I’ve slowly begun to travel for business again.
I had a stroke in May of last year, which paralyzed my left side. I’ve regained some ability to use my affected side, and I am able to walk to some degree, but my left arm is barely functional and my left hand is not functional. One-handed living is difficult. If you want an example, drop your pants (go someplace private) and try to pull them up and get them fastened using just one arm and hand.
There are daily humiliations that you get used to, but I want to relate one story about an organization run so poorly for people with disabilities that it boggles my mind.
I tried to take Amtrak from New Jersey to Washington, D.C. today as I’ve done hundreds of times in my able-bodied life. It was bitterly cold, which plays games with my weak side so I got to the train station 20 minutes early and sat in the dreary and cramped waiting room at Metropark Station (it’s been dreary and cramped for at least 30 years that I know of).
The employees behind the glass in the ticket booth were talking amongst themselves so loudly that it was distracting out in the waiting area. We heard automated announcements that the train I was taking was delayed; the length of the delay changed several times. But I was ready. When the automated announcement came over the public-address system that the train was arriving, I was out of my seat and on the way to the elevator as quickly as I could go; it was far too cold to wait outside. The yackers in the ticket booth were completely detached from the situation.
The first thing that was wrong was a sign saying the elevator was out of service. The sign was fortunately incorrect, and the elevator worked (there was no way I could go up the stairs with my suitcase). Unfortunately, it was full of people who had come off the train I wanted to board. With a sinking feeling, I went up to the platform to see the train pulling out.
For those of you who don’t know, Amtrak requires reserved tickets for its Northeast Corridor trains. I had a reserved ticket in business class and my profile notes my disability. So they knew that a disabled person had a ticket to board that train at that station. I assume they left quickly to try to make up their 40-minute delay.
When I went back to get a refund for my ticket, I was told there would be a $14 service charge. I explained that the announcement left no time for me to reach the platform, but I received the “I just work here and couldn’t care less” shoulder shrug.
Hey, Amtrak, this column is for everyone who was charged $14 for your incompetence back at you.
This isn’t the only problem I’ve experienced with Amtrak post-stroke.
First class on its premium train, the Acela, actually has reserved handicap seating, but every time I’ve taken an Acela (with a first-class reservation), there has been an able-bodied person in that seat. I know they’re able-bodied, because each time the first-class steward has asked me if I wanted him to make that person move.
Maybe it’s just me, but I find having a disability to be ego-damaging enough without having to have a well-meaning person do what should’ve been done without me having to askor without him having to tell somebody who doesn’t have the empathy of a house cat to do the right thing. Not to mention that my reservation included my disability status (this train isn’t cheap), so why wasn’t that seat reserved
One more problem: Traditionally, first class or business class is at the front of the train. This is fine when you’re boarding the train during its route, but when you’re boarding from its origination point, this means there’s an incredibly long walk down the platform to get to the front end of the train.
At Washington, D.C., I’ve passed doze