By Kim Ousley
Sarah Wall had called ahead.
The resort pool was one her family had visited for decades, and Wall, a bilateral amputee, wanted to make sure its lift chair was working before she arrived. She was assured it was.
It wasn’t.
Wall emailed the aquatics staff and filed an ADA complaint, only to receive a form letter weeks later saying her complaint would not be investigated.
“What is the purpose of your office,” she wrote back, “if you are not receptive to complaints and you don’t take action?”
For Wall, it was another lesson in something she had already learned the hard way: Access often doesn’t come without a fight.
Her fight began years earlier, after a case of sepsis nearly killed her and led to the amputation of both feet and nine fingertips. In the years that followed, Wall would have to advocate not only for her independence, but for medical care, mobility and the right to participate in something she loved: swimming.
Before all of that, Wall had spent most of her life in motion: running, strength training and staying active. So when she fell ill during a business trip in late 2019, she knew immediately that something was wrong. Not the flu, not fatigue, but something deeper and frighteningly unfamiliar.
By the time she made it home, she could barely stay awake. Her feet hurt in a way she couldn’t explain. Her neighbor, a nurse practitioner, took one look at her and saw what was happening: tiny clots forming around her lips and on her feet. “She’s clotting,” her friend said. They needed to get her to the ER fast.
With her blood pressure plummeting and symptoms no one could piece together, she was diagnosed with sepsis. Soon, the diagnosis became sepsis with DIC, a rare and often fatal condition in which the body bleeds and clots at the same time. She was unconscious for 11 days. When she woke, her feet were black, along with the fingertips on both hands. The damage was irreversible.
She underwent multiple amputations: nine fingertips and both feet. She woke up bandaged and feeling helpless. What she remembers even more vividly is the silence.
“Not one counselor came to talk to me,” she says. Not one social worker. No one from mental health stepped into the disaster that had become her existence.
After 72 days in the hospital and a short stay in rehab, the length of stay her insurance would allow, she was finally fitted for prosthetics. Unfortunately, her delicate skin developed huge blisters, and the incisions on her legs refused to heal, repeatedly opening over several months. She would try to walk for up to five minutes, just long enough to feel hope, and then spend weeks waiting for her wounds to close and heal again.
It became clear she needed revision surgery, but her rehab doctor didn’t understand what she was asking for. So Wall did what she has done ever since: She advocated for herself. She and her husband called Walter Reed Hospital, hoping someone could point her toward a surgeon who understood amputees. That call led her to a reconstructive surgeon in Washington, D.C., who immediately recognized the problem and offered a solution—if her insurance would allow it.
It didn’t.
For a year, Wall remained trapped in a wheelchair while her insurance company insisted she see in-network surgeons who didn’t perform the type of surgery she needed. One even admitted, “Oh, he’s the guy,” referring to the out-of-network surgeon she’d already found. Still, the answer was no.
So she waited until she turned 65 and became eligible for Medicare. On her 65th birthday, she finally received the revision surgery that would allow her to walk again.
With healthy skin and a fresh start, Wall rebuilt her mobility. She found prosthetics that worked for her, eventually switching to a system that let her walk, exercise and live without fear of her legs slipping off.
Swimming became her sport of choice. She even found specialized fins designed to fit her residual limbs so she could swim laps. But gaining mobility didn’t mean the barriers disappeared. Sometimes, as she discovered at that resort pool, the next obstacle was simply getting into the water.
That experience was one of many that sharpened Wall’s understanding of disability rights and the systems available to enforce them. When her ADA complaint about the resort pool went nowhere, she learned that a federal rejection didn’t necessarily have to be the end of her advocacy.
She contacted local agencies, city ADA coordinators and corporate offices. She documented everything. She kept pushing.
And at another gym, when she explained that access to a therapy pool did not provide equal access to the lap pool, the manager listened. Within months, a brand-new lift was installed. The next day, Wall was in the water.
Seven years into limb loss, Wall’s radar for accessibility is sharp. Her voice is steady. Her expectations are clear. But she also knows the power of one person speaking up.
“Sometimes it feels like it’s my job to educate the entire world,” she says.
And then she laughs, a warm, knowing laugh from someone who has survived what few do and refuses to let the world stay inaccessible simply because it’s easier that way.
Tips for Gaining Access:
If you’ve been denied access—to a pool lift, a ramp, a restroom, a hotel room or any public accommodation—you are not powerless. Here’s what Wall’s experience teaches:
- If the DOJ declines your ADA complaint, file at the state level. State civil rights agencies often act faster and take cases the federal office does not.
- Contact your city or county ADA coordinator. Local government can require repairs, inspections and compliance.
- Escalate to corporate headquarters. National brands may respond to accessibility failures.
- Send a demand letter. You don’t necessarily need a lawyer to formally request ADA compliance.
- Document everything. Photos, dates, emails and witness statements can help establish a pattern.
- Reach out to disability rights organizations. Protection & Advocacy agencies exist in every state.
- Try again. Depending on the circumstances, a dismissed complaint may be resubmitted with new evidence or documentation of repeated violations.
Accessibility isn’t a luxury. It’s a civil right. And as Wall’s story shows, one determined voice can change the environment not just for herself, but for every amputee who comes after her.
