I have ONE disability, not all of them.

I’ve been living with a disability – a lower right limb amputation – for almost two years, but one of the things that’s still happening and most surprises me is the occasional tendancy of some people to see this as the entirety of my being. Not everyone, just some.

It’s as if the wheelchair or the prosthetic (the visible signs of disability) becomes a lens through which my entire being is filtered, leading to unwarranted assumptions about my cognitive abilities also.

I recall a particularly jarring experience at a local chemist, shortly after I began using a wheelchair. Accompanied by my support worker from the NDIS, the pharmacist, without even acknowledging my presence, addressed my support worker, assuming he was the decision-maker.

With a touch of wry humor, I interjected, ‘Actually, it’s me down here. I’m the one with the money, and I know exactly what I need.”

While we shared a laugh, the incident left a bitter aftertaste. It happens, more often, by the way when I’m in the wheelchair.

I experienced a disconcerting lack of engagement at a NSW government agency when a staff member consistently looked above me, avoiding direct eye contact with me, lower down in the wheelchair. By the way, when speaking with someone in a wheelchair, it’s essential to communicate at their eye level, not down to them, to ensure they feel valued and heard.

Back at work after a lengthy four month break, and upon my return in a wheelchair, a colleague consistently spoke to me in an exaggeratedly slow and simplified manner. It was as if he’d decided I’d acquired an intellectual disability along with my physical one. This patronizing tone was deeply insulting. I spoke with colleagues about this, and they told me they noticed it, too, but weren’t sure what to say.

The patronizing tone is something you often see when younger people speak to older people too. Just because they’re a little deaf, doesn’t mean they have brain damage!

Of course, in the immediate aftermath of my injury, when I was heavily medicated, there were moments when my responses were delayed, and my speech was slurred. People naturally made assumptions then. The pain-relief related hallucinations added to the situation.

However, even in those moments, I was more aware than they realized. I remember being in a coma, yet I could hear and process conversations going on around me, trying to engage, even if my physical responses were hampered by serious pain medication and the breathing tube.

Even now, long after my recovery, these encounters persist. I had one earlier today and hours later it’s still playing on mind. I know I shouldn’t let it get to me, but I do.

And I know I’m not alone in this. Conversations with other people living with similar disabilities have revealed that these feelings of frustration and devaluation are sadly common. Chatting to someone I’ve known the other day for about a year, also an amputee, revealed she had similar experiences of being under-estimated because she had a missing lower limb.

It’s a shared experience, a collective burden we carry. It’s a constant battle to maintain my composure and not let these moments define my day, or my perception of myself.

I’m still learning how to navigate this new reality, how to build a thicker skin, and how to assert my autonomy without constantly feeling the need to prove myself.

But it’s a journey, and some days, the weight of these assumptions feels incredibly heavy. It is a constant battle to be seen as a whole person, rather than a collection of limitations.