By Amy Van Meter

On a spring morning in 1991, I awoke to see two of everything in my room. There were two closets, two bedroom doors, two beds, and two sets of cats.

A visit to my doctor was revealing. Within a couple of hours, the internist informed me that, while there would be more testing, he would bet “dollars to donuts that this is MS.”

It took three more years of testing to confirm that I had multiple sclerosis, but that’s how it started, without warning or provocation.

Growing up, I rode horses, took ballet class, played volleyball, hiked with friends, and never thought about my body—other than to criticize it for being 10 pounds too heavy, with breasts too small, and calves too thick. But these perceived “flaws” were nothing compared to what was to come.

MS is a potentially degenerative neurological disease with no known cause or cure, and it can be invisible in the early stages. Most people who have it would have to tell you so. They experience exacerbations—symptoms that stay for some time and then inexplicably disappear. Some people experience exacerbations that don’t go away.

In my case, my vision is the only thing that ever righted itself. Over the last 15 years, my symptoms forced me to use a power wheelchair to get around, and I know a lot more about disability that I ever thought I would. (I don’t call myself disabled; it’s not my most significant quality.)

Many people equate wheelchairs, scooters, crutches, and assistance dogs with disability, and they are right—sort of. There are many disabilities that do not physically advertise themselves. Some of these include psychiatric conditions, depression, diabetes, acquired brain injuries, and learning disabilities.

My life requires ramps, accessible bathrooms (the large stall at the end with grab bars), accessible housing (single floor units with accessible bathrooms and kitchens with drawers instead of cupboards), accessible vehicles (vans with ramps or lifts), widened doorways, automatic door openers, and plenty of loving help from family, friends, and complete strangers.

People living with invisible disabilities may also need accommodations. These can include varied work schedules, adaptive technology, note-takers, or adjusted exam schedules for students. They certainly appreciate the loving help, too. This is where we can help each other.

Before MS, accessible bathrooms and automatic door openers were useful when I was loaded with packages. Universal design was not in my vocabulary. I was not insensitive or unfeeling, but I was unaware.

Necessity has taught me a lot about accessibility, just as it has those who spend time with me. People living with disability of any kind face stigmatization. We have had difference imposed on us, and people are all too often wary of those who are different.

My experience as a woman living with an obvious disability is that people are often unsure of how to deal with me. Sometimes when I am out with my partner, people talk to him instead of me: “What would she like to eat?”

I know they do this not to be disrespectful, but because they are afraid. I look different; maybe I remind them of their own fragility.

I try to remember that we are all challenged by difference, but it is up to each of us to learn about what we do not understand or makes us uncomfortable. We do this so that each can become competent in living with others in an inclusive community. A community that includes all of us, and all of our differences, makes us more, not less.