Navigating life with two broken feet.

In February of this year I managed to break bones in both my feet. On holiday in the US, in North Carolina to be exact, visiting family. I was walking in a car park, wearing delightfully gorgeous and high wedge heels and trod on a small, but impactful, rock.

With all the grace of a sack of potatoes I went down. Feet were akimbo, moving in very unnatural directions, and after being lifted to my feet by the person I was walking (falling) next to, a huge searing pain went through both feet like a hot iron.

I was rushed to my host's house, feet wrapped in cling film and frozen vegetables, with a glass of Chardonnay and a couple of ibuprofen (don't try this at home) dulling the pain somewhat. They managed to dig out an antique walking stick, courtesy of a house clearance, which I gratefully used while I shuffled about.

I didn't think I'd broken them, I thought I'd badly sprained them, I gamefully (and somewhat enterprisingly) ordered an air cast boot for my right foot from Craigslist, and bandaged up my left foot and bought a pair of trainers. I flew back to Boston, MA a couple of days later, but waking up the next morning (the day I was supposed to fly back to the UK), I realised something was seriously wrong with my feet.

I was dutifully informed, later that day at a Boston hospital, that two bones in my left foot were broken, and one in my right. The one in my right possibly needing surgery, which meant I could put no weight on it. They were amazed I'd been getting about at all. Now, I don't know if you've ever broken both feet, had to wear air cast boots on said feet, used crutches and been told not to put weight on one foot, but it's a logistical (and painful) nightmare.

And so began my journey as a temporarily disabled person.

I have to tell you that during these last 12 weeks, I've been surprised, annoyed, saddened and frustrated by various people and places that I've experienced in an entirely new way, and I have developed an incredible respect for anyone who has to deal with disability.

London taxi drivers fall into one of two categories

Absolute 50/50 chance on which type you get, they either can't do enough, or could not care less. It's that binary. I've had a taxi driver pick up someone in the queue behind me, rather than pick me up, at Marylebone Station. I've dealt with tuts and eye rolling as I enter and exit the cab. (Shame on you if you're reading this).

I've also had lovely drivers who have helped me in and out, carried my bag for me, and drive me as close as they can to the station entrance. (Thank you to you, if you're reading this, I can't tell you what a difference it made to my day).

I do understand that they may be concerned that I'm only going to request a short fare, but I always tip big on short journeys - but guess who gets the bigger tip?

Steps - steps everywhere

This one sounds obvious, but my goodness, when the appearance of stairs is a "no entry" sign to you, you suddenly realise they are everywhere. For the first couple of weeks, to get anywhere of any distance (i.e. more than six feet) I needed a wheelchair. Even when I didn't, stairs presented a challenge both in terms of accessibility and in terms of time. Even sometimes where there was a ramp, there would be some stairs shortly afterwards.

I couldn't use the underground for several weeks, a huge barrier which I was not expecting. Most stations don't have lifts, and felt an escalator would be a step too far (no pun intended). Contrast this to when I first had my accident in the US, where the US Disabilities Act has businesses quaking in their boots, so it's much easier to get around.

Faith in humanity (largely) restored

But, I also had some heartwarming experiences, friends and family who quite literally "stepped up" to help me. When you run your own business, life doesn't stop and I did not have the luxury of taking time off. Chiltern Railways staff were (with one minor exception) beautifully accommodating and helpful at Marylebone and High Wycombe (except for a last minute platform change when I watched all the able bodied people use the lift and I had to wait), the passengers were also very gracious, despite the ones that amusingly tried to desperately avoid eye contact when I boarded a busy train.

But it did highlight to me that as a country, we are woefully behind others when it comes to making life accessible for everyone. I've been wondering what the reasons could be for this, and if marketing has a role to play in improving it? From what I experienced, people were thoughtful, kind and eager to help so why, collectively, is more not done in public places?

Perhaps it's a communications issue? People often didn't know how to help, staff clearly weren't prepared for someone with access issues at various venues and travel locations (especially when I was abandoned at the gate at Heathrow in a wheelchair, but that's another story), and often didn't know where access points were.

I suspect also, it's a "relevancy" issue, I'd certainly not thought about it much at all before my accident, which is why I wanted to share my story. Perhaps the rest of us can be more sympathetic yes, but also be more practically aligned to what needs to be done. In our own offices, venues and transport hubs, it's the small gestures from someone that pays attention that makes a huge difference - or certainly did for me.

I can't pretend I know what it's like to deal with it long term, the boots are now off, and I'm training my feet and ankle muscles with the help of walking stick, but am generally far more mobile, and can at least drive.

So, if you've read this far, next time you are in your public place of work, pay attention to how life could be made easier for people with access challenges, and perhaps less demeaning. Please don't just view it as a box-checking, compliance exercise, but as a people exercise, perhaps trying the experience for yourself. Although, maybe don't go the extreme that I did!