No Bruce for you! How this disabled fan overcame inept, unhelpful employees to see the Boss

It was the best of venues, it was the worst of venues.

Not long ago I went to two amazing concerts within four days. I saw Melissa Etheridge at a local community college and Bruce Springsteen at a larger out-of-town venue. 

One place went overboard in making sure the event was accessible to me with my walker and the other one could not have been worse. And to top it off, our ride from the hotel to the concert at the out-of-town show was a shuttle bus from hell. Not for the other passengers, but definitely for me and my friend. 

The first venue was the College of the Canyons Performing Arts Center (PAC). The staff and volunteers at the PAC an intimate venue with nearly 900 seats, have always done a wonderful job accommodating disabled patrons. I gave them a shout out in a blog post in 2012 for being a place that went out of their way to be accommodating. 

 Since then, it has gotten even better. Upon entrance to the lobby, I was ushered by a volunteer to a woman who was the accessibility concierge, standing at a podium a few steps away. Did I know where I was sitting? Did I need any assistance? I showed them my ticket and said that first I needed to use the restroom. Did I know where that was? Yes, I said, as I proceeded that direction with a friend. It was as if every attendant had been trained to look for disabled guests and to rush to their assistance. I was helped to my seat, assisted with fitting into a crowded row and was told they would take my walker away but to give them a wave if I needed it during the show. I did not. At the end of the show, a few helpers showed up immediately and assisted me in standing up and getting to my walker. 

 

Melissa killed it.

 I knew the Springsteen concert at the Kia Forum in Inglewood would be a challenge - involving a drive, overnight accommodations, transportation to and from the concert and getting to an accessible seat in the venue itself. And the Forum is pretty big - it can hold more than 17,000 fans - so just finding my way to the show was going to be a challenge. I always plan ahead and make advance phone calls to make sure things will be as easy for me as possible. I have used a walker for nearly 19 years since cancer  ravaged my body and brain and have seen varying degrees of accessibility over the years - although ADA compliance should be an indisputable standard. 

 The first obstacle was in securing tickets for the event. I had done my online research and learned that if I could only buy inaccessible tickets they could be exchanged by the venue for accessible seats. In the frenzy for post-COVID Springsteen tour tickets, I was thrilled to score two regular seats - nosebleeds - and the instructions were to call the Forum a day after tickets went on sale to speak to a person in the disabled assistance office. When I did that, I was told exchanging my tickets for accessible ones only applied to the day of the concert. Yeah, right, I’m going to book a hotel, travel more than an hour on the off chance there is an accessible and companion seat available. Then she asked “Do you want to buy accessible tickets?” Um, yes. She sold me two, even though Ticketmaster didn’t have any the day before. They would be available at will-call the day of the show. I sold my original seats to an able-bodied Springsteen fan.

 I called the hotel ahead of time to ask if it had a shuttle bus to take us to the Forum. The concierge said the hotel did not have one, but told me about a tour bus service available to take us to and from the concert. Perfect! My husband had driven us to the hotel and would pick us up the next morning. 

 Ever the planner, I called LA VIP Tours to see if their vans were accessible. One aftereffect of my cancer battle is neuropathy and weakness in both legs. They’ve been getting worse the last few years. I cannot walk long distances or go up stairs unless they are very low. Even a ramp is tough for me to navigate. “Do you need a wheelchair lift?” asked the gentleman at LA VIP.  That would work, I said. “We’ll get you up there.” Perfect. For $45 each round- trip, the van would take us to and from the show. I selected a 5 p.m. pickup time - the show was at 7:30. 

 Armed with maps of the concert venue and seating chart, I made some calls to ensure the experience would go smoothly. Because my accessible tickets were available at will-call, which I noticed was “at the top of the ramp”, I called the Forum’s disability service number the day before the show. Was there any way they could email me the tickets? No. Was there any way my friend could pick up the tickets using my ID and credit card so I wouldn’t have to go up the ramp? No. And I asked where I could be dropped off. At any of the entrances, she said. 

 I also wanted to know the location of  the stage, so I could know which exit or entrance to use. The seating map clearly showed it on one side and I knew my seats were ground level - across the room from the stage. This question seemed to flummox the aid. “The stage is in the middle,” she said. Um, no it’s not, I responded. The seating chart clearly shows the stage is on one side of the arena.

 I placed another call to the shuttle office. Did I have to request a van with a wheelchair lift? Do you use a wheelchair? the woman on the phone asked. No, I use a walker but I can’t go up stairs and the lift would work fine. “You’ll be able to go up these stairs,” she said. “They are very small steps.” 

 The day of the show, we made it to our hotel about an hour before pick-up. In keeping with the comedy-of-errors theme of our trip, the lady at the front desk said our room was not accessible even though we had reserved one. I had brought my emergency non-accessible room aids - a step stool and a toilet topper - because it wasn’t the first time a hotel messed up on accessible quarters. 

 They gave us keys to the room and, surprise: it was accessible. My husband took a photo of my friend, Norma, and me in the hotel room happily looking forward to the show….little did we know we would face obstacle after obstacle before a note was played.

 Outside the lobby, the van arrived right on schedule and I nearly cried when I saw how high the steps were to climb on board - higher than any stairs I had ever seen. My husband went to the room to get the step stool and with the help of three people, I was able to get up Mount Everest, I mean the VIP van stairs. We decided to leave the stool with the van driver Jesus for my return trip. After a four-mile ride, our driver pulled over not at one of the entrances, but at least 1/4 mile away across a nearly vacant parking lot. You are kidding, I said. We asked Jesus if he could just drive me closer after the other Boss fans in the van had disembarked. No, he said. Norma talked to a nearby Forum employee tending to the lot. Did they have a golf cart to get people with mobility issues closer? No, he said. 

 Jesus gave us a flyer showing where we were dropped off (the yellow star in the middle) and where we would be picked up (the other yellow star after we exited using the red arrow pathways).

The walk to the van after the show would be twice as long as the one I took upon drop off. It was across two busy streets at what would be nearly 11:30 at night. I walk at a turtle’s pace, so I would need super powers to get across those streets containing thousands of giddy fans heading home. If I didn’t survive the trek, arrangements could be made right away, because the van would pick us up between a cemetery and a flower shop. Usually, I replace my walker with a wheelchair if I know I have to walk a long distance - but my calls led me to believe I could be dropped off close to the entrance. 

 Trudge, trudge, trudge. We thought maybe we were in a Punk’d episode when we interacted with uninformed employee after uninformed employee. We asked directions to will-call and were pointed in one direction. Turtle-step after turtle-step, we didn’t see a clear path to the booth. We asked a second employee and they literally pointed the opposite direction toward the area where we had just walked. Turtle-step after turtle-step, we reversed our course and began to doubt the second employee’s guidance. We asked a third person and they sent us the opposite direction again. We were to keep going until we saw a black tent. That would be the will-call. 

 Trudge, trudge, trudge, crowded line after crowded line. We had been dropped off at the Kareem Court lot, on the exact opposite side of the box office. We finally got to the will-call booth under the black tent. It was the wrong will-call booth, only for VIPs. The correct one was up the dreaded ramp. 

 I found a solitary bench up the ramp where I sat after we retrieved our tickets. The arena doors were not yet opened, but fortunately there was a patio where we could buy food and drinks and relax before we got inside. We didn’t see any chairs. The guard at the entrance told Norma it would not be a problem to grab our food and then sit on the will-call bench to eat it. I went inside to select our fare, left Norma there to wait in line, then I tried to go outside the gate to the solo bench. The guards at the gate said I very definitely could NOT do that. No leaving the patio area once you are in. 

 I summoned Norma and told her the bench plans were no more. We set our tacos on a ledge next to the trash bins and I had to stand and lean against the ledge to balance while I ate my taco.

 When the arena doors finally opened, we had to use the restroom. The hallways were jam-packed and as we inched along, we faced a sea of humanity in line to use the ladies’ room. Usually I can politely make my way past, explaining that I’ll be using the disabled stall (which they should not be using) but it was too crowded to make any headway. 

 Then, the only nice staff member we met all night approached us and said there was another accessible restroom just down the hall and if we went to the guy in the suit, he would take care of us. Woo hoo! 

 Trudge, trudge, excuse me, sorry, trudge, trudge. 

 We passed a woman in a wheelchair complaining that the Forum needed to do a better job of accommodating disabled folks. 

 We finally got to the man in the suit. We told him we heard he could help us find the accessible restroom. He was visibly annoyed. We quickly realized he must have hated his job so much, there was no way he would voluntarily assist us in any way. Well, he said, you have to move there to the end of the line, which we did. And then, he told us to back in another inch and another inch. I expected him to say “NO BRUCE FOR YOU!” if we stepped across the imaginary line. When we finally got to the beginning of the line, he pointed to two accessible single-toilet restrooms. He gave Norma the third degree when she wanted to use the other toilet, like she was supposed to leave me there and get back in line for the first restroom we saw. 

 We took an elevator down to the floor level. Just as I’d feared, we had arrived at the opposite end of where our seats were in the arena. Trudge, trudge, trudge. We got to our floor level seats — on a slight platform with a wheelchair lift - 10 minutes before showtime at 7:30. We had left our hotel (I repeat: four miles away!) at 5 p.m. 

The wheelchair lift broke down about two hours into the show. I know because I had to use the restroom and it worked on the way down but when I came back it wouldn’t budge. It was quite a task to find someone who could fix it. Three guys who were using the lift as a bar top for their beers offered to carry me up the stairs. I declined. We finally were able to find an attendant who could jerry-rig it so I could get back to my seat. This was not an intermission. We were wasting valuable time, fussing with the lift rather than enjoying the concert.

  

The show was spectacular. 

 Before it was over, we decided we would not use the shuttle because it was just too far away and I dreaded going up the massive stairs again. And my legs were extremely tired. We planned to call an Uber, Lyft or taxi to take us the short trip back, eat the $45 and leave my handy step stool behind. We asked for assistance to find where the ride-shares or taxis picked up and we were met with another round of incompetent, unhelpful employees, pointing every which way. One even suggested we go out to the street and summon one from the sidewalk. We trudged to the opposite side of the building where there was Lot H, dedicated to ride-sharing services. We couldn’t book one for less than an hour wait. There was no place to sit. 

Just then a rogue car emerged from the lot with the driver’s window down, “Anyone need a ride?”

He was a freelance ride-share driver who charged us $80. He said other ride services would charge us a minimum of $150 after a big concert like this one. He said he is very aware of the needs of the disabled, because one of his legs was amputated above the knee. As I put my seatbelt on in the front seat, I silently hoped it wasn’t his right leg. He also showed me where I could scan to download a website so I could buy cosmetics from him! Ummm, no thanks. I just wanted to get back to our hotel. 

 He got lost along the way and when we eventually pulled up to our destination, he forced us to give him a crazy high tip. We were just happy he didn’t kidnap or kill us. All told, we spent close to $300 to be shuttled to and from our hotel to the Forum, including two tips to Jesus. 

Did I mention it was a FOUR MILE DRIVE? 

 There are three things I learned from this adventure:

1)  I will never go to the Kia Forum again. 

2) I will never book another trip with LA VIP Tours.

3) Venues should learn from the College of the Canyons PAC - whose event staff is mostly volunteers - when it comes to accommodating people with disabilities. A little bit of training is all it would take for event workers to be aware of and kindly help those of us who need it.

If Springsteen ever plays the College of the Canyons PAC, I will be there in a hungry heartbeat.

Saying Goodbye to My Hospital Bed Feels Good

I feel like a little kid graduating from a crib to a big girl bed.

After 12-and-a-half years of sleeping in a hospital bed in our family room, I have moved on. To a regular bed in an actual bedroom.

I am elated and proud. And a tiny bit wary.

The hospital bed has been disassembled and soon will be picked up by trash collectors. Taking its place are a couple of new couches -- replacing the sectional we owned for nearly 30 years.

It’s a big win for the world of home decorating and for me. I’ve been sleeping in the out-in-the-open bed for a long, long time.

When I first got sick in 2005, doctors were unable to diagnose me for months. They suspected I had cancer, but they couldn’t find the specific cells (after numerous scans and blood tests, a splenectomy, grueling bone marrow biopsies and spinal taps). Meanwhile, I got sicker and sicker, lost more and more neurological function. I lost my speech, the sight in one eye and the use of one, then the other leg.

So I was in my home hospital bed months before I was hospitalized. I was too weak to climb the stairs to my bedroom.

The bed has been my home for more than sleeping for years. I am cancer-free (YAY!), but the non-Hodgkins lymphoma (eventually located after a brain biopsy) has left me disabled and weak and in nearly constant pain. Multiple compression fractures in my back make it impossible for me to sit up, walk or stand for long periods of time.

The only thing that makes the pain go away is to lie down flat. I would use my hospital bed many, many times a day for this. And for the occasional nap.

 A few years ago, a friend took a fall and broke her ankle. While recovering, she could not go back to her condominium because it required going up stairs. She was looking for a place to stay after spending time in a convalescent facility, but she hesitated about asking friends to use their home. “It’s not like they can put a hospital bed in their living room.”

Yes, I told her. They can.

Well-worn Bunny on my in-home hospital bed

On one hand, it was embarrassing to have a hospital bed in our family room. Other times, it was a godsend. I learned to get over the embarrassment, as I had to do to with other aspects of my sickness. 

When I first got out of the hospital after spending 4-and-half-months in institutions’ hospital beds, it was wonderful to have one at home. My own sheets, my own TV, a button to raise the head or foot of the bed, railings to prevent me from falling out and to help me sit up.

In those early months, my home nurse and my family caregivers used it as leverage to lift me into a wheelchair or a commode, and as a place to bathe and feed me. My physical therapist used it as a beginning site for my exercises, slowly getting my muscles to work again.

It was my anchor for celebrations. My husband, so happy I was home after many months away, threw a neighborhood party for me in June 2006. I was thin, weak, barely hungry and horizontal for most of the evening, but I loved seeing so many people. I was ecstatic I was home. 

On my 50th birthday that same year, dear friends and family came to help celebrate my milestone. I managed to open presents, cut the cake (and eat it, too) while in bed.

At smaller get-togethers over the years, I would try to sit up and be sociable, but would have to lie flat after awhile, so I wouldn’t be in pain. As I gradually gained strength, the home nurse and physical therapist quit visiting. More than a year of intense chemotherapy, involving a week in the hospital and three at home, made me appreciate the ease of sleeping and recovering in the bed. Then, when the cancer returned and I underwent a bone marrow transplant, the bed helped as I again slowly regained my strength.

Later, the bed proved invaluable for my two separate carpal tunnel surgeries and months of recovery when I couldn’t use my hand to grip my walker. The button to raise myself up helped lift me to use my walker with a special elbow-steering attachment. 

But there were downsides to sleeping in an open room all the time. Every time someone came to the lower level of our home late at night or early in the morning, I was awakened.

And the two cats we had over the years considered me part of the furniture. Day or night first Allie (RIP) and then Albert would jump onto the covers, snuggle up at or on my  feet, or sit on my chest and breathe in my face or give me a quick couple of licks to make sure I was awake.

When my bed’s motor finally gave out a few months ago, it was stuck in the nearly-flat position.  This was a great angle for my back, but bad for getting up or seeing the TV, particularly with Albert on my chest. Medical equipment companies said they would not repair it but would replace it. At a cost of about $2,000 with insurance, I declined. (When the bed was first sent it to me, it was on a rental basis. After a year or so, it was declared ours. We never paid a cent for it, because our medical bills routinely exceeded the maximum insurance limits.)

We instead decided to buy a sofa set that was easier to get in and out of than our previous one. And I could use a relocated lower bed in the adjoining room to sleep. (I couldn’t get in the previous one due to its height -- and the fact that steroids use during my sickness left me with osteoporosis and 2-and-a-half inches shorter.)

New furniture!

Bunny -- my cancer buddy who was a fixture on the hospital bed -- found a new home in the regular bed in the bedroom. 

This new arrangement is working out fine. I’m definitely getting more sleep, uninterrupted. I’m adapting with a bit of difficulty to not having the bars on the side -- which I depended on to get up or turn in bed. And I’ve moved my rolling tray table -- which at times was piled high with medications or supplies -- into the downstairs bedroom so the area looks less like a MASH unit. I lie down on the new love seat when I need some flat time or move to the bedroom for long spells of back relief. 

Our family room looks like a family room, for the first time in more than a dozen years. But I’ve learned that a family room isn’t just what’s pictured in furniture ads. It’s the good, bad and the ugly things that happen there. It’s life and how you adapt to it.

Goodbye, hospital bed. I could not have done it without you.

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things Because They Make My Disabled Life Easier

‘Tis the season to be thankful.

I’m thankful, as always, for my life, family and friends. But there are lots of other things -- innovations, products and services --  that I am grateful for on a regular basis. Each of these has made my new life (can I call it new if it’s been more than 10 years?) as a disabled person much easier.

1)  Downey Anti-Wrinkle Spray

One of my favorite inventions of recent history, this has been a godsend. I remember using it as far back as 2002, before cancer left me disabled, unable to walk up the stairs of my home or balance well enough to iron something.

I first picked it up as an easy way to spray away the wrinkles in clothes without having to haul out the ironing board and set it up. It was genius: you just spray the clothes, smooth it out a bit, then let it dry. Voila!

When I tucked a bottle in my suitcase for a trip to London, it turned out to be invaluable. Traveling in a group of five women with limited knowledge of hotel room amenities or outlet compatibility, my miracle spray came in super-handy. I left it with a friend who was studying in England. Downey spray hadn’t yet hit the stores there. It took a while for it to be widely available here, but now you can find the product (or an imitator) easily at grocery or drug stores. It even comes in travel sizes. 

After lymphoma left me permanently disabled and requiring a walker, the spray has become a favorite product in my home. I can’t climb the stairs to do laundry or fluff up items in my dryer, but I can easily spray clothing items while they hang on my bathroom towel rack and leave them to de-wrinkle overnight.

2) Dream Dinners 

This company has franchises in 24 states and is a “make-it-yourself” meal mecca. Again, I first discovered Dream Dinners before I got sick. It was an easy, fun way to assemble delicious meals -- with my friend or daughter in tow -- in advance to have several pre-prepared selections to choose from. When I was diagnosed with lymphoma and was essentially unable to help in the cooking at my house, my friends and relatives sent me gift cards to my Dream Dinners. For a small fee, you could order them assembled and then anyone could pick them up, bring them home and follow directions to make an easy, nutritious meal. It was more affordable and healthier than having to rely on fast food. 

More than 11 years after my cancer diagnosis and eight years after my bone marrow transplant, I still am a Dream Dinners loyal customer. If I order regularly, the assembly fee costs nothing and I just pick up many meals for the month directly from the store and put them in my freezer. It still takes some work in the kitchen to cook a meal, but thankfully I can do more of that now. I still avoid the planning, shopping, chopping, and measuring. For someone who can’t stand long or balance well, it’s a lifesaver. 

3) Mimi’s Cafe’s take-out holiday feasts

Once I discovered Mimi’s Cafe’s Thanksgiving dinner, it’s been hard to imagine the annual holiday without it. For (this year) about $90, the Mimi’s to-go meal feeds 8-10, is well-packaged, easy to heat up and delicious. You still need helpers at home to get it to the table.

Here’s the rundown of what’s in the Thanksgiving feast: 1 whole herb butter basted turkey, 2.5 lbs of buttered cornbread stuffing, 2 lbs of candied pecan sweet potatoes, 3 lbs of whipped mashed potatoes, 2.5 lbs of green bean casserole, 12 oz. of apple cranberry orange relish, 32 oz. of turkey gravy, 2 carrot nut loaves and 1 whole brown sugar pumpkin pie. 

The restaurant also offers similar dinners for other holidays.

If you just want an easy-to-make meal with plenty of leftovers, it’s worth checking out. But if -- like me -- you are disabled or not able to operate like you once did in the kitchen, it’s a gift. 

4) Banking on my smartphone

I love being able to deposit checks on my iPhone.

In the olden days, you used to have to bring a check with you to the bank, take it to a teller, fill out a deposit slip and stand there while it was deposited to your account. Sometimes you would have to show ID, if the teller didn’t recognize you. 

Then progress and technology allowed people to deposit checks by using a pneumatic tube at the drive-though window. You could chat with the teller at the window via a microphone. In time, the tubes and employees were replaced by ATMs: both walk-up and drive-through versions.

This is all well and good, but not really ideal for disabled customers like me. It’s a pain to get out of the car and use a walk-up ATM. Making a deposit requires balance to insert the check or cash.  I feel vulnerable, practically advertising while making a monetary transaction that I am not able to walk without assistance. Or run after any robber. 

Even at the drive-though ATMs, I have difficulties. At some terminals, my arm isn’t long enough and I can’t get close enough. The height of the buttons aren’t quite right. I have to open my door, put one leg out (if it will fit between my car and the curb) and turn and really stretch to insert my card, plug in my numbers, deposit checks and/or retrieve cash and get the receipt. Then I strain to free my leg, place it back in the car, put on my seat-belt, etc.  This is all time-consuming, which folks in cars behind me do not appreciate. (Yeah, that’s me also holding up the line at drive-through car washes, postal mailboxes and pharmacies, drop-off library book containers and ticket-issuing parking garages.) 

Once I got my smartphone and downloaded my bank’s app, my banking life became easier. Following step-by-step instructions even I can understand, I can deposit a check without leaving my house. I can also transfer money and pay bills. I still have concerns about getting cash out of an ATM (someone could grab my money and sprint away in a flash), but thankfully there’s an alternative to that. 

5) The cash-back feature when using a debit card at the grocery store

Woo hoo.

Yippee (Continued)! More Thumbs Up to a Few Places that Accommodate the Disabled

Enough griping. Time for three more thumbs up to places that have made my disabled life a bit easier recently.

Any business that has built-in entry mats

This a catch-all. I’m sure there are plenty. Two buildings I frequent locally --  one dental, one medical -- were built a few years ago by an incredibly considerate company.

The mats at all the entrances are built into the flooring, not just placed on top of it. It is a subtle, attractive way to accommodate the disabled. I don’t know if that’s why they did it, but I like to think it is.  

I say a silent hallelujah every time I enter one of those buildings. It might not seem like much to able-bodied people, but it makes me happy every time I travel over them. The alternatives, which are way more plentiful, are rugs that I am always curling up and getting my walker glides stuck under.

When these rugs or mats are outside and inside an entry, it takes quite an effort to pick up my walker to get over the first one without screwing it up, then navigate the metal threshold barrier (which sometimes traps my walker glides and rips them off), then the mat inside the door.

Built-in rug

My fitness center has three of these annoying rugs before I can check in at the front desk. My post office has two of them. Because I can’t bend down to fix them, I am often leaving disheveled rugs in my wake. Probably a safety hazard.

Goldstar, the online entertainment discount company

A friend of mine, knowing how I enjoy  live theater and concerts (and also knowing I love a discount), suggested I check out the offerings on Goldstar.

It’s a national company that says it wants to encourage more people to take advantage of entertainment offerings by working with providers to make tickets more affordable.

Then I remembered I am disabled. (Believe it or not, I forget sometimes. Like the time I bought a two-pack of umbrellas from Costco only to realize once I got home there is no way I could hold an umbrella.) And I’ve had such problems finding accommodating venues that I gave up before I explored Goldstar any further. Sure, the tickets might be cheap but would I be able to attend with my walker or wheelchair? Or would the seats be in the inaccessible rafters?

Not worth the trouble or the gamble, I thought.

But then my daughter ordered half-price play tickets for the both of us, using Goldstar’s instructions to email them right away to specify any special needs requests.  Goldstar said they would get in touch with the venue to seek accommodations.

On their website explaining this policy, Goldstar goes on to say, “Not all venues offer special-needs seating, but we're typically able to work it out, and we'll certainly do our best to make it happen.”

And they did. 

Which leads me to thumbs up for the venue.

 La Mirada Theatre for the Performing Arts

This beautiful theater in La Mirada, California is extremely accommodating for the disabled, from parking to seats to restrooms.

Disabled parking is plentiful, close and free. The entryway to the theater is very accessible and flat. I note both of these accommodations because I've been to many a restaurant or theater where it is quite a hike from the parking spot to the entrance or an uphill climb to even get in the door. It was a relief to be able to park close by and walk in easily.

Inside I found couches in the lobby and comfy seating in the lounge area where you can wait before the curtains go up. Again, I've been in places with only uncomfortable metal or plastic seating while you are awaiting entrance to the theater. The La Mirada Theatre even had a lit fireplace, adding to the homey feel. Beverages come with lids on them so you can take them safely into the theater.  

My daughter had requested aisle seats for me in my walker and her. She wrote that I couldn't go down stairs. After getting our tickets at will-call, we sat at  perfect floor-level seats at the end of a long aisle. 

At intermission, when people were swarming to the restroom, an attendant inside directed a steady line of women to available stalls. And she saved the disabled stall only for handicapped people. Yay.

It made the experience fast and easy for everyone.  And the play was fantastic.

Grrrrrr: Places that Hamper Accessibility or Don't Accommodate for the Disabled

Some establishments are very accommodating to the disabled.  I’ve mentioned a few in my previous blogs. But despite the rules imposed by the Americans with Disabilities Act , many places either do not accommodate those with mobility limitations or do it poorly.

Grrrrrr.

I ran across a few in the past few months. 

The first came when my husband wanted to take me to a concert. My Morning Jacket was playing at the Wiltern, a small theater that is described as an Art Deco architectural landmark in Los Angeles. He went to the ticketing website for Live Nation and checked the box for "wheelchair accessible" when asked if he needed accommodations.

I normally use a walker as my mobility aid, but in a situation where I have to walk a long distance, I need a wheelchair. 

The ticketing agent found two seats in the loge, upstairs, four rows back. In a live chat online during the transaction, the agent mentioned that the seats were not accessible  but said the venue would accommodate me upon arrival. My husband said: “I will be bringing my wife in a wheelchair and assume there is an elevator that will take us to the loge level.” 

The agent did not reply to this.

After the transaction was processed, my husband said this: “Just to confirm that we’d be able to take an elevator to the loge level since my wife will be in a wheelchair”

The ticketing agent replied: “I’m sorry but there aren’t elevators available at the venue.”

He told my husband to call the venue directly because they would accommodate me.

By hiring a helicopter and dropping me through the roof? Maybe they would have put me downstairs, but my husband chose a loge seat so that I could see over the standing/dancing general admission fans. We didn’t find out what the Wiltern would have done with me: a business trip prevented my husband from going. My able-bodied son took a friend to the show.

When I recently called the Wiltern, the woman who helped me said Live Nation was "wrong” to say the venue would have accommodated me.

She said they would have tried, but there was no guarantee I would get in, even though I had  a ticket. It depends, she said, on how many other patrons show up.

In other words, just as I had concluded in my efforts to get accessible tickets to a Bruce Springsteen concert, it’s a crapshoot when you are person in a wheelchair looking for access to live music shows.

During the holiday season, I had three more disappointing incidents. One came during a company party held at the historic Athenaeum guest lodge at the California Institute of Technology in Pasadena. We had reserved a room for the night, one of 24 guest rooms in the 1930s-era building. The company employee who made the reservation had requested an accessible room for me. She says the person who made the reservation assured her I would get one.

But upon checking in, after a long walk around the side of the building to find a ramp, and winding my way through dining tables and chairs to get to the check-in desk, I learned that my room was not accessible. Indeed, the clerk said, they had no accessible rooms at all.

For a lodging establishment named after Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom, this did not seem wise to me. 

Fortunately they did have an elevator to take me to my room, which was a substantial distance away. I always bring a toilet-topper with me on out-of-town trips (a device that sits on any toilet to enable me to get on and off) because experience has shown that an accessible room might not be up to my standards. And I make sure I have a collapsible walker that can get me through narrow spaces. If it were not for that, I would not have been able to even get in to the bathroom in our room.

It was so small that the extra roll of toilet paper and the tissue box were in the main part of the room, not the restroom. I could not get into the shower.

And while there are many beautiful rooms and outdoor spots in which the Athenaeum holds functions, there was only one ladies restroom with one handicapped stall, far in the corner by the front desk.

I understand that this is an old building and a private club. But the lodging is open to the public and the establishment often hosts events. And it’s a place once visited by Albert Einstein. Having no accessible rooms and making it extra difficult for the handicapped doesn’t seem too genius to me.

Grrrrrr.

Also in December we were invited to attend a wedding in Phoenix of a good friend of ours. He and the bride-to-be had reserved a block of rooms at the historic Arizona Biltmore at a reduced rate. A shuttle was provided from the Biltmore to the wedding site.

We called the hotel early on to make our reservations. But when my husband told the agent we would need an accessible room, the person said no such rooms were included in the wedding block. They had one discounted regular room left. Or we could book an accessible room for an extra $80-$100 per night. We were planning to stay five nights, so this was a steep difference. We expected better customer service from a hotel that says it is one of the best in the world.

No thanks, we said. We found an accessible room for a lower rate two miles away.

A friend of mine, who advocates for the disabled, was angry when I told her this story. “That’s illegal!” she said.

But we didn’t know that. The ADA provisions are complicated and lengthy. And there is no pocket guide to refer to when I find myself in situations like this. So I just change my plans, grumble and save the story for my next angry blog.

One place I don’t expect to find problems with accessibility is the U.S. Post Office.

After all, it is run by the federal government, which oversees the enforcement of the ADA.

But tell the feds to check out my local post office in Castaic, Calif. That office has one, count ‘em, one, disabled parking space. There is an accessible ramp leading into the office, but it’s right in front of the space. So if you don’t get the solo spot and have to park elsewhere, you must walk quite a distance until you get to the ramp.

Most times, the spot is empty.

But I was particularly galled during the busy Christmas season, when I pulled up to the office with presents to mail. I had brought along a sack to help me carry them as I used my walker. The parking space was taken. I checked: the vehicle had a valid disabled placard. I waited in my car for a spell and then drove slowly around the parking lot.

The driver never emerged from the post office.

So I parked around the corner in the lot, loaded up my bag and pushed my walker the long way around, up the ramp, into the office. I saw no disabled person. After mailing my stuff, I walked the long way back, noticing that the car was still there. 

It was then I noticed the adjacent office in the building houses a credit union. Aha! I thought, the disabled spot holder was probably in there filling out lengthy paperwork.

Who on earth designed a parking lot with a single disabled spot for a post office and a credit union?

Grrrrrrr.