Since becoming disabled by a stroke three years ago, I’ve waged a campaign against the able-bodied who are too lazy to walk extra steps. In this case, the man had a choice of nearby parking spots, but he opted for the reserved space in front of the door.
This wasn’t the first time I have challenged a parking cheat. Often, from my car, I’ve spotted a nonqualified person parked illegally and have called out: “Excuse me, you are parked in a handicapped zone.” I have clumped after people with my walker and chased them down with my wheelchair to point out the errors of their ways.
While family members agree with my reasons for pursuing my mission, they worry about my methods. One winter’s day my sister, Nancy, questioned my sanity when I forced her to push my wheelchair through an icy parking lot to confront a woman without a limp (or a parking sticker) walking away from a handicapped space. Later, Nancy was glad she had given me the chance to challenge the offender. The woman confessed: “I should know better. I’m a nurse.’’ She moved her car. Not long ago, when I reminded another woman that she was parked in a handicapped zone, she retorted in a huff, “I know all about you people. I work in a convalescent home.”
Most people don’t apologize. Many are rude. Some offer nonsensical excuses. I confronted one man as he briskly headed into a grocery store. “My mother is handicapped.” he snapped.
Before I joined the ranks of the disabled, I often eyed those coveted spots on rainy days or when I stopped for milk or bread after a long work day. I passed them by. After suffering a broken leg some years ago, I understood their importance. In my state permits are not issued for temporary handicaps. When my husband pulled into a typical narrow parking space, he had great difficulty trying to maneuver the wheelchair out of the car without hitting a neighboring vehicle. Pushing a wheelchair in the snow and rain or across a rutted parking lot can be hazardous.
The switch from temporary to permanent disability hasn’t been easy. Following a brief bout with depression, I decided to accept what can’t be changed. I have even learned to appreciate the perks. It is comforting to find a spot close to the store while other shoppers trek through snow or heat.
My adult children joke about taking me and my parking permit to concerts so they can have privileged parking. Of course, they quip, you have to wait in the car.
All kidding aside, others envy my parking status. One blistering hot summer day, a woman saw me getting out of my car at a crowded mall. She was obviously wilted after walking the length of the large lot. “You are so lucky,’’ she said. “I’ll trade places with you.” I smiled. “Gladly,’’ I answered. “I would love to walk.”
Though I rarely feel sorry for myself these days, it would be nice to leave my house without wondering if my destination has stairs I can’t negotiate or whether privileged parking will be available. In many places there are only one or two designated spots and they may be occupied. There have been times when being unable to find a space has meant we’ve had to forgo plans to attend an event. The frustration of finding the marked places filled by nondisabled drivers has spurred me to continue my battle against abusers.
Until recently, if I found a car illegally parked with no driver in sight, I would leave a hastily scribbled note on the windshield. Now I am armed with professionally printed, bright orange notices given to me by another family waging the same war. In large black letters the placards read: “This is not a ticket but a reminder. You are parked in a space that is reserved for the handicapped. These facilities are provided for individuals whose physical disabilities make their use a necessity.”
Having left more than 50 handwritten notes and about a dozen printed notices, I was curious about their effect on the offenders. The very-abled man who had parked illegally in front of the restaurant would be a perfect gauge to test whether the placards made a difference.
I suggested to Cliff that we eat our sandwiches in the car and wait to see how the transgressor reacted. Cliff agreed, but he made me promise not to confront the man directly. Cliff is always conscious of my safety and blanches when I face off with scofflaws.
I’m sure he won’t forget the day I spotted a burly oaf pulling a huge truck with monster tires into a reserved spot. Cliff refused to take my wheelchair out of the car and the guy was too far away to hear me shouting. I think of him as the big one that got away. I wasn’t about to let that happen again.
So we munched our sandwiches, sipped coffee and discussed what the latest offender’s reaction might be. Even though I’m an optimist, I didn’t expect him to flagellate himself and cry mea culpa. Perhaps he would look sheepish and glance around to see if anyone had noticed the big orange flier under his windshield wiper. Maybe in the future he would be more considerate. My husband is a pessimist. His prediction proved more accurate.
After about 20 minutes, the man returned to his car. He saw the notice, pulled it off the windshield and quickly read it. Looking as if he had smelled something vile, he threw it down next to a trash container, spat on the ground and drove away.
We had our answer. People who illegally park in spaces for the handicapped also litter and spit.
Oh, dear, am I being politically incorrect? Have I stereotyped people who usurp handicapped parking? If you feel maligned, defend your position. Point out that you may selfishly inconvenience the disabled, but you never litter or spit in public.
