Introduction
A couple of weeks ago I took my car up to an excellent local business to have an issue with its wipers addressed. I was offered a seat, and I declined because the two chairs were both very low. I was offered another seat, which I accepted, knowing there would be problems. That chair was higher than the others but had no arms. I needed two guys to help me up.
I am 185 cms [6+ foot]. Part of the spectrum of my disability’s impacts is a weakness in leg strength. Very low seats are a problem for me. I need help to get up from them. I am not disposed to be dependent, so I normally decline to put myself in a situation where I need help to get out of chair. Sometimes there isn’t an option.
At home I have several day chairs I bought from a disability aid supplier. The difference between my ‘clinical’ chairs and the lower seats is the opportunity to adjust the height. They are high to start with, and are entirely comfortable but don’t have that plush sense of ease.
To many, low chairs signify relaxation and ease. But that’s not true for a substantial portion of our community. Aside from people with disability there are those who are pregnant, obese, or injured for whom low seating can even be a hazard.
Even public sector agencies, who have an obligation to be inclusive, haven’t twigged that super low chairs in lobbies and waiting areas are not accessible. A range of seating options ensures inclusivity.
In most settings all seating is at the same height
You are unlikely to find an adjustable dining chair or an adjustable dining table. Ergonomic considerations have made adjustable chairs and desks a thing because of a work health safety liability. But get away from office settings and cars and we are back to the ‘one size fits all’ world.
My lounge room seating at home is low and no longer accessible to me. Several years ago, I explored an electric lounge chair that lifted up, and tilted forward, so the user could get up. That was a few thousand dollars ($2,400). Instead of buying that, I spent $600 to get an adjustable height chair from a disability supplies store. That’s a ridiculous price for a ‘day chair’, but there really aren’t alternatives.
You can’t, as far as I know, get an accessible option for a lounge suite. Fair enough. There’s not the market for such.
As a member of my local council’s Access Advisory Committee, I have raised concerns about seating in streets and parks being too low and often without arm rests that can be used as an aid when rising. There may not be a happy medium which is an ideal height, so there may be a need to have different heights to cater to varied needs. The luxury of adjustable street and park seating is not on the horizon, so we must rethink what the ‘normal’ height might be.
A related concern is the potential for informal seating in landscaped settings. Retaining walls are often used as casual seating so in parks and along paths it is possible to creating variable height seating without the cost of a formal seat. Not everyone can walk any distance without needing a break, so by incorporating seating into landscape designs a park can become inherently more accessible. Informal seating incorporated in landscape design has become something of a soapbox for me.
I was chatting with a friend recently. She told me that she had finally applied for a Mobility Parking Scheme card. She met the requirement of not being able to walk 100 metres without distress. She described a time when she needed to walk around 500 metres because accessible parking close to her destination wasn’t available (in fact there was no parking). There were no seats on the route she took, and no informal opportunities to rest either. That meant that along this route in a dense urban setting there was nothing she saw that she could sit on. An inclusive urban landscape is a sittable landscape. It was a painful and unpleasant walk for her.
Sometimes I get the feeling that my fixation on seating isn’t welcome, but I do recall the latter days of my mother-in-law who was aged and frail. She loved outings. We could go to a park, but if there was nothing like a picnic table or seat within 30 metres that was a problem. We are living longer and with impaired mobility. Access to a seat within 30 metres of a carpark can have a huge impact on quality of life. It can be the difference between a picnic and lunch in the car.
Imagining inclusion
Inclusive thinking isn’t intuitive. We think by habit mostly. Before I acquired my mobility disability the notion that how high a seat might be never entered my head. Now, whether I can get up from a chair is a vital consideration, especially if there is nobody around. A few years ago, I fell in my hallway, and I had to drag myself along the floor to my bedroom (mercifully the door was open) so I could use my bed to get up. Now I must calculate risks in many settings and seating is one major risk area.
What prompted me to buy an adjustable height chair was discovering that I could not get out of a low soft and very comfortable lounge without assistance. I couldn’t even move myself onto the floor and follow my fall recovery method. Had I been alone and with no mobile phone close I could have died in that comfy chair.
Last year my bath seat slid, and I fell into the bath. The fact it slid was down to me being slack about checking it. I had assumed it was set-and-forget. It wasn’t. Mercifully I had my phone with me, so I was able to call for help. These days we have great strategies and technologies for detecting falls. These are important because getting up afterwards is simply not possible for so many people.
We don’t imagine that sitting in a seat that is too low, or having the seat fail, is a fall, but it is in many ways because the lack of intent and control, and the consequences are the same. And our fall alarms don’t activate either.
When you are vulnerable to falls seating become a potential life saver. Walking with such a vulnerability can induce anxiety. It can be dangerous to walk. You become dependent on aids and assistance – and forward planning. There are times when the need to find a place to sit is imperative – but is it something you can rise from later?
People with disability can seriously depend upon help from others, without which their lives would be miserable. Long ago I worked for a time in a psychiatric hospital’s ‘hospital ward’. All of the residents required total care. That was a humbling experience.
But for many others the dignity of independence is precious – as it is for others with no disability. Imagine that the height of a seat can make such a difference. Imagine that we no longer assume there is a one size that fits all. We don’t imagine this is so with clothing, shoes, office furniture or car seats. Yet we think low soft seating is luxuriant to everyone. What is low means ease, and is good, what is high means work and isn’t so good. This isn’t universally true.
Conclusion
Thinking inclusively isn’t easy. In fact, its darned hard work. I have a disability, but while I am more sympathetic to others with disability it doesn’t magically confer upon me insight into their needs and challenges. In fact, I am increasingly disappointed with disability tokenism. No one person can represent disability as a whole. You need at least 3 people with distinctly different disabilities in any representative setting – and that will still not be a universal point of view.
My seating soapbox has been crafted from personal experience as well as having some sense of design requirements. I wouldn’t imagine a wheelchair user, a blind person, or anybody else for whom seating is not a safety concern to identify it as an issue.
Who knew where and how we sit could be so fraught?