“Do you identify as disabled?”

– & the confusion that followed

Feb 14, 2026

In December 2025 or January 2026, I filed an application for some event. Most of the questions were the sort of benign nonsense any event would need such as contact info and such. Then came this five-word question: “Do you identify as disabled?”

The answer appears to be “no.” Which is likely wrong, technically wrong, wrong-ish.

I do not identify as disabled, yet I am, in fact, disabled. Placard on the car and all (although the placard is for the spouse, we share it).

Physical Disability

Four months ago, I fell from a building I was building. Not a funny story although I can make people laugh in the telling. I mean it was an undiagnosed case of diverticulitis that basically caused the fall. I was in so much pain; I was impatient, rushing, and acting stupidly. But I had been told repeatedly by my local gastroenterologist that I do NOT have diverticulitis. Therefore, I do not have it. He’s told me I don’t have it since 2008, repeatedly. That aside, the joke in our house with a spouse who has some issues with balance and syncope, “you can not fall from a laying position”. But it was a metal roof and the edge gave way under me. I hung by my fingers for a millisecond knowing I’ve grown too old, too fat and too weak to lift myself to safety. I let go and dropped into a paratrooper’s roll shattering both wrists on the concrete (and the bones around my right eye). Oh and Doctor Belly called this recent week to inform me that I do have diverticulitis because he suddenly agrees with the CT and trauma surgeon from October 11th in Springfield MA.

For four months, I have been unable to bend my wrists and have had limited movement in my hands. I could not rotate my hands. Unlike some recent photos of winter Olympians, my metal fixators were under my skin (invisible except for scars).

Let me inventory things I could not do for the recent four months:

Wipe myself
Open doors
Poor juice
Hold a glass
Tie my PJ bottoms (my primary clothing options these days)
Put on socks
Brush my hair/wash my hair
Secure a seat belt in my car

It has been three weeks since the fixators came out. That was the fifth planned medical procedure on my hands. We’re not ruling out more procedures in 2-3 months depending on how physical therapy goes.

I am improving. Kaizen!

My first time driving was a week ago when a medical emergency dictated that I haul spouse to our doc, then to the nearest emergency room. I drove home with one eye on the snowbank and the other wondering where the yellow line is, was, should be. That’s because you don’t fall 15’/4m without getting a lovely traumatic brain injury too. When I get tired, I get swimmy in the head. There is no public transit here, no taxi cabs, no commercial driving services that one can request from a mobile phone. In fact, most places here, the mobile phone doesn’t work. So, I drove. Sub-optimal.

My present disabilities indicate that I should not be driving. It was only two weeks ago I could close a car door. Kaizen!

I am disabled. I never did the bargaining, denial, anger, blah, blah routine. As I told my surgeon when he did a procedure without anesthetic, “I’ve been hurt before.”

Oddly, I do not “identify as disabled”, therefore on this form, I answered “no”. I answered “no”, because I do not identify as disabled.

I have two broken hands (for all practical purposes). And I get stink-eyes when I park at the handicap spot with my Orange Vermont-issued permanent handicap placard on my windshield. Sure, I have a mild limp due to an arthritic knee. The placard belongs to the spouse who has several metabolic and physical issues. But, these people didn’t see me open the heavy door of my car with my feet. They don’t know that if I slip and fall on the ice, it is likely an immediately call to 911 to get me off the ground then transported to my surgeon 90 minutes away. Stink-eye judgers don’t know that I can’t carry more than a few light pounds with my hands. The other day, I carried the jug of milk in a long-handled bag that the clerk place around my head and neck. In order for me to open the car door from the outside, I grab it with two hand then walk backwards pulling the door with the strength of my legs. Yes, I am disabled and I appreciate that some stores make accommodations.

Why Don’t I Identify as Disabled?

As mentioned, not “identifying” as disabled isn’t a reflection of denial. It also isn’t a gut reaction to this modern usage of “identity”. It is because I am human.

I trained as a athlete eventually holding national rank and ratings. I trained with and competed against a lot of Olympians and world-class folk. From a pre-teen age, I trained 5-6 hours per day. I trained through injuries. Sitting in Doctor Belly’s office last week, I looked up at his diplomas. Obviously, I think this guy is an idiot. His failure to diagnose diverticulitis during a 15-year period may be all the proof I need. I could see that Doctor Belly graduated from Harvard as an under-grad in 1978. He was treating me like a gray-hair, fattish, old lady (meaning “idiot”). In 1978, I was training under a recent multi-medal winner at Harvard. Weekly, we ran every step of the Harvard Stadium in a pattern that involved single-step, hopping, stair-skipping and such. When we were done, we ran round the arcade on our hands. We placed our feet on boards with wheels, held ourselves in a pushup, or plank, position then ran at full speed around that circle. Cool. I lived in the same house (dorm) as my father and my uncle.

You learn to accept pain, manage pain, trust pain and differentiate pain. I sometimes laugh at pain.

I am hurt and I am healing. I shall heal. I may never run the stadium again, fine. I didn’t enjoy it in 1978 very much anyway.

Decades later, I “identify” as an athlete. At sixty, I move heavy things easily (normally). I have more control over my body that 99% of people because of my training.

Lifetime Differences

My other disabilities are not recognized nor well supported by the present implementation of the Americans With Disabilities (ADA) Act. I am left handed. I am dyslexic. I am neuro-divergent (neuro-spicy, as I prefer to say) and with nearly 20 years on ambulances and at fire scenes, and a year in Iraq, I’ve got to manage my PTSD with care. I also have mean allergies that include: soy(legumes), nuts, wheat. These allergies really mess with going out to dinner. I HATE being the human asking for special treatment or special orders.

I learned (with adverse consequences while having 2 broken hands) that Hebrew National 100% All Beef Hotdogs now contain soy. Sysco Food Services are now putting soy protein in their 100% all beef patties that they sell to restaurants and institutions. Good bye hotdogs and hamburgers!

I don’t tolerate bright, sparkly lighting. Wanna break me, bring me to a shopping mall in December or a Chuck E. Cheese anytime. I don’t tolerate loud yelly spaces. I don’t tolerate rowdy crowds.

I 100% hate it when a neighbor tells me that they bought me special glutton-free crackers when inviting me to dinner. Oh, but look the glutton-free crackers are made with chick pea flour. Gee, still toxic to my body. In four hours after eating those I will be paying the bill for that kindness. Oh good, they always try to send me home with the stupid uneaten box – which I then toss, of course. The burden returns to me, thanks.

You’ll be so pleased as trying to be inclusive that when I still can’t eat the food or enjoy the space, you are insulted. You’re hurt because you put effort and money towards accommodating me and I rejected that kindness. You are insulted that I ate before joining the dinner party. You are insulted that I picked the white rice and skipped the meat with the luscious thick brown sauce of unknown ingrediants.

“But you eat meat.” I am told. “right, but I don’t know what thickener you used or if you splashed soy sauce.” One drop gets my lips swelling. But I also know that you’ve allowed pork and beef to cross-pollinate in your kitchen and lied to your Jewish friends.

I did it to myself this winter. I got excited by a new meat lover’s pizza from a local food coop. It promised wheat/seed/soy/gluten free. I forgot that “meat lovers” doesn’t mean “meat” anymore. It was some “beyond meat” product invented in a laboratory. This was made with fava beans. I ate a slice here at home. Flash-to-bang was four hours. Fava beans are legumes and yes, my body immediately treated that like a frontal assault.

Years ago, the local town clerk offered me a homemade cookie. I asked, “Does it have nuts in it?” She said, “No.” I had already declined three times and I was verging on rude. I accepted one and bit it. Of course, it had nuts in it. My swelling lips told me within a minute. The town clerk then said: “Oh, well I ground them up.” I absolutely hate quitting my day by shovelling benedryl down my throat with two epi pens at an arm’s reach.

These are social disabilities I hate explaining to people. I get angry, frustrated, and at my worst: meltdown. I blame myself for not finding better ways to interact with others. It is my fault.

The kindness of the well intentioned leaves a bitter taste. You are telling me you spent extra money and invested extra time to accommodate my differences and yet resent me when my belly could not tolerate the food and I struggle to explain myself.

Bipedal Accommodations

When asked if I “identify as disabled”, I struggled with the answer. I am different yet solidly a member of the human species. What accommodation do I need for my hands:

A bidet
Doors with electric assist
Doors without round door knobs (can’t grip them, lever style are amazing. I think all round door knobs should disappear)
Don’t ask me to carry stuff around: no backpacks, no tote bags.
Please don’t judge how I walk up or down stairs. I can not hold the railings. An elevator is safer and better, thanks.

What accommodations are needed for the “other stuff”?

Expect me to withdraw from society after a few hours of noise
Don’t expect good behavior from me if the environment turns into the mosh-pit of my youth.

I am disabled but do not have mobility challenges. Oddly, that confuses people.

Even when I heal and I am no longer “disabled”, I will still be me with challenges in loud, crazy environments. I will still need to prepare my own food and likely eat from my own bento box with real diary cheese and real meat sausages, safe starches, and cooked veggies. I will growl loudly if you observe that I, again, ordered a piece of meat with no sauces and a side of a plain baked potato or plain white rice.

McDonalds’ French fries have flour on them. Wendys does not. Most/many commercial potato chips have soy. Most commercial frozen breakfast hashbrowns include soy oil. Most chocolate has soy lecithin. I love chocolate. Can’t eat it without great care. In public, my sides dishes are baked potato, white rice, or a safe veg (with no sauce, no lovely almond slivers, no legumes, no soy).

Allergies are not disabilities in the classic definition.

That said, I am more constrained by diet than my poorly functioning and healing hands.

People do not intend to offend when they criticize my food. Yet, when you eliminate everything with soy, legumes, nuts, and wheat/gluten, there is still a diet to sustain. It looks odd. I buy two lambs a year from a friend, often raise or buy a pig for the freezer. I get ducks locally and locally raised chickens. Salads are fine, but dressings are not, nor are the croutons.

Identify as Disabled

I do not identify as disabled when I am in my own kitchen, and my own house because in general, I am not disabled. Yes, I have poorly functioning hands and can’t wipe my own ass (yet). The answer is a bidet in every bathroom, thank you.

The problems appear at the intersection of me and you. If I tell you I am disabled, you will bust a gut to “accommodate” me. But you likely won’t listen to me and won’t understand me. You’ll buy the horrible tasting, overly expensive substitute foods that makes you feel better without knowing that I am still not going to eat that nibble because of my own experience. I don’t like being sick (especially if you don’t have a bidet).

You will need to prove your inclusiveness and state it. I still feel excluded. I am still other.

“These are the special crackers for Christina”, you’ll announce to the room. Sometimes I get the special dinner plate. Might as well put candles on it and have a kazoo parade for me. I hate it. Stop it. That noise is about you, not me.

When in hospital for 11 days last autumn, following my fall, I ate steamed chicken and white rice 22 times (lunch and dinner). I had 22 purple popsicles. And I had 10 scrambled eggs. How do I tell the hospital that soy bacon is not the healthy option they think it is? Or was it soy sausage? Regardless, I got the necessary calories and sustained.

My modern understanding of disability is that disabilities are within context. I am not disabled at home. I can cook, eat, pee, poo, sleep, and work with great comfort and joy. I am 100% disabled when looking at a round doorknob on a big heavy door. I’ll try like hell but often end up standing like a lost pup or pounding loud enough to get help from inside.

I am at no risk of needing an epi pen and benedryl when I cook my own food which is full flavored, unctuous, healthy, varied, and good. I am often scared when sitting at a stranger’s table. An IgE moderated allergy to soy means epi pens and antihistamines. Your food, your lie, your failure to attend to ingredient lists could kill me or at least completely ruin my night and the following day. Am I disabled because I need accommodation? Ok, so these allergies are a disability.

But my disability exists at that moment. On my own, I am able to do what is necessary. Of course, I think a bidet is necessary in a public handicapped toilet. I used a pubic handicapped toilet this week where the paper dispenser was too low that is required more hand mobility than I could muster. The paper was tight against the roll. I gave up and used the wet wipes in my pockets.

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