Yours truly at home this January, eyes still bloodshot from the vaccine.

I wrote this poem after I got my first COVID vaccine. That was back in February 2021. COVID-19 had hit. The country was in panic mode with Trump telling us not to worry about it. He said COVID-19 was no worse than a severe cold or the flu. And I, I seethed. I sizzled with contempt. Not just with the politics, but with the doctors who gave me the vaccine after promising that they would not give me the dose before they took a sample of my blood to see if I could safely take the serum. Contrary to what was supposed to be done, the young, incompetent doctor gave me a routine physical exam with no blood work. That was not part of my medical request. That was the insurance company treating me like a number, not a human being.

I was livid—beside myself—agitated, angry, and overwhelmed with emotion. Distressed that this so-called doctor paid absolutely no attention to my medical history for the test I needed or my words of caution. She had no idea what I was saying. Like I really knew nothing about myself, my health, or my own medical history.

“What is it with these doctors today?” I asked myself? Aren’t they here to help us heal? I was being minimized. She verbally belittled me intellectually and physically. She made comments to my face about my paralyzed left arm, too. Was she trying to make me feel so uncomfortable that I would break? I’d been through that before in 1979.

“Not this time, Doc,” I reiterated to myself. “I’m not a helpless crip—I have some disabilities, but I’m a human being! I’m able to think and talk, reason, and understand. What are you not saying to me, huh? I don’t like it either. But I will smile and rise above and take matters into my own hands at the time.”

As I whispered to myself, that realization subtly took me to another level.

“ Yes,” I said to myself. “I am very sensitive to all drugs, foods, herbs, and so forth. Couldn’t you hear what I was trying to tell you? Couldn’t you respond sympathetically?”

With all her knowledge and theory, she couldn’t do the right thing. She overrode a lifetime of my own experience. She disregarded my wishes and my personal physical history.

“What kind of doctors are we turning loose on patients today? Is this what being a doctor means today? This is what they get paid to do! No, thank you.”

“Am I not talking clearly enough for you to understand me?” I said, cradling myself from her negativity.

Now, at the boiling point, I knew I had to calm down, think things through, and find peace within before I could take any action at all. I had to stop erupting. I needed to do some self-care. So, I sat down in a comfortable position and dropped my arms to my sides, shook them out to release any tension, and gently touched my right pointer finger and thumb together. Deeply, I inhaled and exhaled three times. Then I wrote, got my hostility out. Meditated. And in the process, I calmed and centered myself. I found the words by writing and getting my emotions out on paper, so I could use my voice. From deep within, I gathered my thoughts and words. All at once, my keen and poignant diction stressed my distressed feeling. Within two hours of that appointment, I scorned the doctor by calling up her medical group and complaining.

But before doing this or knowing this, I went to my chiropractic appointment, at which she said, “Your body was never like this before. You had your issues, Karen, but your body has made a significant shift—and it’s not for the best.”

My heart sank. Was I reliving this all over again? I trembled as if frigid air were coming down upon me. My fingers tingled. My airways closed up. It was like a sentence in one of my stories. I could see and feel my breath turning to vapor as I shook with despair. I felt betrayed by the medical system. It made me sicker and weaker than I had ever been before in my life.

With all due respect, the medical field has made my body more compromised and debilitated. Riddled with pelting, hurdling pain. Lumps that could have turned into cancer, hypoglycemia, which was controlled for over fifty years, turned into diabetes. The inability to get out of bed and walk like I once did because of fatiguing spikes from the Moderna serum that is still in my body to this very day; which is still attacking the muscles in my legs and has made it almost impossible to walk.

Worse than my cerebral palsy—I couldn’t do what I loved most. The only way I could get myself off the couch was by telling myself, “One step at a time, sweetheart. You can do this.”

But it took every ounce of strength, courage, willingness, and bravery to take those twenty-six steps. I could not walk any further. Still, every day, I stretched and walked a step more, as if I were in therapy or a dance class.

“Could it be?” Oh yes, it could!

Rather than being vibrant and alive with happiness, I had to lie on the couch for six months because I couldn’t bear the weight on my legs. All this, and more, took hold. It was not a game, nor was it a wish or a prayer—it was serious stuff! It took complete hold and took my health toward overall debility.

I, for sure, was not the picture of health despite all the years of taking care of myself. I exercised every day, seven days a week, taught aerobics and giving to others in many ways. Now, realizing that by listening to these self-assured men and women in white coats all these years never helped me or healed me at all. They and their advice made me sicker than I’d ever been in my life. They didn’t give me a sense of understanding or confidence. Nor did they give me my health back. They did the opposite. Yet, in the process, it made me self-reliant, smarter, and wiser in the long run. It made me able to be grateful, to smile, and open up my heart. It made me feel my heart beat as it said, “Good morning, Karen Lynn! Time to get up!” This being so, I got up every morning with a reason and purpose to keep on keeping on—to have the smile on my face I once had and the hope in my heart.

The medical world, once again, had left me alone, with no one to turn to. It left me turning bitterness into striving and thriving—fearlessly. It left me alone to fend, fight, and heal on my own. With each step, I visualized walking in the sand at Venice Beach in Los Angeles, California, holding my mama’s hand and smiling as I practiced walking in the sand to strengthen my left leg and toes. I would have to do this again. These are the precious moments I revisited again and again. With each visualization, I became stronger and more fearless. My hope returned from my spirited self.

That was a blessing in disguise.

They gave me the vaccine. On that day in February, stating that they understood my concerns. Life had come after me again. This time, it was worse than when I was an infant. It is now six years after the fact. I took matters into my own hands, followed my instincts, by slowly, slowly listening—returning to myself—as I danced on!

The End

In the end, life came after me
With overwhelming odds,
But I dance on!

You can order my poetry collection, including this poem, here: Reflections of My Heart.

Original text ©2026 by Karen Lynn-Chlup. All rights reserved. Image by Christopher Chlup ©2026. All rights reserved.