Dignity and Disability
Do you think about grace when you get dressed in the morning? Has rising from your armchair to move into another room involved much thought beyond `I’m getting a cup of tea now’? Have you considered the role dignity plays in your moves? Over the last 5 years I certainly have.
In my pre-disabled days, I didn’t give much thought to my dignity or grace. Dignity was the Queen and grace was a prayer I was made to do as a child at mealtimes. I walked, rushed and strolled through the world without a thought for my poise. I showered, toileted, and dressed without questioning my conduct. I cooked, ate and fed others with an innate adherence to the rules of etiquette with which I was raised.
Now, I have a seat change routine that suggests cirque du soleil beginner moves. Moving from my lounge chair to, say, the kitchen involves many deliberate movements. This includes being suspended in air while being folded into a hoist-sling, each limb separately positioned inside its relative sling strap, then raised and lowered by a hoist, before the procedure is reversed.
At times like these it often feels that I have little to no dignity at all, which renders me either silently angry, miserable, or accepting, depending on the circumstances. And sometimes a three-in-one combo. What dignity is there in having my nose wiped or having my head thrown back violently into my headrest as I navigate yet another raised kerb? Yet, no routines invoke the palpable sense of indignity that a lift-transfer does, as I am pushed, jolted, slid, compressed, and straightened. Legs never nicely together, my body resembling a bobby pin where my hips are the U bit, and my top and/or pants at various times riding the opposite way that they ought to. These experiences seem fundamentally opposed to my idea of dignity.
Conceptually, dignity is closely related to grace. The definition of which has four categories, according to the Cambridge Dictionary, only one of which is about the quality of movement. So why does so much of my self-talk when being jerked, lifted, wiped and fed make me feel terribly undignified? It’s because, as a disabled person, retaining and maintaining decorum has never been more difficult.
The Cambridge Dictionary also tells me that dignity is the quality of a person that makes them deserving of respect. The Macquarie Dictionary concurs, stating as two of several definitions, ‘nobility of manner or style; stateliness; gravity’ and ‘nobleness or elevation of mind; worthiness’. Despite these definitions, it’s not surprising that I should feel periodically undignified when our ability-centric world prizes physical beauty, elegance, strength, and prowess above all. We internalise these ideals as being the pinnacles of self-pride and feel unworthy by comparison. Well – this little gal does at times anyway.
Developing a profound physical disability has brought this previously unexamined concept of what it means to be dignified to my consciousness, and with it the need for me to intentionally redefine what dignity means to me. It's essential for my self-image, perhaps even self-worth. Shame and humiliation are the only other options and they just don’t sit well with me.
Because as humorously as I try to compare myself to a ‘big bony toddler’ when getting dressed, or quip that my T-rex-style arms that can no longer get food into my mouth unless I’m hunched over my plate like a rabid dog over his prey,I have to consciously tell myself that my dignity is not in the action, it's in my reaction. Our individual conduct and attitude define our worthiness, not the way we move from one seat to another. I may not do so as gracefully as I once did, but dignity and etiquette belong to us all. However we choose to define them, they need to include me.
