On Dignity and Butts

 

I’m disabled. That means, among many things, that an inordinate amount of people have seen my butt. Really, an absurdly large collection of people have seen me in one state of undress or another. Put together, I’m guessing the number roughly reaches the population of Portugal. Growing up, medical care was a rather consistent necessity. I saw doctor after doctor. I was an attraction and a point of interest, in large part because my disability is so rare. Doctors would make a special point of popping in, showing their students an example of the all too rare Ostiogenesis Imperfecta. (So rarely seen in the wild) I’m not complaining mind you. Access to the care of the University of Iowa saved my life, and made college and a career possible. Still, I can’t help but be slightly perturbed by the sheer number of medical students who have seen me in nothing but a hospital gown.

If my childhood memory is to be trusted, I never seemed to get the middle aged, unattractive med students. No, none of my doctors were complete without a pretty med student or two on their arm, eager to run though my exam. I was sure every twist, every droop, my every misshapen curve was being spoken of in detail just outside the door, giggles over cocktails and dinner. My modesty was never considered particularly important. I understand in retrospect of course. These are doctors, here to help me in any way they can. They’ve seen naked bodies for years, some alive, some decidedly not. Nakedness isn’t really something to be concerned about from their prospective. Yet, I’m human. I’m concerned with strangers seeing my bits and bobs just as much as anyone else. And still, my bits and bobs seemed to slowly become a permanent institution of the University of Iowa medical community. One could probably identify a graduate of the med school between the years of 1989-1999 by whether or not they can pick my butt out of a lineup. Perhaps I should be flattered, or thankful, or frustrated. I don’t really know.

What I do know is that people with disabilities struggle with these kinds of things every day. We sometimes depend on near strangers to wipe our butt, help us eat, get dressed or undressed. Some of us need help having relations with someone we love. Independence and dignity out of necessity take on new meanings. Independence becomes less of an individual goal as something worked for by an entire family, an entire community. We work so hard within this context to find our own internal, unassailable dignity. It isn’t easy. Disability is often boiled down to finding dignity within the seemingly unending indignities of life.

Disability Rights Iowa exists in part to help people with disabilities protect that dignity. Our attorneys work with clients to make sure they understand their rights under the law; protecting the essential freedoms we all are owed. Our social workers and advocates refuse to allow mistreatment within the disabled community; they actively confront those who try to strip the dignity from those under their charge merely out of convenience or ignorance. It has been and will continue to be a privilege working here, in part because we have such a dedicated staff willing to stand up for their clients with disabilities. Organizations like the ADA Great Plains, besides having inpecible taste in the interns they hire, educate the disabled and able-bodied alike, actively countering social prejudices. ADA Great Plains have given their unseasing support to the disabled community. The staff of both organizations recognize the inherent worth and dignity within everyone, and will pick a fight with anyone who would try and deny someone that sense of self-worth.  I am worthy, and occasionally strangers see my butt. C'est la vie. My dignity is no more determined by my state of dress then the state of my spine and that is a message I hope to express time and again. The trick now I suppose is remembering that next time I slip on a hospital gown.