'Tis the season of inaccessibility

When you’re a crip, you have to be prepared for any eventuality. This is especially true at Christmas, when you often spend time away from home visiting friends and family. As far as I’m concerned, this is not the season to be jolly. No, instead it’s definitely a case of "'tis the season of inaccessibility, fa la la la laaa, la la la laaa".

On Christmas Eve last year, I wheeled up the narrow path to my parents’ front door. I didn’t ring the bell to announce my arrival though, because I couldn’t reach it. It was up four steps. I had to call them on my mobile to let them know that I was waiting outside. The ‘welcome’ mat on the doorstep taunted me.

My mum and dad used to live in a house on two levels, so I was immensely relieved when they finally moved to a bungalow. Unfortunately, as a retired couple with time on their hands, they’re always renovating, making changes to the place and yes, adding steps. It seems that every Christmas there’s yet another one to greet me at the front door. There’ll be five this year. Are they trying to tell me something?

Sometimes, however, lack of access can be a huge advantage. I’ve conveniently managed to avoid many a family ‘do’ because they’ve been held in relatives’ houses where there were flights of steps, upstairs toilets and no space for my wheels. But when all I want to do is visit my parents at Christmas and overindulge in food, films and family arguments, inaccessibility is most definitely an unwanted gift.

My dad is happy to lift me into the house. But as he gets older, his bad back, legs and assorted old man ailments make this experience a perilous one for all concerned. Every year, I ask Father Christmas for a ramp, but instead all I get are book tokens. What else can I do? Take mum and dad to court under the Disability Discrimination Act? Be the lone signature on a petition? Or perhaps I could protest outside their house? "What do I want? An accessible Christmas! When do I want it? Now! Please?"

Getting into the house is the easy bit, though. Once indoors, the parental home is like an assault course, as I wheel around dodging furniture, negotiating narrow hallways and trying to avoid attaching myself to various Christmas baubles. Last year the challenge became even tougher after the whole house was recarpeted in beige. There are now a series of stepping stone-like scatter rugs to protect the new carpet from dirty feet and wheels. To manoeuvre myself from the living room to the kitchen means traversing fourteen of these rugs, each one prone to rucking up and jamming in my wheels. This short journey can take hours to complete, and casualties almost always result - from the cat’s tail, to the fuse of my wheelchair battery or a sentimental china ornament. Forget crossing the Andes; this is the kind of gritty, real life expedition we should be seeing on Beyond Boundaries.

As for the toilet, that truly is the ‘smallest room’ in the house in every way. Once installed, my seat raiser and commode frame means that there’s no room for me, let alone for someone else to assist. To actually use the toilet would require me to have the flexibility of a contortionist and the skills of a gymnast. Needless to say, I don’t. So I tend to avoid liquids over the Christmas period and thus usually end up having a very dehydrated New Year.

After years of campaigning, there is at last a shower in the recently renovated bathroom - yay - but it’s over the bath - boo. I may have conceded to being carried into the house, but I absolutely draw the line at being lifted naked into the bath by my aging parents. Instead, for my festive personal hygiene, I rely on a heady mixture of Impulse, Febreeze and a rather large spiced pomander in my Santa hat.

Christmas with my parents could be made easier and much more practical if my PA stayed with me to provide assistance, but emotionally it’s better if my mum just helps me out instead. I learnt this the hard way one year. It began with my parents being so thrilled at having another house guest that they spoilt my PA more than me. She was even given better presents. Then, when we played family games, everyone wanted her on their team. When we had singalongs around the piano, she joined in and knew all the words. Worst of all, that relative who has always hated me (there’s always one, isn’t there?) completely loved her. That year, my PA had a cracker of a Christmas, but I didn’t.

On 24th December I’ll be heading home to my parents, just like I do every year. As I pull into the driveway, the tree lights will be lit, the turkey will be in the oven - and the house will be as inhospitable as ever to me. Like mum’s homemade mince pies, the Queen’s speech and the Boxing Day visit to my relatives, inaccessibility is simply one more Christmas tradition in the Carr household.