WHEN THE pandemic first struck in 2020, I was among the very small population of people that was not entirely affected.
Not long after my college graduation, I got caught in a vehicular collision. It is believed that the neck trauma I experienced was the cause of my subsequent fibromyalgia—a disorder of musculoskeletal pain that also affects my memory, overall energy, and sleeping patterns. The effects of muscular rheumatism have effectively placed me in a wheelchair for the rest of my life.
Fibromyalgia made me immobile since I was 18; simply put, I have always been “locked down.” Come the nationwide quarantine, I already worked from home, ordered everything I needed through online shopping, and kept up with friends primarily by chatting or video calling. All the things that everyone was only starting to get used to was just another weekend for me.
Two years later and things are getting significantly better. We’ve witnessed a dip in the number of confirmed cases, leading to more relaxed restrictions. People are going back out and meeting up with each other again. Most notably, political candidates are making glowing promises of how they hope to maintain these improvements.
And yet in all the debates I’ve watched and platforms I’ve studied, rarely is there a bullet point dedicated to people like me. For the rest of us who are unable to keep pace with a world that is opening up again, will we be subjected to an eternal quarantine? If there are plans to safeguard the welfare and rights of able-bodied individuals post-pandemic, why are there none being made for us?
One might argue that there are already existing reforms that benefit us. To that I say: It is not enough. During support group sessions with other individuals who have mobility impairments, we often discuss the things we hope to see come to fruition. More allocated areas for persons with disabilities. On-time livelihood aids. Equitable employment opportunities. Actual implementation of the policies in place.
Whenever we talk about these measures, we speak hesitantly. We tend to hedge and lower our expectations. Sometimes, we even make excuses for the administration, reducing our very identities to a waste of space. How unfortunate it is, that what might seem like basic rights to others are viewed as wishful thinking by us.
Nevertheless, my community remains hopeful. Maybe if we make enough noise then we will find ourselves a seat at the table. Nay, maybe we can help build a new table altogether. Because the table being set now has no room for wheelchairs; it is too high for some of us, too narrow for how many of us there really are.
At that new table we can reach and fit in, we might find it easier to establish non-negotiables, such as laws that could provide us human dignity and the initiatives that give us the same opportunities as everyone else. Then maybe we, too, could leave out homes without fearing for our safety. We could meet up with our friends and one another, and visit actual grocery stores, and even have an office of our own.
It would be nice to no longer be in quarantine much like the rest of the world around us. And so we hold on to our hope, and we continue to speak with one another and to anyone else who will listen. We lie in wait, anticipating the government that is soon to come, because who is in power decides how much longer we will be in the fringes—locked away from a society that is quick to forget those who are vulnerable.
Arvin Roca is a BS Management alumnus of Ateneo de Manila University. He is currently a freelance writer who holds support groups for individuals with mobility impairments.
