I was surrounded by therapy equipment. My physical therapist, Amie, was about to help me onto the treatment table to stretch when the lights flickered. Ten minutes earlier, a mild rain had started, but nothing about it set off my internal alarm. I'm a Midwestern girl through and through. Storms rarely frighten me.
I looked at Amie and asked, "Do you think the elevator just shut down?"
She walked over to check.
Sure enough, it had.
After confirming the elevator wasn't working, Amie called building maintenance. The woman on the other end explained that it wasn't considered an emergency because I wasn't actually stuck in the elevator.
I remember thinking, What about this isn't an emergency? I'd love to know.
The only accessible way to get downstairs had disappeared.
By now, the storm had intensified to the point that it looked like 11:00 on a December night, even though it was only noon on a July afternoon. I wasn't in danger, but I was completely stuck.
Amie first called the nonemergency number. They told us to call 911 because first responders were already responding to so many storm-related calls. We did...and no one answered. We called again. Eventually, we got through.
The dispatcher told us someone would come, but it would likely take a while because my situation wasn't considered an emergency.
Let's pause for a second.
I actually agreed.
If someone was in a car accident or trapped in a flooded basement, they absolutely should come first. Those are life-threatening emergencies.
I wasn't frustrated with the dispatcher. She was responding to a town overwhelmed by a severe storm. The building manager, on the other hand, was simply following whatever policy defined an elevator emergency. I couldn't help wondering who wrote that policy—and whether they had ever considered someone who couldn't leave the building because the only accessible exit had disappeared.
About twenty minutes later, the paramedics arrived.
"We can easily get her downstairs," one of them said, "but we can't get the wheelchair down."
Before I could say anything, Amie responded.
"No. She has to be in her chair."
We've worked together for five years. She gets it.
My wheelchair is not who I am, but it is my link to independence. Besides, where exactly was I supposed to go once I reached the lobby? The goal wasn't simply getting me downstairs. It was getting me downstairs with my wheelchair.
About an hour after the lights first flickered, the fire chief arrived.
He didn't repair the elevator. He simply used his key to place it into emergency mode, allowing it to make one trip to the first floor.
Just like that, I was on my way home.
Crazy, I know!
Up until a few days ago, I genuinely thought this month's blog post was going to be about my trip to Minnesota. I had a wonderful time seeing family and friends, and I came home expecting to write about that.
Instead, I'm writing about an elevator.
At first glance, this story is about a broken elevator.
It's not. It's about what happens when the only accessible way out of a building suddenly disappears.
Throughout the afternoon, I kept hearing the same thing:
"We can get you downstairs."
What no one could tell me was how they were going to get my wheelchair downstairs.
And for someone like me, those are two very different questions.
No one failed me that day.
My therapist advocated for me. The dispatcher was managing a town overwhelmed by a severe storm. The paramedics wanted to help. The fire chief found a solution.
But the experience exposed something: this is what ableism sometimes looks like—not intentional exclusion, but systems that were never designed with disability in mind. The definition of "emergency" didn't account for losing the only accessible exit. That's a blind spot worth talking about.
We invite people with disabilities to use our buildings every day. We should also invite them to help plan what happens when those buildings stop working the way they're supposed to.
People with disabilities deserve a seat at the table when emergency plans are written—not after they're tested.
Because accessibility shouldn't disappear the moment the elevator does.
Hannah, I am so sorry this happened to you. I so often find myself saying- someone should have sat in a wheelchair and thought this through.
ReplyDeleteI do think some of the ownership should be on the therapy providers who know there are people with disabilities on the third floor. Hopefully they will know going forward. We were once stranded in union station when the one available elevator broke and they suggested we try the escalator… with a power chair. Another time they evacuated a baseball stadium and flooding shut down the elevators and we were stuck for quite awhile before they thought about the freight elevators. It really does make you think about emergency preparedness in a whole new way. I am glad you are safe!
Thank you for bringing awareness to such an important topic. You’d be a perfect person to sit at that table as policy and procedures are developed and modified
ReplyDeleteHannah, with your permission, I will add this to my list of scenarios when I survey orgs on safety and drills. You've never actually had staff use the sled? Why don't you talk to the local fire deprtment ad ask what room you should congregate in so the lift of the fire trucks can get to you? Maybe put a decal on the bedroom windows that says "disabled" or "senior" sleeps here. (Decals are sold online). Thank you so much better fot sharing. And kudos to your trainer and the emergency folks.
ReplyDelete