My biggest roadblock after sustaining a spinal cord injury was lack of accessibility
Assistive devices cost so much that you need to move up a whole financial stratum if you want to live the same lifestyle as before
I had no idea what it’s like to live with accessibility until I went for my first international swim event in the UK in 2023
When I got my spinal cord injury, I was 14 years old. One of the most active students in my school, I used to cycle to school every day, and later go for my basketball and singing lessons. Before going to school, I used to go jogging too, dragging my half-sleepy mother with me because I was a kid, I couldn’t just go alone!
Both her and my father knew just how energetic I was, getting bored of things quicker than the latest blockbusters changed at the movie theatres, and so I had to convince them for months before finally getting enrolled in various classes for anything that had become my recent obsession. It helped that they never got me enrolled in tuitions, or this would have been impossible.
Unlike the million hobbies and interests that kept changing every few days, there were a few constants. Trekking, for instance. That’s what I was doing when I got my spinal cord injury; on a Sunday morning in 2016, on the eve of Independence Day. Nothing could have prepared me for getting hit in the stomach when that one rock above us hit a man in our group and he slipped and fell. That’s right, the “target” wasn’t even me. However, I must say that sitting under a waterfall is one of the most beautiful places to get a disability, especially one that’s going to lead to you representing the country as a para swimmer someday.
It was sheer luck that we found all the right medical support within the time frame that we needed it. I hadn’t realised until two months later that the instant loss of sensation and movement in my entire lower body—not just legs, but bladder, bowel, and everything else that exists there—was not momentary. It was likely that I would never walk again unless I got one of those Iron Man exoskeletons for myself. There were rods and screws fitted in my spine to stabilise it, but you couldn’t touch the spinal cord inside or you’d reduce the chances of regaining function from minimal to zero.
After more than six months of rehab, I went back to school in person for the first time. Still using a back brace, still a catheter inside me, I was welcomed by all my friends, teachers and other staff at school with open arms and a loving heart. It was beautiful for a few weeks … then I realised that the attention I was getting had changed. More so from strangers than those close to me.
I was being called brave for simply showing up, doing the eight-hour-long rehab sessions I had to do every day, still well-known and loved, but no longer for the things I had achieved. Now, everything surrounded the fact that I had a disability and I was trying to continue existing “despite having a disability.” You don’t want to know how demeaning that is, it would rip your heart out and make you want to slam heads into walls all the time. Really, I thought, is the standard so low? Yes, it is, even today. And so, of course, to get the right kind of attention, I decided to take things in my hands and just … achieve.
My world didn’t change because of my disability. I continued making decisions based on what I wanted in life. My biggest roadblock? Lack of accessibility. Sometimes, places wouldn’t have ramps, and if they did, they were obstructed by vehicles or walls or were badly constructed. Sometimes there were ramps, but they wouldn’t take me to the higher floors where I actually needed to be.
People often wanted to help but all they could think of was “we’ll lift you”, “we’ll bring it downstairs for you”, and “you don’t really need to come”, while I was wondering why these buildings ever got approved when they haven’t even fulfilled the basic legal need of being accessible. There are guidelines I had understood being a 15-year-old with zero training in architecture or engineering. How hard could it be? Turns out, people simply don’t know it is required, or don’t know a thing about accessible infrastructure.
If this wasn’t enough, even assistive devices cost so much that you need to move up a whole financial stratum if you want to live the same lifestyle as before. Wheelchairs, callipers, air cushions to prevent pressure sores, walkers, crutches—these are just the basics I needed in the first year of my injury. I haven’t even mentioned the ones people with other disabilities need. They are all personalised to your disability, your body, your functional capacity, and because they are personalised, they are expensive. I have to say, it has also made sure I can finally go to those fancy places that you had wished in your childhood to visit someday—those seem to be the only accessible places. Sometimes commercialism does accidentally do some good for the general public too.
When I started swimming again post-injury, I did so for rehab and good health. Eventually, my coaches there suggested that I compete. So, I signed up for my first Khel Mahakumbh and my first Nationals with zero competitive training. I couldn’t even finish my first 100m freestyle event because I had only practised in a 20m pool! Why? Because at the time, it took me months to find an Olympic-sized pool I could actually access and a coach that was willing to train someone with a disability. Even so, I didn’t have an accessible bathroom there until earlier this year; that’s four years of me already going there regularly. Well, a win is still a win, isn’t it?
Funnily enough, I had no idea what it’s like to live with accessibility until I went for my first international swim event in the UK in 2023. Roads, buses, trains, tourist spots, places of worship, hotel rooms, sport centres, even the smallest restaurants were completely wheelchair accessible. And then, a week later, I came back home to … this. Ever since, every time I have been invited to deliver a speech or get felicitated, I have always asked for ramps as a non-negotiable. Because, you see, this isn’t just about me. This is about the millions of others like me who give up on going out simply because the human-made world doesn’t exactly welcome us even if people mean to. We have to be treated differently because someone else doesn’t have what is basic to us, what is legally required, what is just basic humanity in action.
Of course, I am grateful for all the support and resources I got, of course I am aware I’m one of the privileged few persons with disabilities who get a stage large enough to spread the word. If you’re still reading, I hope whatever you take away from this story—a window into my story—you implement into your life and make it easier for someone else. You see, it’s a simple matter of curiosity and willingness. You ask, you learn, you try your best to make it easier for someone who shouldn’t have been having it so hard in the first place. After all, we are responsible for creating the world we wish to leave behind, aren’t we?
Garima Vyas is national record holder, gold medallist, para swimmer and consulting psychologist. She is passionate about living life to the fullest, because why not?
