Invisible Disabilities

In Spring 2024, I panicked when I nearly fell the first time I boarded a bus since developing Long COVID and the driver took off before I reached my seat. In Pittsburgh, buses are on a tight schedule and it is standard practice for them to start moving as soon as the last person has boarded. However, in those early days with my Long COVID vertigo, it took ever ounce of concentration to stay upright and not run into things on stationary surfaces. Adding a moving surface was frightening.

That day, I used the bus’s momentum to fall into the first forward facing seat — a practice I continued to develop as I continued to ride the bus to doctor’s appointments or for the rare outing to the library. Most Pittsburgh buses contain 5 or 6 aisle-facing seats before that first forward-facing set, but these are reserved for the elderly and persons with disabilities. I certainly qualified for the latter designation, but I was uncomfortable taking one of those seats due to feelings of shame around having an invisible disability.

When I was in a boot for one of my stress fractures and people could see the boot, they would voluntarily give up one of the accessible seats, often without my asking. If my pant leg was covering up most of the boot and no body noticed it, it was an awkward conversation whenever I got up the courage to ask for a seat on a crowded bus.

It was even worse following my appendectomy while my core muscles were still recovering and I didn’t have the strength to support myself while standing on a moving bus, but I had no prop to indicate that I was anything other than the young, healthy person I appeared to be.

I am still young-ish, though middle age is not far away, and, apparently, I appear significantly younger than I am. (After giving my two weeks notice to my last employer as I transitioned to full-time self-employment, and giving back the stress with the notice, I started getting carded again even though I was then 37.)

Vertigo leaves no outward mark either. Meaning that if I were to take one of the accessible seats, people might look askance at me as if I were one of those lazy college students who never bother to walk to the back of the bus and pay no attention when someone with needs boards the bus. I should know. I’m often one of the people giving the looks.

I’ve learned two lessons from this experience.

1. Stop giving young, healthy-looking people bad looks when they sit in the accessible seats. While many of them probably are just lazy or think I getting off too soon to move back, I have no way of knowing which they are and which are ones with invisible disabilities.
2. Use a prop when I have an invisible disability. After months of me trying to decide what kind of cane I should get, my mom gave me one half of her hiking sticks set. It works wonders. Even though it isn’t a medical devise, since I started using it, bus drivers treat me as if it is one. Most of them wait until I’m seated before taking off now, and they often lower the step for boarding. I’ve even had some call out the name of the bus on days when I’m wearing sunglasses in case I am visually impaired.

I’ve also benefited from using my walking stick prop to silently explain to my grocery delivery drivers why a youngish, healthy-looking person is requiring them to carry the groceries up the stairs. With my stick, I also feel embolden to ask them to place the heavy stuff inside my apartment on my piano bench, instead of attempting to do a hand off or having them place it on the floor outside my apartment until I can break it down into manageable pieces.

While I ended up getting a free walking stick, the cost of investing in one would have been worth it for the volumes it speaks when I need people to be patient with me as I navigate my invisible disability.

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Feature image credit: Cane by zum rotul from Noun Project (CC BY 3.0)