This ID serves as evidence of both my achievements and my teaching skills. The YMCA hired me as an instructor.

“I don’t want this surgery, Mommy.”

In our home, sitting on our couch, I was only eight years old, but looking up into Mama’s compassionate eyes, I knew that, regardless of what the physicians wanted, I had to speak up before it was too late.

“I don’t want to be like that boy in school who had the same thing done. Now his wrist dangles like a pendulum, and his hand is completely…”

My voice trailed off. Useless would have been too cruel a word, but I had seen what the doctors could do, and what they had done, cutting tendons and destroying any chance of future improvement, of future healing. I swore to myself that I would not let them have their way with me.

That was in 1958, and since then medics have treated me with little care and less kindness. But through these life lessons, I have become a voice for humanity by speaking up for myself and others. More importantly, I have helped people with disabilities find their voices and advocate for themselves.

My struggle to free myself from the constrictions of my disabilities stemmed from humiliation and degradation. This article is a factual account of events that took place between 1951 and 2025: a lifetime of speaking up and out. And remember, I was a healthy baby until a medical doctor insisted I have a second DPT shot even after I had had a bad reaction to the first shot. The second one put me into a coma and gave me CP and dyslexia.

Because of these injustices, I became an advocate. I wanted to give back to others so that no one else would have to experience what I did, so everyone would have the information to not only speak up in a dignified manner, showing composure that is worthy of respect, but also receive the care they need and deserve, like anyone without a disability.

However, I did not want to become bitter. I wanted to find resolution with a clear mind and a loving heart. These matters took forgiveness and commitment. Thus, I worked tirelessly for people and their civil and human rights. Since I had no choice but to face a myriad of challenges, I accepted them with resilience. I had the mindset and capacity to spring from stress. I had learned to adapt to discrimination throughout my life. And with unflinching firmness of purpose, I came to a reckoning, to a judgement and assessment, to a moment of truth and a realization when I knew, like Rosa Parks, that I had to decide. I had to move forward.

I reached a resolution. From the start of my existence, I learned to assess and evaluate. When I was talked down to, minimized, and patronized, I heeded and listened to the un-true remarks from doctors who tried to run me through the mill. They thought they could get away with their actions. They thought they knew it all.

In my adulthood, I taught the doctors how to respect me. In the 1990s, I saw a doctor who looked at me during my initial healthcare visit and said,” You’re doing real well for a person with cerebral palsy.”

I taught them by personal experience and example, as I didn’t want to be judged from first impressions. I did not want to be taken at face value if their opinions did not reflect my personal self. I didn’t want to be talked to in a degrading way. Thus, calmly, I spoke with a balanced approach. My emphasis was on my demeanor, the importance of thoughtful responses, and on controlling my stress through emotional regulation. I stood tall and boldly asserted myself in a time when that wasn’t accepted. I wanted to be heard honestly by the closed-minded white-coats.

Through their thoughtless discounts, they showed they didn’t want to listen, so I had to speak up for myself to get my choice of medical services.

“I get to choose for myself,” I said with conviction. “I get to choose how I want to be treated and the medical treatment I want. I get to choose how I want to define myself, not you. It’s me against you.”

I sat straight, grimacing as I confronted my conflict with rivalry.

I continued. “Doctors should not have the power to decide what kind of care and courtesies of care we get by the status of our insurance cards.”

Subsequently, attitudes have changed somewhat in the last five years. Obviously, we have a long way to go, but individuals don’t regard doctors as gods in lab coats anymore. Nor will patients let doctors override their judgement. Patients demand an honest, open, and truthful approach, with a thorough discussion and explanation. In other words, we are getting smarter as patients and will not accept being treated disrespectfully, talked down to, or belittled because we are disabled, not on a PPO, or are black, brown, Jewish, or in another minority group.

We won’t have surgery done unless absolutely necessary. We want a more comprehensive, integrated approach altogether, but insurance companies and big businesses try to shut out homeopathic and naturopathic medicine because the big bucks are with the MDs. People are demanding to be heard and treated holistically. Doctors are being held more liable than ever for their conduct and ethics. Patients are demanding answers, truth, and explanations of their standards and moral code.

Through the decades, I have labored to master the sublevels of the medical profession. With every call I took part in, I used my voice to make medical treatment more accessible. I devoted my life and went beyond the call of duty. Then, in 2019, I not only broke my right wrist (the only hand I use), but I also took the COVID vaccine and had terrible side effects from it.

The day after taking the shot, I noticed a lump under my arm, and then my hypoglycemia, which had been under control for over fifty years, turned into diabetes. Since that time, I have been struggling to regain my health.

In 2020, I went to another doctor because the previous two told me, “You’re going to dry up.” They thought I would go into ketoacidosis and kidney failure. The third told me, “If you don’t do it my way, then I’m not working with you.”

The third, the worst of them all, said, “You’re going to die the moment you walk out of my office. You are not like other CPs.”

Watching from across the examination room, she glared, ready to strike again like a rattlesnake. But I remained still even though in my imagination I visualized the rattler turning toward her. But instead of lashing out, I took a deep breath, stood, and politely took my leave, if only to regain my resolve and composure. It was my life, and I needed to control my emotions.

With my head held high, I walked out of that doctor’s office knowing I would face this harrowing experience over and over again as I strove to get the medical care I paid for, and that I deserved as a living human being.

These Western doctors are unaware, valuing their knowledge over my lifelong understanding of my body and its sensitivities. Instead of addressing my physical problems, they insist on in-person visits.

In another instance, I said emphatically, “I don’t need to come in person; I’m fine on FaceTime. Why won’t you just let me do it at home?”

The nurse who called me said, “They want a hands-on blood pressure test.”

But that’s when my blood pressure escalates. It rises because I don’t trust them after all these years of untruths and manipulation instead of giving compassionate care. They are incapable of maintaining emotional balance. They lack the empathy to resolve conflicts with patients. Despite the broken wrist on my one functioning hand, they subjected me to many tests, unaware of the discomfort and pain involved. Still, they kept prescribing drugs with side-effects.

What kind of doctors have we educated throughout the years? What kind of souls do they have if they don’t even know how to be kind and understanding?

The doctor who told me I was going to die the moment I exited her office said, “You have a different kind of CP than them. So we insist you come in.”

What kind of knowledge have they gained in the past seventy-four years? Nothing.

Is it all about money and prestige? Even more importantly, is the treatment you get limited because of the medical plan you chose or could afford to choose?

While doctors possess technical education, they have sacrificed their humanity. What happened to their common sense? They have no compassion, let alone any bedside manner. They try to fix everything with pills, even if you tell them you are allergic or prefer other methods. They have lowered their standards for that reason alone! And now, they mandate you to come in every year for an annual exam, whether you want to or not.

And if you don’t come in for an annual wellness exam, they actually say they will come to your house or give you a coupon to buy something. They are stooping to these levels.

They look at you as if you are a subject and number, with scorn and ill-will, as if you have lost your mind. They document every word you say, but they are not transparent and write untruths in your medical records. Still, they think it’s okay if they get away with it. It is not a viable solution to hand out pills like candy, using the new protocols to hand out all kinds of deadly, addictive medications for any reason under the sun, to keep you coming back. Meanwhile, you get sicker and prescribing the drugs fills their pockets.

Despite that, not one single red flag comes up. They don’t seem to show an ounce of emotion or say, “Hey wait a minute. You just said you are sensitive. Let’s do something different. It’s more of a natural approach than what I wanted, but it may be better for you.” It doesn’t even matter to them, nor penetrate their minds. They have been trained to be hardened, insensitive, and unyielding. It doesn’t matter what you say, even if you tell them differently and beg.

Conveniently concealed, safe in their offices, they refuse to acknowledge and address patients’ genuine feelings and issues, so their patients can heal naturally. They disregard it with a vengeance when you know more than them. They give you no reason to trust them–not a glimmer–not a glance. Not even a look of sensitivity with their eyes or facial expressions that they acknowledge and hear you.

My reasoning is based on a lifetime of personal experience. After seventy-four years of being on display, and being poked and prodded, I just want a little comfort, care, and understanding. I don’t want to march to other people’s drummers, or be tormented or pressured. I just want a little peace and quiet to live my life. I don’t want to live forever taking a remedy they want to give me for their own agendas, but that leaves me with no quality of life.

Each of us can and must decide our plight in life. It is up to us to decide. Perhaps our ancestors had it right all along, choosing to die at home surrounded by love and our loved ones, not between cold, sterile hospital sheets, attached to a ventilator and life support.

What has your experience been? You must still be alive to read this, so please share.

For more about what your doctor really thinks about you, read this study:

Doctors Overwhelmingly Harbor Negative Views Of Those With Disabilities, Study Finds

Text ©2026 by Karen Lynn-Chlup. Image ©2026 Karen Lynn-Chlup, from her personal collection.