72 Hours Wheelchair-bound in Stockholm
And the Great Paradox of Swedish Society
I fractured the outer metatarsal of my left foot a mere twenty-one hours before my parents’ flight from the US was scheduled to land at Arlanda airport in Stockholm. I tripped on the quaint cobblestone paths in the Västerås city center (that up to now always gave me the warm fuzzies) and rolled my ankle. The prat-fall-like journey from upright to face-down on the sidewalk lasted an eternity. I saw the Google Slides presentation my mother and I made detailing my family's two-week adventure vacation flash before my eyes, the taunting click of a spacebar echoed in my ears: slide one: flight itineraries; slides two through five: attractions we could visit, hikes we could take; slide six: restaurant ideas; slide seven: possible side quests. I even threw in some animations and a kooky blue and yellow color scheme (in honor of the Swedish flag, of course). SHIFT + DELETE.
The first forty-eight hours after the fall, I was in denial over the state of my balloon-like foot. It took on the colors of a particularly dazzling aurora borealis. But there was simply no way I had broken my foot the day before my parents arrived for vacation! My mother, horrified by the sight of my foot, convinced me to go to the emergency room where an X-ray proved that climbing up the narrow, winding stairways of medieval Swedish castles was no longer a possibility on this trip. The doctor gave me a pair of crutches, told me to buy an ankle brace, and to not put any weight or pressure on my foot for at least three weeks. Schedule a follow-up with my vårdcentral (neighborhood family doctor) in Västerås as soon as I return. Take an Alvedon every four hours. Come back if your toes go numb. Take care.
I left the emergency room disheartened but not defeated. Stockholm, and Sweden in general, is a relatively disability-friendly place. On crutches, one may not be able to travel five, six, seven kilometers a day to see all the sites, or wander around a museum for a couple hours, but our hotel offered me a wheelchair to use during our stay (thanks Scandic Go!). While possibly awkward, a wheelchair would mean that I wouldn't slow my family down nearly as much as if I were on crutches alone. The Stockholm city center has extensive pedestrian footpaths that are navigable for baby strollers, walkers, and wheelchairs alike. I felt reassured that with my husband Austin to help push me along, I wouldn't hold back our family vacation entirely.
In the lobby of our hotel I lowered myself into the wheelchair and looked out the automatic doors at the busy Kungsholmen street. Suddenly and unexpectedly, I had this feeling that I didn't know what I was getting into.
Growing up in the American South, I learned through observation certain rules of etiquette to be considerate of people with disabilities, most commonly elderly people with mobility issues. I was taught to be aware of disabled people, gently offer assistance if I saw someone struggling, or otherwise give people the time and space to do what they need to do. Frankly, I think these are good rules to live by regardless of someone's ability. I was also taught - explicitly - not to stare (ever! not just at persons with disabilities), and not to be overly patronizing. Basically, when possible, make someone's life a little easier.
In full disclosure, I haven't always followed these rules myself. Sometimes it's hard to know exactly what someone's situation is and how to best respond. Does someone need help? What kind of help? How do I offer? Should I just know what to do without asking? Once while I was studying at Louisiana State University, I saw a blind student with a cane on campus standing at a busy street corner as a mass of students quickly walked past her on their way to class. She was listening to directions from a GPS on her phone, and I wondered if she couldn't hear the directions very well over the street's noise. I approached her with the best intentions,
"Hi! Do you need help finding somewhere on campus?” She turned toward me and patiently said with a straight face,
“I literally do this all the time. I'm good,” and turned away. I am actually really glad she couldn't see how hard I was blushing with embarrassment.
“Alright! Have a nice day!” I said, and power-walked away, feeling I had ended up acting incredibly rudely and stupidly.
A few years later while I was teaching at LSU, I saw a blind student with a cane who was also listening to directions on his phone. He kept turning around and seemed hesitant to take a step in any direction. I observed him, wondered if I should offer help. Then he walked into a bush. OK, I thought. If there were ever a time… It turned out that he had lost his vision very recently and was still learning how to get around on his own. He told me, very honestly and vulnerably, he was about to shout out and ask for help, without knowing if there was even anyone around him. He said he was relieved someone approached him. I walked with him to his professor's office hours and was glad I put my own insecurity aside to offer help.
In between these two events, there were a handful of times when I saw someone with a disability and wondered if they needed assistance but I felt uncomfortable just thinking about offering. Very rarely does one encounter a situation that so obviously indicates someone requires assistance - like seeing them walk into a bush. But, you won't know if someone needs help unless you ask. I would rather be told “no” than unknowingly walk away from a situation in which I could be helpful. And if they do say "no” I just say, “OK, have a nice day!” At the end of the day, it's not about me.
But, what if it was about me? I know that it is almost inevitable to experience some kind of disability in our lives, for example as we age or are injured. But there are some things that you can't really understand until it's happened to you. I have heard disabled people talk about how inequitable life is with a disability, and I just simply. did. not. understand. I was wheelchair-bound in Stockholm for a mere seventy-two hours with a fractured foot bone, and I only glimpsed into the reality of people who live life in a wheelchair.
My first time out in my wheelchair in Stockholm with my parents, my husband Austin pushed me four short blocks to a coffee shop. On that short journey, some people:
Stared at me remorselessly, scanning me up and down, inspecting my braced foot
Raced me through a crosswalk to get ahead of me on the sidewalk
Didn't see me and bumped into me
Saw me and still bumped into me
Actively ignored me, trying to act like they didn't know I was there as their eyes sneakily peeked at my foot or chair
Swerved around me on mopeds and electric scooters
Looked me dead-on and played chicken to fight for space on the sidewalk (Who diverted first? Me! The one in the wheelchair! I diverted first! I was scared!)
A small minority smiled at me with the saddest, most pitiful puppy dog-eyes that made me feel so incredibly self-conscious I wanted to disappear. In the coffee shop, the staff were so patronizing it infuriated me, leaning down to my level in the chair with these big, phony smiles.
Dude, I just have a fractured foot. I am fine. You can chill.
Every now and again, someone would behave, I don't know, normally? They'd notice me and step aside, maybe with a polite smile, or hold a door open with a simple varsagåd. This kind of thing, simple as it was, was a huge relief.
Overall, it was exhausting. It must take a lot of personal integrity and fortitude to cope with such bizarre treatment over a lifetime, or not being able to access basic amenities like many disabled people do.
I spent a lot of my parents’ visit in a wheelchair, and then continued to use the wheelchair off and on for the next week. Now, as my foot is nearly healed, I get by with crutches. Out and about, my experience is that, in public, Swedish people treat people in wheelchairs, or on crutches, exactly like they treat any other person in public: badly.
Swedes are inconsiderate in public, period. I expect it in urban areas like Stockholm, but it's even in smaller cities like Västerås or Örebro. People act like no one else exists while also being painfully aware of other people's existence. They go out of their way to get as far away from other people as possible. The Swedish personal bubble is wide, physically and socially. Swedes resist even saying “excuse me” with the internal fortitude of a silent monk, only softly muttering it under their breath when there is no other way to get off the bus. Meanwhile, they stare at people, popping personal bubbles with needle-y eyes. So which is it, Swedes? Do I exist or not? Do you see me or not?
This all bothered me tremendously before I fractured my foot, and it was amplified during my recovery. It's not that I expected a red carpet, but I figured that if I was bouncing along with my crutches on the sidewalk, that passersby would give me a little more clearance. Nope. I got no more time or space on the sidewalk than any able-bodied person. That's equality, I guess.
So, let's talk about that: equality in Sweden. We all know that Nordic societies, by most metrics, are some of the most “equal” societies on earth. Disparities in economic and social power between men and women and minorities are incredibly low compared to most of the world, even their European neighbors. This is undeniably due to Nordic welfare systems that redistribute taxes through society in the form of free or very cheap healthcare, education, housing, and employment. Every Swede I have spoken to about Sweden's tax system has said that they are glad to pay taxes. They may have some notes or constructive criticism about the tax system, but Swedes want to give away their own money so that total strangers can have a better life. Regarding disabled members of society, Swedes seem to think in a similarly altruistic manner. This is why so many Swedish cities have such extensive accessibility infrastructure - not just wide sidewalks, but ramps are almost universally built-in to building entrances, and buildings that have split level floors have wheelchair elevators. There is a clear sense of consciousness and responsibility in Sweden for disability, even in Swedish media.
So then, the Swedish attitude toward strangers, to me, seems paradoxical. Swedes won't lend a stranger a smile on the bus, but they'll give them their income. They will cede their private property to their city government to widen sidewalks and build bike paths, but if someone in a wheelchair rolls by on that sidewalk, fuck ‘em.
I, by the way, don't think this is any better or worse than, for instance, the American South, where people flash a dazzling smile and say "good morning, how are you?” to the cashier at the grocery store, then scoff at an increase in the federal minimum wage. Southern Americans make new friends at work or the gym and immediately invite them into their homes to make them a cup of coffee or cook dinner, but they won't welcome immigrants into their schools or hospitals. They hold doors open for strangers but vote against a tax increase to fund the repaving of sidewalks. This is also paradoxical. (Here's the point where I throw in a disclaimer that not all Southerners are anti-taxation or anti-immigrant, etc.) In an ideal world (wouldn't we all love one of those?) we could have a combination of the two. A society in which people are kind to strangers in their day-to-day lives and kind to strangers in their politics.
I personally feel that I get to live the best of both worlds, lately. I pay my taxes and am taken care of by the Swedish healthcare system, and during my convalescence, I'm inviting friends over to my apartment to share some Southern Hospitality and enjoy a fika on the balcony.
A final thought from fracturing my foot and my time in a wheelchair: we should get rid of cobblestones, charming as they are. I am all for cultural and historical preservation; all my favorite places in the world have deep histories and architecture. But, I also come from a city where every day growing up I drove by Robert E. Lee High School to go to the grocery store. Yikes! Obviously, we can't cling to every part of our past, even our cities.
Clocktowers: good.
Classic, rust-red paint on Swedish homes: good.
19th century hand-worked iron railings: amazing!
Cobblestones: bad.
Keeping cobblestones around for the sake of aesthetics is arguably discriminatory toward people with mobility disabilities. Let's work on that.