Eric Arnold: Holidays Are Rough When the World Won’t Move With You (Opinion)

Originally published on November 24, 2025 in the Charleston Gazette-Mail.

One of our attorneys, Eric R. Arnold, recently wrote an opinion piece in West Virginia’s largest paper. At Hendrickson & Long, we encourage all individuals, like Eric, to speak their truth and advocate in their own lives. Need a voice to help fight for you? Our team is here — contact us today.

My ethos as a man in a wheelchair with muscular dystrophy is simple: I am only as disabled as the world around me. I’ve built my life and career carefully, blessed by the support of my parents, with years cultivating relationships so society sees my value—as a person, as a friend, as a companion, and as an employee.

But for me, and for many disabled or medically fragile people, the biggest barrier and deepest insecurity is travel.

I can’t hop on a plane for a jaunt in Vegas or Cancun. I can’t pile into a car for a spontaneous road trip. Even “sleeping over at your house” as a kid—or as an adult—isn’t some casual invite. It’s a logistics exercise: door widths, bathroom access, where I’ll sleep, and, most likely, stairs that end the conversation before it starts.

As I get older, and as modern medicine like gene therapy has blessed me with more stable health, I’ve tried to treat travel like any other curb in my way: something to plan for and, even when impossible, conquer.

Earlier this month, I had the privilege of visiting members of Congress on behalf of the Muscular Dystrophy Association. We talked about how their decisions on NIH funding, the Alleviating Barriers to Caregiving Act, and potential insurance changes affect my life—and the lives of people like me.

My parents drove me from Charleston and served as my caregivers for three days. Their health on that trip was my health. Every year, each trip gets a little harder, a little slower as age factors. That’s the natural progression of life, and we’re blessed to have had so many years together

But my calculus is changing. If I want to keep showing up—personally, professionally and in my role as an advocate—that’s going to mean flying. And when your physical safety and basic dignity depend on your equipment, travel requires planning and some arduous asks.

Earlier this fall, the team at West Virginia International Yeager Airport, led by Director and CEO Dominique Ranieri, sat down with me to talk through what accommodating a disabled traveler. We came up with a simple framework that might help others.

First, contact the airport, station, or depot you’re leaving from. Ask about entrances, drop-off spots, elevators, and boarding areas that work for your chair or other adaptive equipment. The goal is to avoid surprises at the curb.

Second, understand who is actually responsible. The airport is the hub, but it’s not the boss. As Ranieri put it to me, Yeager is essentially the parking lot that an airline leases. The airline, bus, or rail company is legally responsible for following accessibility laws and honoring disability-related requests. Your best shot at a smooth trip is early, clear communication directly with the travel operator.

Third, label yourself and your equipment—on your terms. No, I’m not advocating for a wheelchair emoji tattooed on my forehead. I’m talking about a short, written list of your physical limitations: how you transfer, how far you can (or can’t) walk, whether you can do stairs. Provide that to the employees assisting you so they are knowingly ready. Do the same for your equipment: wheelchairs, specialty walkers, ventilators, or other medical devices. Use tags—“LIFT HERE,” “DO NOT BEND,” “THIS SIDE UP”—so the folks loading your lifeline know exactly what’s at stake.

Finally, marry your process to both the hub and the carrier once you book. Confirm, in writing, with the airport and the airline what you need and what they’ve agreed to do. That paper trail protects you and your equipment, and it gives any frontline worker who didn’t participate in planning a clear, written playbook for how to help.

So why all these steps for someone like me who can’t walk them?

Because right now, even when we do everything “right,” the system around us is stepping backward.

Late this September, the U.S. Department of Transportation quietly announced it would delay enforcing a long-overdue “Wheelchair Rule” that strengthened protections for travelers who use wheelchairs until at least December 31, 2026. Those are the parts that would:

• make it easier to hold airlines liable when they damage wheelchairs or don’t return them in the condition they were received;
• require more frequent refresher training for employees and contractors who handle medical equipment;
• provide clear, written notice of our rights when we check a wheelchair or scooter; and
• reimburse individuals forced onto a different flight because a wheelchair can’t be accommodated.

DOT says it will reconsider those provisions in a new rulemaking, but in the meantime, they’re effectively on ice. Rules meant to give our chairs the same respect as any other essential piece of our body are paused.

This isn’t a theoretical fear. DOT’s own data estimates that about 5.5 million Americans use wheelchairs, and for every 100 wheelchairs or scooters transported on domestic flights, at least one is damaged, delayed, or lost.  If you’re not disabled, that’s a bad service statistic. If you are disabled, welcome to Russian roulette with your independence.

My power chair isn’t luggage. It’s my legs. It’s my spine. It’s my ability to get to the restroom, to my hotel room, or to a hearing room on Capitol Hill. When you damage it, you don’t just ruin a trip—you shut down a life.

So yes, I’ll maintain checklists, draft welcome emails and call ahead. I’ll meet with airport leaders who genuinely want to help, like ours. I’ll advocate by living and by work with MDA, ensuring DOT remembers that “safe and dignified assistance” isn’t a regulation, but an essential lifeline.

Emotionally, though, I’ll be honest: my future is in layover when it comes to air travel. Government inaction and delay hamper my potential—and the potential of millions of disabled Americans who want to work, travel, love, and live with the same messy spontaneity everyone else takes for granted.

Still, ’tis the season for miracles, and I’ve been known to make a few happen. All it takes—on the policy side and the personal side—is a little awareness, some forethought, diligent communication, and patience with the process.

Just give me a world where getting there—and getting back home—doesn’t feel like the hardest part of the trip.

Eric R. Arnold is a lifelong Charlestonian and an attorney at Hendrickson & Long, PLLC. A three-time graduate of West Virginia University, he currently serves as president of the WVU Alumni of the Greater Kanawha and an Advocacy Captain for the Muscular Dystrophy Association.