Can You hear Me Now?

by Dean Kramer
May, 2005

I have written several pieces in which bathrooms figure largely. With MS, bathrooms can figure largely. Those of us who have difficulties with bowel, bladder, or both (a common development) need to know exactly where our next bathroom is located. Those of us who do not walk need to know where our next wheelchair-accessible bathroom is located. Experiences with these issues become part of our MS education offering challenges and opportunities for growth. And, as rock n’ roll radio hosts say “The hits just keep on comin’!”

There's an old, children’s folk-song, which begins:

”Oh dear, what can the matter be? Two old ladies got locked in the lavat’ry. They were there from the Sunday through Saturday. Nobody knew they were there."

I work in a large metropolitan area a hour from Cripple Creek. I and my boss, who is also my closest friend, do our printing and design in a small room filled with the tools of our trade. At work, I use a power wheelchair because there is a large warehouse where my supplies are kept. The chair allows me more independence on the job than I’d have if help had constantly to be sought. The restrooms at work are unfortunately located off the front office where the entire sales staff as well as administrative staff and their assistants can see who’s coming and going. Well, they can't actually see you going, but they can see you going into the room where you will be going. Most of us have learned to slip discreetly into and out of the bathroom. But it is quite impossible to slip discreetly anywhere in a power wheelchair.

For me, getting into the restroom involves a lot of backing and filling. Though I have become less clumsy in the months I've been using my powerchair, I continue to feel about as elegant as a forklift truck in the fitting room of an upscale boutique. I approach the bathroom, take hold of the door handle, and back up to pull the door open. Then turning around, I slowly back the chair into the restroom leaning forward to grasp the door handle as I do so, pulling the door shut behind me, turning on the light and remembering to lock the door before I’ve backed too far in. Mind you, I’m doing this with one hand on the joystick, giving me only one hand for the pulling, pushing, turning on, and locking. Additionally, this entire process often involves banging into the door frame and hitting the door itself with the foot plate on my wheelchair, which noises only add to the spectacle.

If my progress into the bathroom is slow and awkward, the reverse often recalls the old Knight Rider TV show. Do you remember how the black car would come flying out of the trailer in which it was hidden? Substitute a big, black Permobil powerchair for the car, the bathroom door for the doors of the trailer and you’ll get the picture. Unlocking the door and turning off the light I position myself to clear the opening. The door is flung outward (by me) and from the crepuscular confines, (zoom, zoom, zoom) the powerchair charges forth. Though my return to the office can be exhilarating, neither my getting into nor my getting out of the restroom are subtle and both attract more attention than I’d like at such a time.

But, wait. It gets better.

One day last week, I told my boss I was taking a restroom break. Leaving our room, I powered to the bathroom in the front office as usual. As usual, I grasped the door handle. This time, however, when I backed up, nothing happened. I've been having some trouble with my hands, and at first I thought MS had made them suddenly weaker than they'd ever been before. Instead, the problem was that a pneumatic closure had been installed on the bathroom door. The Department of Health had recently recommended this and, with uncustomary speed, it had been done. But the people for whom I work had forgotten there was a disabled person on site and had neglected to include an automatic door opener. Without the automatic opener there was no way I would be able to open the door and enter the restroom unassisted.

I'm not very assertive when it comes to the rights of the disabled. but finding myself in the embarrassing position of having to ask our busy receptionist to hold the door for me, I ventured a mild remark concerning my desire to get into the bathroom on my own. No one seemed to hear me or, at least, no one responded. Then, while the receptionist graciously held the door, I backed into the restroom. The door closed and latched with a click.

When I was ready to leave the bathroom I made another dismaying discovery-- no more Knight Rider exits from the bathroom. In fact, I could not leave the bathroom at all. If there was humiliation in having to ask for help to get into the bathroom, there was absolutely no way I wanted to ask for help to get out. After all, I didn’t know who might hear me calling. There might be an important client waiting for assistance. There could be a male co-worker standing nearby.

Why couldn't I throw caution to the winds and bellow,” GET ME OUT OF HERE”? Maybe it's genetic. My paternal grandmother could not bring herself to say the words chicken breast. She called that cut of meat chest of chicken. My father, having told his wife that he wanted privacy in the bathroom, for years took the additional step of locking the door just in case she forgot.

So, there I was and what were my options? Remembering the song about the two old ladies, I reviewed the options they had taken:

The first one was Elizabeth Bentley and she was rather addle-pated ment’ly.
She knocked on the door, but she knocked so gently that nobody knew she was there.
The second was Elizabeth Draper, who wrote “please help me” on the toilet paper
And flushed it down thinking someone would save her but nobody knew she was there.

It was then I remembered the cell phone carried in my pocket for emergencies. It occurred to me that, while I might still feel some embarrassment over having to be rescued, using the cell phone to get out of the restroom might be an entertaining way of demonstrating the inaccessibility issue to the PowersThat Be. I don’t mind looking foolish as long as I can do so creatively. Accordingly, I removed the phone from my pocket and dialed the company’s main number. When the receptionist answered I asked for my department’s extension. My boss picked up on the first ring saying, “Hello-oo” in her usual cheerful tone.

“Hi.” I said.

“Dean?” She asked.

“Yes. Can you hear me okay? I’m on a cell phone.” I replied

“I can hear you but, where are you? I thought you went to the bathroom.” Her voice had taken on a confused and worried tone.

“Yes, yes, I did go to the bathroom. I’m calling you from the bathroom right now.” I answered happily, “and, gosh, am I glad you’re there!”

“Dean,” She pronounced my name somewhat sternly and, with increasing volume (as one might speak to a person one suspects is having a psychotic break at an inconvenient moment) she said, “Why are you calling me from the bathroom?”

“Well, there’s this pneumatic closure on the bathroom door now and I can’t get out.” I said. “Would you, please, come open the door? I didn’t want to call anyone else because, after all, you’re the person I’m closest to here at work.”

Our physical plant, other than the warehouse, is not extensive. There is the front office and, directly behind it, two smaller rooms. There is, practically speaking, no privacy. Consequently, I knew that every word of our conversation was audible to all who worked there. Through the door I heard some guffaws. I heard the receptionist gasp, “Oh, no! I forgot all about her.” My boss, laughing also, said she’d be right there.

When the door was pulled open and I emerged into the light there were many faces smiling over the top edges of cubicle walls. Loudly, I thanked my boss for responding with such attentive alacrity and, while rolling back to my desk held the powered-off cell phone high and praised the entire wireless industry for its usefulness in emergencies. I said I hoped my performance had provided a note of levity, enlivening an otherwise routine work day. I told people that they could expect another such gripping drama within the next few hours depending on my intake of liquids. As noted already, as long as it’s done creatively, I don’t mind attracting attention and the whole bathroom accessibility situation had been lifted from the realm of humiliation to become something of a performance piece.

The pneumatic closure was removed that afternoon. Was the administration concerned that spontaneous theatrics would reduce productivity? Did they envision an important client witnessing a repeat performance? Was it my muttering that, after all, I could have called 911? No. I’m blessed with a workplace in which people really do care about accessibility once they’ve seen the light. And while I don’t like being disabled, sometimes shining that light is way too much fun.