A Parking Job So Bad It Needed Emergency Care

I was visiting my mother at Roper St. Francis in Mount Pleasant when I left for a few hours to attend a recovery meeting.

On my way out, I saw this car parked outside the Emergency Department.

Or at least I think it was parked. It appeared to have simply stopped wherever it lost interest in moving.

Now, because this was outside the Emergency Department, I kind of understand. Emergencies are emergencies. Sometimes you pull up, get someone inside, and worry about the car afterward.

I have my own story.

When my ex-wife was about to give birth to our son—our second child—she waited until nearly the last possible moment to announce that it was time to go to the hospital.

On the way there, I may have run a few red lights. I did honk as I approached them to warn people that a panicked father-to-be was coming through.

When we reached the Emergency Department, I jumped out, ran inside, and grabbed a wheelchair. My ex-wife was still sitting in the car. I got her into the wheelchair and rushed her inside.

Meanwhile, the car was still running, the keys were still in it, and the doors were wide open.

Was that proper parking etiquette?

Absolutely not.

But a baby was arriving, and my priorities were clear: mother, baby, and then the unattended getaway car sitting outside.

So yes, I can understand a bad parking job at an emergency room—at least temporarily.

But the car I saw at Roper St. Francis was on another level. It was sitting crooked across the blue-striped access aisle next to an accessible parking space, looking less like someone had parked it and more like it had been abandoned mid-thought.

Those striped areas are not bonus parking spaces. They provide the room people need to deploy wheelchair ramps, use mobility equipment, and safely enter or exit their vehicles.

When I returned from my recovery meeting, the car was gone.

Hopefully, whatever brought the driver to the Emergency Department turned out okay.

Or perhaps the car had simply been moved to another part of the parking lot—where it was parked just as horribly.

Either way, emergencies may explain a rushed arrival. They do not turn an access aisle into a parking space indefinitely.

Be safe. Be considerate. And once the emergency is under control, please go back and park the car between two actual lines.

Handicap Plates Don’t Mean “Park Wherever You Want”

I stopped at Harris Teeter to grab two items.

Literally, two items.

As I left the store and made my way toward my car—parked in an actual accessible parking space—I noticed a car sitting directly outside the entrance.

I looked inside.

No driver. No passenger. No one.

As I pulled away, I noticed the car had handicap license plates. As someone who relies on accessible parking, I understand why those spaces—and the shorter distance they provide—matter.

But handicap plates are not an all-access parking pass. They do not mean you can skip the designated spaces and create your own personal parking spot directly in front of the store.

I might—and this is a very soft might—understand the decision if every accessible parking space had been occupied.

They weren’t.

And before anyone reaches for the classic excuse, “I’m just running in, and I’ll be right out,” let’s review the timeline.

I had enough time to walk to my car, load my two items, get inside, buckle my seat belt, back out, take a picture, and drive away.

That took at least two minutes.

The driver still had not returned.

This is not about questioning whether someone has a disability. The handicap plates already answer that question. It is about recognizing that having those plates does not excuse blocking an entrance, a fire lane, or an area intended to remain clear.

Accessible parking exists to make life a little easier for people who need it. Use the designated space. If one is available, there is no excuse for parking directly in front of the store simply because it is more convenient.

Be better, people. Be better.