Wheel of Fortune Unlucky for this Disabled Fan

I tried out for Wheel of Fortune the other day. Or tried to try out. 

Didn’t work out too well.

Here’s why: The folks who were running that “Wheelmobile Event” -- that’s Wheel lingo -- were woefully unaccommodating for those of us who were disabled. Or aged.

In recent years, when I solved Wheel puzzles easily family members would say, “You should try out for that.”

No, I would say, I don’t think I physically could. After all, even though I am a habitual Wheel watcher, I remember seeing only one physically challenged person on the show -- and that was a guy who partnered with his mom. And I’ve never seen anyone use a wheelchair, walker or cane while being led to the bonus round by Pat Sajak. 

But this time, when I learned Wheelmobile was coming to a casino near my home, I considered going. A casino would be handicapped accessible. My son said he would drive and accompany me. At minimum, it would be a fun adventure and at best, we would both get picked for the show and go on to win bundles of cash, fabulous vacations and at least one car.

So I checked it out online via the local ABC station (as viewers were instructed to do) and learned the basics of a contestant search. We were to show up about an hour before one of three shows: at 6 p.m. 7:30 p.m. and 9 p.m.

Then our names would be randomly selected to play in a mini Wheel of Fortune game on stage. If you pass that audition, you would be called to a final one at the Wheel of Fortune studio.

Here’s the language that convinced me to give it a shot:

REASONABLE ACCOMMODATIONS SHALL BE MADE FOR PERSONS WITH PHYSICAL LIMITATIONS AND/OR DISABILITIES.

It appeared just like that, in large, bold capital letters. So I assumed it was the truth.

Turned out, it was not. No accommodations were evident.

We were to show up about an hour before the show to get an application. It would be put in a drum from which someone would randomly select contestants to come up on stage, in groups of five, for about an hour. You didn’t have to get there early.

But some people got there seven hours before the first event. My son and I were killing time in the casino when we noticed a huge line had already formed. So we followed it to the end where there was a roped-off maze like you see in Disneyland. Wheel attendants passed out application forms and pointed to the end of the line.

It was about two hours before show time.

“I can’t do this,” I told a guy with an official badge.

I can’t stand in one place for long periods of time with my walker, I told him. Is there a place where I could sit and rejoin the line later?

“Just get in line and it will start moving soon,” he told me.

I did and it did. When we finally got to the escalator to head up to the conference room where the auditions were held, we had to get out of line so my son could ask if they had an elevator I could use.

On the second floor, we were herded into an empty conference room with huge posters of Pat Sajak and Vanna White and a mini-Wheel of Fortune set. Speakers blasted rockin’ oldies tunes and just being there seemed to make about 95 percent of the people ecstatic. 

I was looking for a chair.

There were two and they were both occupied.

As hundreds of aspiring contestants of all types entered the room to stand up and face the stage for hours, I sought a chair in the entry area outside.  I told my son I would find him later. There were two comfortable chairs in the foyer and both were taken. I rested in one around the corner for a while.

I watched many abled-bodied people of all ages streaming in. But I also spotted some using wheelchairs, walkers and canes. No one was offering the less-abled their seats.

I would occasionally join my son to see if I was missing anything. No, he said, nobody was making any announcements. I leaned against the wall for awhile, which helps with my back pain. But even finding a spot against the wall was nearly impossible. Along the edges of the room were men and women sitting on the floor, using the wall for support.

When I went back outside to sit in my chair,  a restricted area sign had been just placed in the hallway. “So I can’t sit there?” I asked the security guard, pointing to the chair about six feet away. “No, this area is for employees only.”

Like I was going to steal casino secrets from my easy chair.

He did offer to move it into the public area for me and I thanked him profusely. But after a few minutes, I had to go inside because it was close to game time.

I went to the side of the room with my son in search of some wall space where I could lean. Next to me was a lady sitting on the floor with a service dog and beyond her was an older man in a sport coat with a cane, leaning like me. In front of me was a mass of humanity. I spotted one woman with a traditional walker turn it around and try to sit on the crossbar. Eeeks. They really weren’t made for that. But when you are disabled and have been standing for hours, you’re willing to try anything.

Finally minor league versions of Pat and Vanna took the stage to thunderous applause. They called five or six people at a time to come up, be interviewed and play a quick game. 

After about 30 minutes, the white-haired man next to me with the cane made his way to the ground, so he could rest. My son suggested I do the same, but I knew I couldn’t manage getting up or down.

They did not call any contestants with a disability, so I’m not sure how they would have made it up to the stage. I couldn’t even see it from my vantage point. 

In an hour, they selected some 25 people from the 200 plus standing and waiting. 

The rules said they were looking for people who are “energetic, enthusiastic and fun.”

I’m glad they didn’t call my name, because I wouldn’t have exhibited any of those qualities after waiting for hours in a room devoid of basic needs, like water or chairs.

As the older man near me struggled to his feet with the help of his wife, I exited out the door, grabbing a coveted spot on a couch outside the conference room, where I sat until my pain subsided.

Don’t forget, Pseudo Sajak was saying into the mike, if you didn't get picked, you can go downstairs and get back in line for a chance at the next show. Or the next.

“No f_ck_ng w_y,” I thought.

Why You Don't See Many Wheelchairs in Restaurants: It's Not Easy Being Disabled

Next time you are in a restaurant, count how many diners are in wheelchairs. I’ll bet the number you come up with most often is zero.

There is a reason for that. Going out to eat in a wheelchair is not much fun.

Even though there are protections for the disabled covered by the Americans with Disabilities Act, the reality is restaurants -- from fast food places to fine dining establishments --  have a long way to go to enable those in wheelchairs to have an enjoyable experience.

Seeing a blue wheelchair symbol at the entry to a restaurant does not guarantee the place is comfortable to disabled patrons.

I remember the first time I visited a local restaurant in a wheelchair. My legs, paralyzed for months after brain cancer, were getting better. But I couldn’t stand or walk.

My husband had driven me to a doctor’s appointment and, in the spirit of my new freedom (I had been hospitalized for more than four months), suggested we go out for lunch on the way home.

He pulled up in the disabled parking space of a restaurant I liked. We noticed the blue accessible sign in the front window.  And he asked the hostess if I could be accommodated in their restaurant.

“Sure,” she said, pleasantly, leading us to a table for four at the back of the facility.

She pulled away a chair and my husband pushed me up as close as I could get. I sat at an angle and because the pedestal beneath the table protruded, I wasn’t very close.  My mouth was at least a foot away from the table. And, when the food came, I could barely reach it. 

To my right, inches away from my shoulder, was the right shoulder of a baby. He was in a high chair at the end of a booth where his mom was enjoying lunch with a friend. 

He had an advantage, though. At least he could sit right up to his table and reach his food.

I was pleased that my husband and I were out dining like we used to,  but I was uncomfortable, in pain and did not enjoy the experience. Going out to lunch didn’t have the same appeal it did.

When I needed to use the public restroom, it was a disruptive production. There was not enough aisle space for me to wheel there discreetly. Waitresses moved out of my path and rearranged chairs. Customers seated at a larger table scooched in or stood up while my husband pushed me by.  And then the whole thing had to be repeated on my return trip. 

I’ve been able to use a walker for the past several years, but it’s often just as difficult to maneuver between chairs and tables.

(And 9 times out of 10, I am seated far away from bathroom. Draw an invisible line from the restroom to the farthest point in the restaurant and that’s where the  hostess will seat me.)

On a recent visit to Phoenix, I went with my sister-in-law to an outdoor lunch place that was a favorite of mine when I lived there. But I was able-bodied back then and wasn’t aware of how handicapped accessible it was. I felt reassured as we easily pulled up to the only handicapped parking spot in front. But once I got out with my  tri-wheeled walker that can ordinarily handle tough terrain, I was sorely disappointed. The gravel and dirt driveway gave way to a spot that should have been named the “Keep Disabled People Out” entrance.

It was as if they found 50 billiard-ball-shaped rocks and cemented them in a rectangular entry that you had to go through to enter the restaurant area.

I’ve struggled over cobblestones in front of some of my favorite hometown restaurants (curse you, cobblestones!), but I had never encountered anything as challenging as this. I can’t imagine how people in wheelchairs or using canes navigate it.

Once we got through the entrance and ordered inside, we went to nearby outside table to dine. It was like a mine field: uneven terrain dotted with dips.

The final insult occurred when I visited the outdoor restroom. It was down a slight grade; a seemingly short distance but again full of holes, some hidden by grass. As I struggled down the slope, a woman commented: “They sure don’t make it easy for you!” 

When I finally got to the restrooms, I found two single unisex ones. Neither had a handicapped accessible sign. The one I picked wasn’t accessible, I learned once inside.

I almost cried. I managed without a bar to hold onto (gripping a public bathroom wall -- yuck) but don’t think I could have accomplished it in my wheelchair days.

When I told this sad tale of what should have been a nice outing in a favorite spot, friends said, “Isn’t that against the law?”

Well, maybe. Depends on how old the facility is. I just won’t go there again. Or to the fine dining Phoenix establishment I visited on another trip that had non-accessible bathroom stalls so small you couldn't close the door if you managed to get in there with a wheelchair or walker. While I am quick to harrumph, I’m not going to file a complaint or lawsuit. But I commend those who do when they face  similar problems.

After a 10-year court battle, a California judge ruled last fall that Taco Bell may have to upgrade hundreds of restaurants in the state to provide proper accommodation for customers in wheelchairs.

Among items the judge found illegal were tables too low to fit customers in wheelchairs, toilets too low and soap dispensers too high. Also the ordering line was too narrow to fit wheelchairs or scooters. A customer could wait on the side and be helped by restaurant staff. But the judge said customers described such an arrangement as “inconvenient, cumbersome and embarrassing.”

Being disabled is inconvenient, cumbersome and embarrassing as it is. I don’t need to pay to dine at places that make it worse.

Better Walkers are Sorely Needed by Millions of Boomers

Attention entrepreneurs. Start designing better walkers. Believe me, it will pay off.

Here’s why:

1. Today’s walkers -- choices, design, features -- are pretty lame. 

2. More people than ever are going to be needing them. The first of nearly 80 million baby boomers hit age 65 this year. It’s just a matter of time before an unprecedented number of aging folks will be needing mobility aids.

And that’s not all. An increasing number of war veterans are coming home disabled. Many of them will be needing canes, walkers or wheelchairs.

I know from first-hand experience how boomers can effect change.

Remember when strollers were just baby buggies? Then the boomers came along. Now you can get strollers in all colors, sizes, and shapes. They can accommodate twins, triplets, quadruplets and siblings. They hold babies’ drinks, toys and diaper bags. They come in a variety of price ranges with any number of features.

Laura Laughlin's Five Walkers

How I wish there was even a fraction of that variety when it comes to walkers. Since becoming disabled five years ago, I’ve accumulated five walkers and not one of them has all the features I would like.

I’ve got two of the standard issue “grandpa” variety, sturdy metal types with tennis balls on the back. One of them has an arm that doesn't fold so I can't take it anywhere. They are unwieldy, unattractive and don’t have brakes.

Another has a seat and brakes and takes up way too much space in stores or restaurants. I bring it when I’m going where I know I might need a seat, but it’s awkward to fold up and I can’t get it in or out of the car by myself.

My tri-wheeled walker has sturdy wheels that can handle dirt, asphalt and grass. I call it my all-terrain walker. It has a nice, deep pouch (I love it at the farmer’s market), OK brakes and it collapses inward, so it’s convenient to squeeze by in narrow restaurant or store aisles or too-small doorways. But it’s too heavy and bulky for me to lift in and out of my car. I can only take it when someone accompanies me on outings.

My other walker is a lightweight travel one that comes in three fashionable colors (hurray! -- that manufacturer is totally on the right track). It is easy for me to get in out of the car by myself and is supposed to fit in an overhead bin while flying. It folds inward to a narrow width so it’s a good squeezing-by walker.

But it’s not too stable and the wheels don’t turn. My big purse hanging on it almost makes me lose my balance. And turning left or right involves a noisy lifting up and plopping down movement.

It comes with stylish color-matched glides which are a welcome change from the tennis balls. But they occasionally fall off, usually when I’m out in public. The other day I had to ask the grocery checker to come around to my side of the counter to put my glide back on or I couldn’t have made it out to my car. Because I’m handicapped, I’m not capable of grabbing the glide off the floor, lifting up my walker and attaching it.

A lot of these walkers have features that mean well, but aren’t practical for a disabled person. To sit in my seated walker, you have to put on the brakes and turn around -- not an easy task when you can’t stand on your own. And it came with a bag stored beneath the seat to put your stuff in, but it’s impossible to get out if you have balance problems. I removed the bag from my walker because it was unusable.

I have lots of conversations with people about my walkers. Disabled folks -- or their caregivers -- don’t ask where I get my clothes or shoes, but they do inquire about my walker. Everyone seems to think mine is better than theirs. They are all in search of a better one. 

And while I am ever grateful that I am able to walk with assistance, it doesn’t seem like too much to ask that my mobility aids be functional and not hideous.

Even able-bodied folks notice our crappy walker choices. When I went to a lovely outdoor dinner party a while ago, I was feeling great. I was alive, after a lengthy battle with lymphoma. I was happy to see everyone and thanked them all for their support during my cancer struggles.

But someone asked my husband: Couldn’t he buy me a better walker? Apparently the metal grey “grandpa” one with the green tennis balls didn’t really complement my cocktail attire.

I consider myself ahead of the game when it comes to the frustrating experience of shopping for walkers, but I know there are millions behind me.

Sweatin' with the Oldies and Disabled in my Senior Exercise Class

Today I went to my exercise class.

I’ve been going religiously since January. It’s a habit that’s been easy to fall into.

For months, maybe years, I’d been seeing a notice in the local paper about “functional fitness” classes at the local senior center. It included a one-hour low impact class and if you weren’t ready for that, a 30-minute chair exercise class. Anyone “50 plus” could join. While I don’t consider myself a senior, I was definitely eligible.

Before my cancer came back three years ago, I belonged to the YMCA, gleefully  jumping and jogging (something I can’t do on land) in an aquatic class for arthritic and challenged adults. And when I couldn’t make that class, I did enjoy the 30-minute chair class next door. It was tough and everyone but me could stand up without aid. 

But when I got sick again, I had to quit the Y. After more chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant, I was exercising at home for years. I decided to branch out.

I am so glad I did. Three times a week, I go to the senior center, twice for the chair class: cost $1, and, recently, once a week to the low-impact class, $3.

I absolutely love it.

In addition to burning calories, I’ve gained some precious friends and a new vision of the golden years.

I look forward to coming three times a week. I miss my old buddies when I can’t make it. And I worry about them when they’re absent.

When I returned from my first class, my son asked me if it was depressing and if “it smelled like death.”

Far from it.

By 8:30 a.m., the drop-in center is a vibrant place. Coffee is brewing, sweet breakfast treats are set out. Men play pool. Other fellows sit on the porch and chat. One volunteer staffs the “trips” desk, Another, in her 90s, buzzes about early each morning organizing silverware, cups, tables and chairs for lunch. On Fridays, a senior band plays at lunchtime in the same room where we exercise. The guys wear fancy clothes and start hauling in their instruments while we are winding up our class, often with a dance step or flirtatious wink as they walk in.

I am one of the youngest people in my chair class. It numbers 30 to 40 people, mostly women. Many are as disabled as I am, some better, some worse. Many have walkers, a few have canes and some are in wheelchairs. I know most people’s names and some caregivers’ names. And I am greeted by name when I arrive.

The women I have met in the chair class are the opposite of Maxine, the crabby old gal of Hallmark card fame. They get up, get dressed up (no sweats for these chicks), some put on lipstick and pearls. Some drive with friends or husbands, some ride public transportation, several come with their paid caregivers. And they have smiles on their faces.

I made a friend the first day. Gloria, 88, is a lovely lady with the sweetest, friendliest face. While she still misses her late husband desperately, she said she has made a choice to have a positive outlook. “Why not?” she says.

So do many others, including Eunice, who at age 90 is just a gorgeous lady with a permanent welcoming smile. I worried about her when she was absent for a week, but when she returned, she said she’d been to Vegas.

There are greetings, hugs and handclasps before the exercise begins. Everyone  wishes each other a good morning and someone usually announces, “We made it another day!”

And that alone is a reason to smile.

This morning, my new friend Julie, closer to my age,  who was taking the low-impact class for the third time, said she loved the workout, but particularly the people. 

“Everyone is so nice!” she said.

It’s that striking. How many people view exercise as a solitary endeavor, putting in their headphones and gazing at the TV while they walk or run on the treadmill? How many dread going to the gym? How many get to know the folks they work out with?

I’ll take my senior center exercise class any day. It’s fun and uplifting and heartwarming.

And, oh yeah, it’s good exercise.