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Blog > Thoughts > Other's Thoughts > Sylvie's Thoughts > The Wounded Bird Syndrome

The Wounded Bird Syndrome

Written by Sylvie on Tuesday, March 23, 2010

I spent yesterday at an art museum. This was my first big trip wheeling, wearing my AFOs.

General Whinging About Accessibility

It didn’t take long to find out, despite my due diligence, that the museum was not accessible.

For one, the blue badge parking lot was on an incline. I knew even as I was rolling down it, I was going to need help getting back up. The ramp to the top of the museum’s outside steps was, again, too steep and the handrails were too far apart to pull myself up. Inside the museum, the map showed that there was one, count ‘em, one elevator in the entire museum. The one toilet that was supposed to be accessible was faux-accessible. I couldn’t fit the chair into it. And there was a ramp to the museum’s restaurant that had to be about an 18% grade.

This is where the Wounded Bird Syndrome came into play most forcefully. I had been approached by women, usually older and somewhat frail-looking, asking me if I needed any help. One thing I did learn on this trip was that, yes, sometimes I do need help. And when I do, I will ask for it. This was a hard lesson to swallow, but I did.

I could just be sitting to one side, resting up or reading or examining the museum map and women would ask me if I needed help.

I was suprised to learn that eventually, it grated on my nerves.

When I was leaving, I went to the information desk and said to one of the women there, "I’m going to need assistance getting back to my car. Could you please ask one of the museum staff or parking lot attendants to help me?"

For the first time, I got the "She’s not right in the head" look. I think I frightened her, because she quickly passed me over to someone else and out of nowhere, a museum staff member showed up. She asked me what she could do to help. I explained the situation and she said, "I could do it."

I looked at her. At most, she weighed 115 lbs. "That’s kind of you, but I’m heavy," I said. "And I’ll just get heavier going up that incline."

She fetched back one of the guys running the parking lot.

This guy was great. He powered through bunches of kids milling around on their school field trips. He got me up the incline, to my car, and then offered to the put the chair into the trunk for me. I was at the point where I would let him do anything for me that he could. My shoulders ached and during the day, I had the unwelcome realization that I have arthritis in my fingers.

Getting to the Point, At Last

I noticed that men approached me in different ways then the women did. With the guys, it was a task to be done, something to tick on the day’s list of things to do.

The women expected something from it. They seemed to expect that they would be handed a little gold star or a tiny pearl because they had so generously wanted to help me (except the weird chick behind the information desk).

I wondered why this was and came up with the Wounded Bird Syndrome.

When a woman, especially a woman of a certain age, sees a bird that she thinks is hurt, she wants to rescue it. She wants to save its life. Even though she may be risking its life to take it home and give it a little nest in a shoebox, she will be determined to do something with that bird.

The way I see it, the way I remember it, is that most men will see the bird and leave it alone. Not because they’re uncaring, but because they’ve just got a different way of looking at it. If it’s a chick fallen from the nest, it’ll be taken care of. If a bird is stunned, it’ll get right after a time and fly away. If he’s of the type who knows how to splint a broken wing, he will.

There’s not any emotional investment from the men when they help me. They just do what needs to be done, we say, "Have a good day", and poof! We’re done.

If a woman tries to help me (and usually fails), she will own me for the next 12 – 24 hours. She has a story to tell about the poor woman at the museum and how grateful the woman was to be helped. She will speculate about the poor woman and shake her head in pity.

I doubt that the guy who got me to my car yesterday even remembers it. But I do. He was cute.

I am not a wounded bird. I am an old bat. And bats, you know, bite.

Tags: Accessible, Help, Wheelchair

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