by Sila Miller
For many years I’ve battled a bum right shoulder, but put off surgery for various reasons. Having a few extra days for yard and gutter cleaning chores during last Christmas season proved too much, and I injured the poor thing to the point of “calling for the calf rope,” as my Daddy used to say. Relenting, I scheduled necessary appointments, procedures, including a cortisone injection, and in late July, underwent surgery.
My husband, Robert, is also blind and travels with a guide dog. Of course, without use of my right arm, I needed lots of help and post-surgery care. Tag Robert! As any concerned family member would, Robert and his guide dog, Mission, accompanied me to Tallahassee Outpatient Surgery Center (TOSC), as did Mission’s puppy raiser, Mary, who has become a dear friend and offered to drive us.
The morning of surgery was made a bit chaotic with a call from TOSC asking if we could come early. Upon arrival and following intake paperwork, we were called back to the pre-surgical area. As Robert, Mission and I made our way toward the door, Robert was loudly informed, “You can come back, but not your puppy dog.” Despite informing her of Mission’s working status and the law, the denial stood firm. Trying to keep his cool, Robert returned to the waiting area while Mary and I proceeded to the off-limits pre-surgery area.
Vickie, the nurse who’d issued the denial, continued to mutter about Robert’s dissatisfaction and think out loud about how she could try to appease him. She went back out to speak with him again, offering that Mary could sit with Mission and he could come back, to which he said no. She then proceeded to misrepresent threats he’d supposedly made about legal action. This upset everyone and in no way helped promote a calm pre-surgery experience for me. Sadly, my mother passed away after surgical complications in July 2000, so I’m still fairly uptight about surgery of any nature.
As surgery prep proceeded, I could tell staff were distracted. Conversations would stop mid-stream, they would walk away unexpectedly, questions went unanswered and disturbingly, blankets were removed from my legs instead of shoulder. At one point, an unidentified man whom I later learned was the anesthesiologist came to me to inform me the police had been summoned, ask if I was in fear of my husband, concerned about him being my caretaker and if I still wished to follow through with the procedure. Giving it serious consideration — who wants distracted or mad staff operating on or caring for them? — I also weighed all the pre-arranged assistance, travel, after-surgery support, time off work and decided that yes, I did need and want surgery. When I replied affirmatively, his resigned “OK then,” made me second-guess again. Totally stressed by now, tummy ache, urgent need to use the bathroom, heart pounding, rapid breathing, I repeatedly requested meds to manage my mounting anxiety. As these were finally being administered, the nurse missed the IV, spilling them on the bed. Blessedly, it was lights out soon thereafter.
Meanwhile, Robert contacted the Tallahassee Police Department to file a report and request enforcement of access legislation. Officer Sexton was sent but refused to take a report, standing behind the denial and citing reasons as the presence of a keypad and “Authorized Personnel Only” signage, and staff’s assertion that the pre-surgery area was an “Aseptic-sterile area.” To clarify, no one was required to COVID test, mask, scrub, or change out of street clothes/shoes, except for me, of course, and the nerve block and pre-surgery meds were administered in a different area after family were sent back out to the waiting area — not a sterile area. Things went from bad to worse when Robert and the officer spoke outside and Robert took the opportunity to smoke a cigarette. When the officer went inside to speak with staff, the security guard approached Robert, rudely informing him that TOSC is a non-smoking property and asking whether he’d seem the no smoking sign. Unable to get a straight answer about Mission being allowed into the post-surgical area, where Robert would be given instructions about my at-home care, he decided to take Mission back home.
Following surgery and a couple weeks to heal and get my feet back under me, with the denial and associated conflict weighing heavy on my mind, I wrote explanatory emails and letters. I placed a follow-up call to the TOSC facility manager after sending the letter and finally received a Friday afternoon, after-hours call promising further investigation, a written response and copy of their access procedures. Robert filed Department of Justice complaints about this and no less than five Uber denials since November 2023, and we waited. All the cases were declined by DOJ; TOSC stood firm on the appropriateness of their denial, restating the original reasons.
From what I can gather, access to pre-surgical facilities for guide dog handlers is a “gray area” within the ADA jungle, litigated individually or not at all, ripe for making lawyers rich, clogging up the court system and causing much confusion, stress and strife amongst those directly involved. Rideshare drivers are in high demand, thus Uber and Lyft are reluctant to discipline or fire them. Additionally, there is nowhere in a rider’s profile to identify them as having a guide dog.
Morris Frank, one of the first guide dog users who did so much advocacy work to gain access and respect for these professional fur angels, would be so disappointed and incensed. It seems we’ve gone backwards, and I’m ashamed of that. There are many reasons — another story in itself, but now disabled people and their legitimate work partners are suffering.
To backtrack just a bit, after riding the fence forever about applying for a guide dog because of having some usable vision, I’d finally submitted my application last fall and been accepted at Dogs Inc., formerly Southeastern Guide Dogs. However, following this and several other unlawful denials for Robert and Mission, I reconsidered continuing the process of obtaining a guide dog. Advocating for just one seems to be a full-time job with no positive results to show. How exhausting would advocating for two be? Plus, neither of us is getting any younger, and the chances of further involvement with health care of one sort or another is likely inevitable. So, after much soul searching, I decided to withdraw my request and accept defeat. Perhaps the wrong decision, considering my failing vision and real need, and perhaps they’ve won. However, as a wise lifelong advocate and friend said, “You must count the cost.”
Why can’t Mission work for both of us, you might ask. Well, let’s start with the matching process. Much goes into it: walking speed, length of stride, voice inflection, how much or little the handler needs to work — the list is long, just the tip of the iceberg. Also, like humans, dogs are different. Some can handle working for two without issue, while others aren’t up for the task. Also, most schools will not train for two handlers.
Perhaps one day I’ll be ready to reapply for a work partner, but for now, the cost is simply too high, advocacy isn’t working, and I’m just not up for the stress. From reading many other blind people’s blogs on similar access issues, I’m not alone.