A Rollator and Wheelchair User’s Experience Navigating Inaccessible Medical Offices
Often, when I venture out into the ‘real world’ on days I need my upright rollator, I’m reminded just how inaccessible that world can be for rollator and wheelchair users. The places you would expect to be the most accessible, like doctor’s offices, are, in reality, often the least accessible. This is especially true for the smaller medical practices in older buildings and at specialists’ offices.
Almost every doctor’s office I’ve visited using my rollator has been surprisingly difficult to navigate. First, many of the specialists I deal with have only one or two handicapped parking places in very overcrowded parking lots, and they always seem to be taken.
I can understand that, and I park wherever I can, but often, the only way to get to the ramp that leads to the entrance if I’m not parked in the handicapped accessible parking spot means I have to walk in traffic to get to it, and that isn’t always safe. So often, the sidewalks at medical practices lack curb cuts until you get to the actual handicapped ramp. People who walk without assistance can utilize the sidewalks, but without appropriate curb cuts, wheelchair users and rollator users are forced to wheel behind parked cars that may back up at any minute, or risk rolling through the driving lane.
I live in an area where the number of people with handicapped placards is much higher than the actual number of handicapped parking places available. Our area has a large elderly population and honestly handicapped placards are held by a large percentage of our residents.
I don’t judge people, if they have a placard, then their doctor certified that they met the requirements and that they need it; I’m not going to argue with that. I realize many people have invisible disabilities, and I’m glad people get what they need.
But I can’t imagine how hard it is for wheelchair users with so few accessible spaces available. Most need to extend a ramp to get in and out of their vehicle, and you can’t do that in a regular parking space; they aren’t wide enough. So, if the accessible spaces are filled, they simply can’t get out of their van.
There are also people like me, who don’t necessarily need an oversized parking place, but I can only walk short distances. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to call inside a medical office to tell them that I’m outside in the parking lot, but because I can’t find a parking space close enough that I can actually walk in, that I’m going to be late. It’s great that they have an overflow lot across the street, but I can’t walk that far, even with my rollator.
Once I get there, and find a parking space that is close enough that I can get in, I’m faced with the fact that there are rarely automatic or accessible doors at doctors’ offices. The doors at doctors’ offices are typically security doors, and they are incredibly heavy, and nearly impossible to open while using an upright rollator. If you have weak arms or hands, or are a person seated in a wheelchair, they are next to impossible to open.
You have to remember, not every person in a wheelchair is being pushed by a caregiver. Many wheelchair users are on their own, and have lightweight chairs they can push themselves, or powerchairs. The doors to most doctor’s offices are not made to be opened from a seated position, or when both hands are occupied by a rollator or crutches.
Once you get inside the doctor’s office, the check-in desk is usually too high for a wheelchair user which makes checking-in a bit awkward. As a rollator user, I don’t have that issue, but it does make me stand further back from the desk, and if they hand me a clipboard and pen, I can’t carry it and hold on to my rollator. Rollators, like crutches, take both hands. Holding it under my arm makes it awkward, too.
I’ve noticed there is almost never open space for a person in a wheelchair to “sit.” Instead, there are rows upon rows of chairs but with no designated open areas for wheelchairs to remain while waiting, which means they end up parked in the walkway, and that’s really awkward. It must be frustrating to be in the way and there is nothing you can do about it.
As a rollator user, I can tell you, there is rarely a place where I can sit and keep my upright rollator within reach. Usually, there are tables, or other rows of chairs in the way. Often, I have to ask other people to move so I can find a place I’ll fit.
People are very nice about it, and often move without me saying a word, but sometimes, they are absorbed in their own issues, or busy on their cell phone, and they don’t notice. It can be uncomfortable to have to ask people to rearrange themselves for me. It’s hard to ask strangers ‘for a favor’ because the waiting room isn’t set up for the assistive devices many people use.
My upright rollator is customized, and many people are curious about it. I tend to field questions from other people in the waiting room about where I got it, would it work for their aunt or mother-in-law, and that it looks so much better than a regular rollator. I don’t mind answering their questions, but sometimes when you are at the doctor’s office, you aren’t at your best, and you’d really rather just be left alone.
Once you are called into a clinical room, you often have to follow a medical assistant down a long, narrow hallway. They tend to walk very quickly, which is something people using rollators or crutches aren’t really able to do. I can’t tell you how many times the medical assistant disappears around a corner, and I stand there lost until they come back looking for me.
If there is an exam table, it often lacks grab bars or any way to use it safely. The token two-step platform attached to most exam tables offers little help for people with balance issues or who cannot safely climb steps. Adjustable exam tables that lower for patient access and then raise for the physician do exist, but very few medical practices actually have them.
Fortunately, most exam rooms have chairs in them. The only problem is that my upright rollator is quite large, and often, it takes up the only vacant space in the exam room, leaving no room for the doctor or nurse to work. I’m often told by the nurse that they need to move it outside of the exam room but can’t leave it in the narrow hallway because that would be a fire hazard. When they say this, I always wonder what I’d do without my assistive device if there were a fire and I couldn’t get out by myself, and I was left by myself in an exam room with the door closed.
They say they will bring it back when the exam is over. I cannot tell you how many times, even after I remind the doctor that I need it, the doctor leaves quickly and no one returns with my rollator. It is not safe for me to try to go searching for it on my own.
So I am left there, waiting until someone eventually comes, usually when a medical assistant arrives with the next patient. Then there is a sudden rush to locate my rollator and return it to me so the room can be turned over. Often this happens 20 minutes or more after the doctor, who always promises to let someone know, has already left.
More than once, I have resorted to calling out just to get someone’s attention, so I do not have to wait indefinitely. It is embarrassing, but honestly, they are the ones who should be embarrassed.
I want to be clear, I’m not here to shame doctor’s offices or their medical staff. Many staff haven’t been trained to realize that separating a disabled person from their assistive device is simply not an acceptable practice.
Some offices have a larger exam room for power wheelchair users or for patients who are much larger than a typical patient, but these rooms aren’t always available because of the variety of disabled patients who need to use it.
I understand that medical offices must serve patients with many different types of disabilities, and I do not expect them to anticipate every possible need. But some accommodations should not be considered unusual or optional. Patients who use rollators or wheelchairs are among the most common mobility-impaired visitors to any medical practice, so spaces that can safely accommodate them should be standard.
Features such as doors that are easy to open, front desks that are not so high that a shorter person or wheelchair user cannot see the receptionist, and exam rooms large enough to maneuver with a wheelchair or rollator are not extraordinary requests. They are basic elements of accessible healthcare.
Doctors’ offices do not intentionally set out to be inaccessible. Accessibility gaps are usually not about intent; they arise from not seeing the space from the perspective of a patient who cannot even open the door. No one may be trying to exclude disabled patients, but good intentions do not erase real barriers or their impact.
Seeing a doctor is stressful enough. For someone with a disability, there is something quietly discouraging about pulling into the parking lot and immediately wondering, “Can I even get inside?”
From that moment on, every step requires calculation. Will I find a parking spot close enough to walk from? Is the ramp actually usable, or too steep or tight for my rollator to navigate? Will I be able to open the door without help?
Once you’re inside, there is the stress of wondering, will I be able to sign-in at the desk? Where will I be able to fit in the waiting room with my assistive device? Will I be able to get on their scale when they take my weight? Will I be left behind by a medical assistant rushing to the exam room, when I just can’t walk that fast? Will I even fit into the exam room with my rollator?
What assumptions are being made about me just because of how I walk? If I bring someone with me, will the doctor talk to her instead of me, as if I am unable to understand or speak for myself? (Don’t worry — I always set them straight.) Will I be treated as a capable, intelligent adult? Will I be treated with dignity?
Will my medical concerns be taken seriously, or will I hear that familiar line, “This is probably just part of your disability progressing,” without any effort to investigate the real cause? Will my physical limitations lead the doctor to assume I am not willing or able to do the hard work required to recover from a separate condition? Will certain treatments or options simply not be offered to me because I am less mobile? Will I be seen as a “poor dear” whose quality of life is not worth the effort or assumed to matter less?
All of these questions would make anyone’s head’s spin. The stress of a doctor’s visit is so intensified for a disabled patient.
And if you happen to be a medically complex patient, you have the added worry that the doctor will only look at one small part of your complex medical issues, and never look at you as whole person with multiple medical needs.
Some of these barriers are physical, like the heavy doors, the too-steep ramp, or the cramped exam rooms. But there are also so many attitudinal barriers as well, such as your intelligence being discounted due to the fact you have a physical disability, decisions to move a patient’s assistive device out of reach, or failing to offer newer treatments because your life is assumed to be limited anyway.
People with disabilities already know the world was not built with us in mind. Realizing that the very places meant to help us, medical offices, often present additional barriers to care only adds to that burden. These obstacles do not merely inconvenience us. They quietly exclude us and, at times, openly diminish us. No one should feel shut out of medical care simply because their mobility looks different.
I am not sharing this because I enjoy complaining or want special treatment. I am sharing it to offer a small glimpse into what it can be like to seek medical care as a person with a mobility difference.
I don’t for one second believe that medical offices don’t want to be accessible. Many practices do not own their buildings and may have little control over the parking lot, ramps, or curb cuts. Still, accessibility laws exist for a reason. Property owners can be required to make needed improvements if a tenant insists on them. Practices also make decisions about where they lease space, and they can choose not to occupy buildings that fail to meet basic accessibility requirements. Occupying a space that doesn’t meet basic accessibility standards is ultimately a decision.
Most of the improvements needed to make doctors’ offices more accessible are not expensive. Many do not require major renovations. Small changes can make a meaningful difference.
Installing automatic door openers or adjusting door pressure, leaving intentional open spaces in waiting areas instead of filling every gap with chairs or displays, ensuring there is at least one flat, accessible unloading area near entrances, and training staff to recognize barriers and offer appropriate assistance are all practical steps that can dramatically improve access.
Accessibility is not about special treatment. It is about equal participation and equal access. Disability is the one minority group that anyone can join at any time. The shift from able-bodied to disabled can happen in an instant, through one accident, one illness, or one unexpected medical event.
Accessibility is not about convenience. It’s about dignity, safety, and the basic ability to participate in our own healthcare. When medical offices remove barriers, they are not offering special treatment. They are simply making it possible for patients to be patients. No one should have to fight their way into a doctor’s office before they can even ask for help. No one should ever have to say, “I needed help, but I couldn’t even get in the door.”
