Priority Seats Are For All With Disabilities, Not Just The Elderly

Give me your seat. Or don’t. Just stop judging me for sitting in one.  

“Priority seats are intended for use by elderly customers, those with disabilities, expectant parents and customers travelling with assistance dogs or mobility aids…Please remember that not all disabilities are visible.” Lothian Buses.  

Once a month, normally a Wednesday, normally around midday. I make my pilgrimage to the Western General Hospital. If it is not by my preferrable mode of transport (an uber-I spend too much already), it is by bus.  

I walk on to the bus and tap my bus pass (except for the past two months. I lost it… On a bus). Then I look for a seat. Oh, the joys. My first port of call is the back of the bus. Hopefully not next to someone, but if needs must, next to a woman. If all these options are exhausted, I will sit in a priority seat.  

“Eva, you are not an old lady.” You would be correct. Now you’re wondering “Eva…are you pregnant??” You would be incorrect.  

So, why on earth am I stealing a seat from someone who needs it, when I, am so clearly underserving of it?  

If you aren’t thinking that, then you have better critical thinking skills than 99% of passengers I have encountered on my journey.  

Since I moved to Edinburgh almost three years ago, I have experienced life in many ways that differ from being at “home”. I’m at university, I have met wonderful friends, I have a job and I live independently. These are all achievements, really, for anyone growing up and finding their place in the world. To me, every single one of these achievements have been exciting, new. However, I dare say that it’s been additionally difficult for me in comparison to my peers.  

I was diagnosed with Juvenile Idiopathic Arthritis at two (and a half) years old. It has been my entire life and I know no different. The only difference I have felt started at about 14 years old.  

Since finding my feet in life as a young adult, my biggest struggle to date has been questioning, how does a child’s illness translate when you aren’t a child anymore?  

I first discussed this with the psychologist I had in sixth year.  

I had grown very (very) attached to my medical team and felt completely and utterly unable to separate from them. To venture to the...adult ward. An imagined void where near-corpses lie there, wheezing, one piece of dust away from the grave. Sorry…  

After battles, tears, and intense silent treatment; I was allowed to stay in the children’s ward longer. The first attempt to get me to leave was at 14. I fought tooth and nail for just a little longer. By a little, I mean they got rid of me at 18 when I finally left for uni.  

It had become quite comedic – my staying in the ward. Tiny plastic chairs, big me. Tiny baby cannulas, fully grown me. Child’s blood pressure machine, adult band for me. Which actually, side track, I found quite offence at the time. Why was I not offered small adult? It felt rude. Anyway, the final straw was when I drove myself to my infusion. 

Since this point, I have braved and conquered the Western General. Not only was it the adult ward, but it was also the adult ward of a major city hospital. Go me! (Nothing like Ceebeebies. Me too, by the way.)  

Do I feel cared for in the same way? No, not exactly. It wasn’t until mid-way through second year that I finally felt comfortable and embraced the change (and stopped crying.) Okay, so I don’t get a whole day of skiving school. No bed. No company. The chair does have a footrest that pops up, though (unless it’s the third one from the end of the right-hand side.) All the important parts are still there. One morning or afternoon a month, that gives me a quality of life I will never take for granted.  

Despite this fairly new and positive confidence about my independence, this months infusion brought me face to face with my biggest fear of my young adult life. Old people. Specifically, old people when I’m sitting down.  

In recent years, I have had to face the misconception that only older people get arthritis head on. Arthritis charities try their best to tell people. “Kids get arthritis too.” Which is true, and very important. However, those kids grow up. The arthritis stays. Here I am, left in a limbo of identity and confusion.  

I was sat outside the infusion suite, waiting for, you guessed it. My infusion. Huzzah! What a long month it had been. I was ready for my infusion. I needed it. I did not feel my most fabulous, and as anyone else in my predicament of health would do, I sat myself down.  

There are three seats outside of the infusion suite. One was occupied by, I would say, a woman in her mid-sixties. She was not a very happy lady. That’s okay, I understand. It’s hard to smile when you’re in pain. I’ve been there. I thought that we all had.  

After I had occupied my seat, there was one left. An old man appears with, I assume, his wife. His wife is in a wheelchair, so he sits in the seat, and she sits next to him.  

Perfect. Everyone is comfy. However, the ward is understaffed. And so, the wait time is pretty long. Another man appears. Another old man. I take out my headphones and gauge whether he wants to sit down. He spends several minutes rummaging around in his bag, and to me, seems pretty content. By this point, the moment to offer him my seat is over. The air is awkward and the side glances from my fellow waiting room acquaintances are even more so.  

Oh my god. Another old woman. You have got to be kidding me. The old man with the wife offers his seat to the woman at an incredible speed. She refuses; however, the following interaction confirms to me that everything I was dreading inside, was true.  

“No, I’m okay, thank you. Thank you for offering though, thank you for that. Thank you.”  

Ah, okay. Message very much received. How kind of the old man to offer his seat. How cruel and rude of the young woman not to. How nasty of me.  

I can handle this on the bus. It’s embarrassing, hurtful. It makes me want to curl up and die, but I can take it. This is different, though. On the bus, how are they supposed to know? Maybe I am a rude and unkind student who selfishly doesn’t care about who the seat is intended for. This time, in the hospital, I thought I would be safe from that judgement. Clearly, I have misjudged.  

We are all there for the same reason: to feel better, receive necessary treatment that gives us a quality of life and freedom we may not have otherwise. That’s the case for me. I won’t make it into work without my medication. I won’t be able to keep up with university. I can’t see my friends. I can’t get out of bed. I can’t do anything. I would bet that those surrounding me would have a similar experience.  

I’m able to understand their pain and struggles. I empathise. I care. Yet, they are somehow unable to reciprocate? They make me feel wrong for accommodating for the needs we all share. They never ask themselves, or even me, why a 20-year-old girl is in the same place as them.  

I know how you feel inside. It feels like me. Why can’t you imagine that? The exterior might be different, but it’s all the same. Give me a few wrinkles, and this would be an entirely different matter.  

I spent the rest of my infusion asleep, curled up on the big chair. I woke up with a very crooked neck and I left. I got on the bus outside the Western General, short sleeves displaying the cotton ball taped to the inside of my arm.  

The bus was busy. I sat in a priority seat.