whatever I’m doing. At the same time it’s almost impossible not to be annoyed at people’s ignorance and lack of empathy; it’s not like this is the first time this topic has been touched upon. Nor, I’m sure, will it be the last.

Pro-Disabled.

Recently it seems that civil rights are regressing, evidenced by the introduction of overly strict abortion laws in Alabama with multiple other states looking to follow suit. Given my left-wing stance on most political issues it should come as no surprise that I am strongly pro-choice, however, there are a couple of arguments I regularly hear from the pro-choice group that I take issue with.

Many pro-choice people correctly point out that most abortions take place early in the pregnancy, when the child is an embryo, not a foetus. The implication here is that an embryo has a questionable status as a life form, a sentiment I take issue with as I am the sister to 7 miscarried siblings, & I have seen the devastation a miscarriage causes time & time again. Unless the people brandishing this harsh argument wish to tell everyone who has ever miscarried not to mourn, I personally feel that they should have more tact when discussing the matter.

The second argument I hear from pro-choice activists is to use disability as a justification for abortion. There are some in utero tests that can predict with relative accuracy if the child has some kind of disability, whether that be a congenital malformation or even a genetic defect. When the results of these tests are positive, some women choose to have an abortion, a choice which is theirs to make. With such poor welfare many women could simply not afford to bring up a disabled child, & other disabilities are so severe that it can be argued that the child would know nothing but pain & misery in their often shortened lives.

Unfortunately, there are some people who have used to this argument to tell disabled people, to their faces no less, that their mother should have aborted them. Of course, telling the mother she should have had an abortion is as anti-choice as telling her she shouldn’t have had one, a hypocrisy I find particularly distasteful. This argument is also completely useless when you consider that not everyone is born disabled, including yours truly. There was no way my current condition could have been predicted during pregnancy, & suggesting that when someone becomes disabled they should be put down like a horse with a broken leg is nothing short of genocide.

My biggest problem with disability being used in this manner is the implication that disabled people cannot live happy lives & only know how to suffer. I know a great many disabled people with a wide range of conditions & abilities, & I doubt many of them would consider themselves better off dead. While the life of a disabled person certainly contains its hardships & difficulties, we also know the joy of life too. It’s possible we know that joy better than someone who isn’t disabled at all. We have lives. Partners. Children. Pets. Jobs. Social lives. Hobbies. Aspirations. We go on adventures & defy the odds that are stacked against us. We fly in the face of expectation.

Bringing up a disabled child is a huge undertaking, & not everyone is in a position to be able to do that. In many cases an abortion is the right thing for both mother & child. However, disability itself being used as a justification for abortion undermines our existence and only adds to the stereotype that we are weak & helpless beings who deserve pity. Given that many become disabled later in life, it’s not like abortion would eradicate the issue anyway.

You may be wondering at this point why I’m pro-choice. It’s worth noting that while we can try to imagine how we would react in particular situations, it’s impossible to predict it accurately unless you have experienced that situation yourself, & so you’re hardly able to make a judgement.

However, the true reason I am pro-choice has nothing to do with morals or ethics. Instead, it has everything to do with reality. It doesn’t matter whether abortion is legal or not; people are going to try & abort pregnancies, & did so when abortion was illegal in this country. Allowing access to safe abortions saves lives. It also reduces the risk of irreparable damage preventing future pregnancies. If people were truly pro-life, they would value the life of the mother as much as that of the child.