Writing Disabled Characters - Elizabeth Kay

I’ve written about a boy with a terminal illness (Felix, in The Divide) and I’ve written characters with psychological disabilities. I've also tried writing someone who was blind. But only now do I realise that I’ve never written about anyone who was physically disabled.

This revelation came after an operation on my foot for Morton’s neuroma (a painful but benign inflammation of a nerve) which resulted in me being unable to use my left foot for a while. It was a revelation. I’ve been a faithful follower of Melanie Reid’s Spinal Column in the Times every Saturday, the diary of a someone rendered tetraplegic after a fall from a horse, and I try to be thoughtful and considerate to those I encounter with physical problems. But oh boy, is it different when it’s you! Writers know that personal experience is worth ten Wikipedias when you’re describing something subjective, and we hark back to painful episodes in our lives when we want to express the anguish that one of our characters feels in a certain situation. But it’s the little things that really count. The little bits of information that you don’t get any other way, the things you see every day but don’t really register, the things you know must be true but haven’t really thought about until someone waves them under your nose. That’s our job, as writers. Waving small considerations under our readers’ noses.

            Taking forever to go up or downstairs is infuriating. We take for granted the number of times we travel between floors to look for something. When you can’t you have to remember everything. You can’t use crutches and carry something at the same time, however, so a rucksack is the only way. Being stuck in the house is horrible. Fresh air and a change of scene are the things that jolt our minds into new plotlines, and we get stale in every way without it. I bought an automatic car last year, knowing I was going to have problems, and my insurance company has okayed my using it because only my left foot is affected. So once I felt able to walk between Lidl’s carpark and shop floor with the aid of a trolley and their lift, I had my first solo outing. I was so excited that I spent ten times what I intended. Normally, I hate shopping and do it as rapidly as possible. But no one notices that you have a bandaged foot and are walking rather slowly, and manoeuvring your trolley to avoid theirs is a bit like driving a Dodgem. Not to mention being told rather brusquely to move out of the way when someone wants to get something.

            My next bit of education was being pushed around the London Wetland Centre in a wheelchair by my husband. There’s no charge for one, and the paths are mainly wheelchair friendly. Unlike the barriers, which are all at exactly the wrong height so that you can’t see anything. But the real menaces are small children, who seem magnetically attracted to walking just in front of the chair for as long as possible so that you’re constantly worrying about running into them. Their parents simply don’t notice. Although some people leap forward to open the gates and let you through, there are others who just stand and watch, like kids on a motorway bridge, hoping for a car crash to liven up their day. On the other hand the canteen staff were wonderful, and carried the tray as husband couldn’t manage both that and the chair.

            When you can’t get your foot wet, showers and baths are out. To begin with it’s not so bad – you get in a stock of wet wipes, and use them liberally absolutely everywhere. But you can’t wash your hair with them, and eventually clean hair becomes an obsession. So it’s a sit-down session in the shower with your foot sticking out of the door, covered with a plastic bag just in case. But oh, how wonderful it felt afterwards. The clothes you can wear are limited, of course. Only trousers with wide legs will fit over the bandage, and the shoe you wear on your good foot has to have a sufficiently built-up heel to match the Velcro contraption you wear on your bad one. So you go for perfume and jewellery. I’ve been trying to find something to say here that isn’t gender-ist, and I’m failing miserably. Aftershave and a flamboyant shirt, maybe?
            The way I usually cheer myself up when I'm feeling down is by going for a long walk in the countryside, or doing some gardening. Clearly, the long walk was out but gardening... hm. As I began to recover I didn't need the crutches all the time. I could wear a Wellington boot on my right foot, but only the Velcro sandal on my left - but with the aid of a plastic bag round it, bush lopping was Go. I did fall over, of course - but hey, what's a bit of mud compared with a tidier shrubbery? And the best entertainment of all has been the tits inspecting the nestboxes. We hope for the chirping of tiny beaks in a couple of months' time.

            

           

There are pluses, of course. Only wearing one sock at a time means fewer to wash. Actually, that’s the only plus I can think of… other than the total and fantastic lack of the sudden spasms of electric-shock pain that is typical of Morton's neuroma.