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Sunday, March 28, 2021

Spotlight on "Social Fitness:" A film by Anna Pakman

 Written by Kathleen Downes

 

March 25, 2021

 

Over the past year, we’ve all had to adjust to “the quarantine life.” The snacks we left in our now abandoned offices are on their way to becoming ancient ruins. We’ve nearly forgotten about this strange concept called “pants.” We’ve adapted to acting like we are allergic to other humans. Quite simply, since COVID-19 changed everything last March, we are in an alternate…Zoomiverse. 

 

With our lives changed beyond comprehension and our hands raw from Purell, this situation has brought to mind an old saying for when things get absurd—“we may as well laugh or we’d cry.”

 

New York City based filmmaker and digital marketing executive, Anna Pakman, is choosing to laugh. Her upcoming film “Social Fitness” puts a humorous spin on the prospect of adjusting back to “normal” life as the pandemic begins to show signs of easing and explores the hallmarks of pandemic culture, from awkward Zoom weddings to the widespread abandonment of concern about our outfits, through an uplifting and witty comedic lens. 

 

Social Fitness” was created as part of the Easterseals Disability Film Challenge. Founded by disabled actor Nic Novicki in 2014, the challenge provides a platform for new voices in the film industry and strives to amplify diverse narratives around disability. Pakman is excited and thankful that Easterseals is paving the way for her and other disabled professionals.

 

The film features internationally renowned comedienne Maysoon Zayid, known for her viral Ted Talk “I got 99 problems…palsy is just one,” in addition to appearances on General Hospital and Adam Sandler’s You Don’t Mess With the Zohan. Joining her in the star-studded cast are Bree Klauser (Audible Original Phreaks,Apple TV’s SEE), Anita Hollander (National Chair, SAG-AFTRA Performers with Disabilities Committee, Law & Order, FBI: Most Wanted), Liz Simons (Broad City), Eric Stafford (The Blacklist, Alpha House), BJ Lange (Jimmy Kimmel LIVE!), Shashi Bangera (Sesame Street, Kelly & Cal), Mary von Aue, Josey Miller, Sylvia Longmire. On production are JD Michaels of michaels.adams, Liz Pritchard (A & E’s The Employables) and Stefanie Parish. 

 

Both Zayid and Pakman have cerebral palsy and they are joined by a talented and diverse cast including performers with a range of disabilities such as autism, multiple sclerosis, PTSD, osteogenesis imperfecta, and ADHD, among others. Seven of ten people you see in the film have disabilities, while the rest are non-disabled allies.

 

For Pakman, the inclusion of people with disabilities in front of and behind the camera is personal. When asked why disability representation matters so much in her work, she recalls growing up in the 1990s and early 2000s, wondering why no one on TV or in movies “looked like her.”

 

On the rare occasion that people with disabilities were referenced, she told me, the stories told fell into stereotypes, either “super tragic stories of some poor cripple in the news or some super heroic feat that the average person can’t achieve.”  Through her work, she seeks to tell authentic stories of people with disabilities leading ordinary lives. 

 

However, make no mistake, Pakman is emphatic in reminding audiences that performers with disabilities should not only be featured in media about disability, but instead, in all types of media, in all capacities. She states, “People with disabilities can play any role, in front of or behind the camera.”

 

However, the industry has been slow to recognize the talent of the disability community. Pakman spoke of a recent study by the Ruderman Family Foundation which found that despite being about 20% of the population, only about 2% of primetime characters are disabled, and of those, only 5% are played by disabled actors. 

 

The practice of casting non-disabled actors in roles written for a disabled character, sometimes called “cripping up” has caused controversy in the community, most recently with the casting of the non-autistic actress Maddie Ziegler in the title role of Sia’s Music, about a young autistic woman, a casting decision Pakman calls “so offensive.”

 

So-called cripping up has real consequences for performers with disabilities looking to enter the notoriously competitive industry. Pakman says, “when someone who is not disabled is cast in one of the very very few roles actually written for people with disabilities, you deny the opportunity of employment to an actor with a disability.”

 

 Pakman points to the markedly lower employment rate of people with disabilities, which stands at about 31% and has been significantly impacted by the COVID-19 pandemic. Real representation, however, has industry-wide benefits beyond providing jobs to disabled employers. More importantly, Pakman asserts, the casting of disabled performers creates more authentic material that is more enjoyable for all.

 

When naysayers challenge that notion, claiming that disabled actors won’t be marketable, Pakman, no pun intended, doesn’t buy it. She stresses that audiences gravitate towards authentic portrayals and those who don’t believe that they will sell tickets are underestimating the public’s appreciation for real, human stories. She cites the accomplishments of Oscar-winning Marlee Matlin in Children of a Lesser God, a film she argues would not have been nearly as successful if Matlin’s role had not been played by a Deaf woman. Given a pipeline, she says, performers with disabilities are more than capable of working among Hollywood greats. Also coming to mind, she says, is actress Ali Stroker, who won a Tony award for her 2019 performance in Oklahoma! and has since become a household name.

 

Although Pakman and her team are passionate about disability in film, “Social Fitness,” she says, is not just a “disability film.” The project is meant to highlight the universal struggles of the pandemic, and was created with the hope that all people can find a relatable moment in this tale of… wait for it…these unprecedented times. Of her characters, she says, “they are just regular people, who happen to have disabilities, dealing with regular things” from cat obsessions to our collective hesitation to wear anything but sweatpants ever again. “Social Fitness” defies the trope of disabled folks being inspirational for leaving the house. However, Pakman jokes, in these corona times, anyone leaving the house, especially in (gasp) jeans, “kind of is an inspiration.”

 

Although Pakman and her powerhouse cast hope to bring some levity to the situation, she acknowledges that not everything about the pandemic has been sunshine and roses. She describes her own moments of depression, as well as her own fears about medical rationing endangering people with disabilities in a system that does not value our lives. She is “grateful to have the basics: a home, food to eat,” knowing that many have “suffered much more” in the past year. Given the many immensely painful aspects of the COVID-19 pandemic, the quirky, spirited, and delightfully snarky “Social Fitness” aims to deliver the laugh ‘til you snort break so many are craving.

 

While it can be difficult to imagine anything positive about this challenging era, the cast and crew felt excited about the ways in which the pandemic allowed them to try new filmmaking techniques. The film was largely shot on cellphones, which Pakman states now deliver “cinematic quality footage” in a handheld device. The learning curve of making a film in quarantine forced new levels of creativity and highlighted just how essential strong communication is in making a successful project. Quick thinking— and you guessed it—Zoom, enabled collaboration between folks from New York to Los Angeles and Florida. In many ways, a cast and crew of majority disabled people was uniquely prepared for this moment. For people with disabilities, adaptability and innovation are inherent given the constant need to problem-solve and to navigate a less than accessible world.

 

With light-hearted quips about emerging from our Zoom caves, “Social Fitness” hints at the end of corona captivity. However, Pakman warns, the pandemic is still very real and she hopes audiences will come away understanding the importance of mitigation measures like masks and social distancing.

 

She also hopes that the project will encourage the inclusion of disabled folks in the industry and provide more opportunities for her actors. Says Anna, “I’m hoping that when people see someone with a disability, they judge them solely based on their talent and what they say they are capable of.’”

 

To those who are hesitant to welcome performers with disabilities on the stage and the screen, she has a warning: “You will miss out on a lot of talent!”

 

“Social Fitness” is available to stream on the Easterseals Disability Film Challenge YouTube and Facebook pages now!

 

 

Don’t worry; your cat, your homegrown basil, and your sourdough bread are all cordially invited.

 

Social Fitness Movie Poster     
Image: Social Fitness: A film by Anna Pakman. An image of a bandage and the text "It's time to rip the bandage of comfort off the hairy back of complacency." Featuring Maysoon Zayid, Shashi Bangera, Anita Hollander, Bree Klauser, Liz Simons, Mary Von Aue. #SocialFitnessMovie
                  

Friday, March 19, 2021

"On A Scale of 1 to 10": Tarlov Cysts, Chronic Pain, and Me

 It started with a dress. 

 

In the fall of 2018, while trying on a dress for a wedding, I remember feeling like the fabric was pressing on a bad sunburn on the back of my legs. Thinking I had a rash, I went to a dermatologist who found nothing. The weeks passed. The months passed. The odyssey began. Seeing as I already have cerebral palsy (CP), complaining of leg pain in my case seemed fairly unremarkable to most doctors. 

 

“Muscle tension”. “Tight hamstrings”. “Pinched nerve”. “Bursitis”. “You sit a lot”, they mused. 

 

Slowly, casually, it was implied that perhaps it was all in my mind. 

 

I knew this wasn’t just CP. The doctor list grew. The frustration grew. The pain ripped through my skin, to the point where putting on a pair of pants felt like fire. Every transition between sitting and standing became taxing, like an awful pain lightning. Getting on the toilet and off the toilet became a chore. 

 

And harder still, the fact that this “invisible sunburn” gripping my body had no name, but cast itself over everything at once. 

 

Chronic pain changes you. 

 

It rewires you, a silent puppeteer that dictates your movements, if there are any movements at all. It makes the place that has always housed your soul feel unfamiliar, strange. 

 

The body I now lived in felt like it no longer belonged to me. At the same time, the steady beat of my heart reminded me that I was still here, still me, and if getting out of bed was all I could do, that was enough. 

 

With every failed appointment, every “never seen this before…” I grew more and more dejected, uncertain if I should even believe myself about this nameless fury dancing through my nerves. 

 

Rate your pain, they’d say, offering a corny chart of cartoon faces that progressed from looking “vaguely annoyed” to “fully despairing.”

 

And I’d choose one, knowing full well that none of them represent the feeling of being burned from the inside out. 

 

Knowing full well that squishing my untamed pain under one of these cookie-cutter labels is one of the rules. 

 

Chronic pain is quick to teach you the rules.

 

Perform your pain clearly enough that men in white coats see you as worthy of their help.

 Show your pain, but not too much, or they will call you “hysterical,” “dramatic,” even if they only use those words inside their own heads. 

 

The rules require a sweet smile, to ward off the “just think positive!” folks. But don’t smile so much that the men in white coats can decide you “don’t look like a person in pain!” 

 

I wish I could tell them that a person in pain may look like themselves, sound like themselves, “have such a pretty smile!” and still want to curl into ball amid what feels like the wreckage of a former self. 

 

The truth is, the pain storm is constant, but you learn its choreography. Because there are still dogs to be walked. Emails to be answered. Texts to be sent. The cruel reality and the splendid miracle of it all is that life ticks forward even when it feels like the pain may consume you. 

 

When I neared two years since the onset of the mystery pain, I finally convinced a doctor to look at my spine.

 

When the MRI came back, there it was. March 9, 2020. On my sacral nerve roots were a series of neural cysts… that no one had ever heard of.

 

 My initial thought, like many others, was what the ever-loving f*ck is a Tarlov cyst? 

 

Put simply, a Tarlov cyst is a sac of fluid that presses on a nerve root and makes it scream. Some folks with Tarlov cysts have no symptoms at all. 

 

Others have debilitating symptoms ranging from burning, stinging, and limb weakness to pelvic pain, urinary and bowel issues. I fell in the latter category and was just beginning to understand the magnitude of my challenge with a devastating disorder that isn’t even on most people’s medical radar.

 

I quickly learned that many surgeons don’t believe that Tarlov cysts can be symptomatic, if they acknowledge the cysts at all. It was vindicating and validating to have a name for the “invisible sunburn” after nearly two full years of insisting that something was very wrong. 

 

At the same time, it was terrifying to ask “what next?” in the face of a poorly understood disorder that sent lightning through my legs and was evidently unrelated to my CP.

 

 All the while, I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I were a super athlete who suddenly doubled over in pain, my symptoms would have been taken seriously. Instead, I had been too often dismissed, as if my pain as a disabled woman were just a matter of course.

 

 It seems that disabled folks, especially women, are expected to simply accept their physical pain, because “well, you’re in a wheelchair anyway.” That unspoken but ever-present sentiment hurt nearly as much as the zips of fire that pinged off my skin like the signal off an overzealous cell tower.

 

I was fortunate enough to have surgery last October in Sacramento, CA with one of the two surgeons in the United States trained in Tarlov cyst removal. I am fully aware of my tremendous privilege and dream of a world where others who suffer from this disorder can quickly get help.

 

Six months onward, healing is not a linear process. It’s more of a dizzying zig zag. The physical scars of the surgery run through my flesh—but more difficult are the unseen wounds from medical trauma, gaslighting, and the feeling of being a stranger inside myself. 

 

My old spastic, but fairly free movements are gone, replaced with careful, measured steps. Getting out of bed is a lengthy and cautious routine of moving a once unified being part by part as not to perturb my still-frazzled nerves. 

 

I live with the ghosts of past pain episodes; they show up uninvited in the form of involuntary gasps when I move in a way that once hurt. I equally live with the fear that old pain ghosts will come back to life and snatch my hard-won healing. That they will sneak up behind me and show me a true “10” on that infamous pain scale.

 

I feel tremendously better, stronger, and more grateful each day for the opportunity to learn my body’s new rhythm.

 

Still, I am grieving and I think a part of me always will be. Living with a disability, I’ve learned, is a series of rebirths, as wear and tear and achy joints and funny- named cysts no one knows about make irrevocable marks on my earthly dwelling. 

 

Hiraeth is a Welsh concept of “longing for a home to which you cannot return.” I find myself filled with a kind of body hiraeth, a longing to return to a body that takes springier steps, one that doesn’t wince while swinging into bed, one that doesn’t have 6 plates and 12 screws coursing through a fixer- upper spine.

 

I wrestle daily with the struggle to reconcile two contradicting truths. I feel both betrayed by a deteriorated body and utterly in awe of its strength. 

 

No platitudes can lessen the sting of what I’ve lost, but no loss can diminish the wonder of this body’s resilience.

 

Grief and joy can live in the same house. And most times, they do. 

 

I long for a body, a home, to which I can never return…and yet, I listen to the beat of my heart and I know that I never left that body at all. It is changed… but it is still here… and so am I.

 

 One day, it will feel like home again.



Image: Me smiling in a mask and hospital gown, seated in a wheelchair

                                 Image: Me smiling in a mask and hospital gown, seated in a wheelchair

Saturday, January 2, 2021

A Poem About 2020... Because What On Earth Was That?!

 

As 2021 begins, rather than subject you to a blow by blow summary post on social media, I offer you this poem about 2020, a year that was a collective "WTF?" In the spirit of "womp womp womp," the poem is accompanied by a photo of the seeds I planted during quarantine that.... grew into thriving sunflowers, a metaphor for our resilience and strength amid the pandemic. Er... just kidding. Most failed to sprout and the ones that did quickly withered and died.

Happy New Year! For the love of God, may this one be better.


New Year’s Eve

 

2020 wasn’t great

In fact, not good at all

For most, the year was just a string

Of bummers big and small

 

We made our vision boards

But they soon came crashing down

Our to do lists were upended 

When corona came to town

 

The brand-new year before us

Didn’t match up with our plans

The universe called out to us

“Shut up and wash your hands!”

 

In March we made some #Goals

Grew plants, baked homemade bread

By May, we barely brushed our teeth

And all the plants were dead

 

Our Pinterest boards

Once full of clever projects

Soon went stale

Our “recipe a day” collections 

Deemed an epic fail

 

Now we Google “what are days?” 

Is time even a thing?

And thank the Lord that Taylor Swift

Still felt like she could sing

 

The news shows are a mess

But the memes just keep improving

Our pets are glued upon our laps

And swear they’re never moving

 

We’ve taught our elders how to Zoom

At least, we’ve bravely tried

We’ve worn our crusty sweatsuits

Watched old TV and cried

 

 

Spent too much time on WebMD

Had acne from our masks

 Felt wildly accomplished for doing basic tasks

 

Refreshed our browsers many times

And realized, with despair

That the same five Apple news alerts 

And emails are still there

 

And somehow, here we sit

Another New Year’s Eve

No platitudes can change the fact

That there’s a lot to grieve

 

But maybe we’ll come through this

With a little more compassion

With fewer judgey comments

On one another’s fashion

 

…I truly think that you look hot

In gray from head to toe

And I still think you’re awesome

If your basil didn't grow

 

If you didn’t do Zoom yoga

Pick up French or learn to skate

If all you did was cry and eat

I still think that you’re great

 

It’s a legendary feat

To make it through the day

Can we all agree that Pinterest 

Is bullshit anyway?

 

One day we’ll look back 

And we won’t think about our hair

Our neighbor Karen’s sourdough

Or pictures in neat squares

 

We’ll remember all the loved ones

Who helped carry us through

All the folks who lent a hand

And all the hearts that grew

 

And all the healthcare heroes

Who gave their very best

Whose brilliant minds and gentle hands

Helped conquer this great test

Here’s to 2021

With better days ahead

We’ve all had our fill

Of existential dread

 

So, let’s make room for joy

Push this shitshow out the door

And think about a future

Full of hugs galore!

 

 

I have a bunch of hugs 

That are sorely overdue

And you can rest assured 

That one is meant for you.

 


Stay safe. Wear a mask. Thank you healthcare workers.

 

 

An egg carton full of dirt, containing seeds that never grew
Image: An egg carton full of dirt, containing seeds that never grew. Next to it is a spray bottle of disinfectant that I almost squirted on them instead of water, which is in the other spray bottle.

Sunday, December 13, 2020

Cripples at Christmas cartoons 2020

 It’s that time of year. 2020 was epically weird, painful, and disappointing for so many… hope I can make a few folks laugh with my Cripples at Christmas cartoons 2020 edition.

 Image description below images. Click to enlarge.


When the wheelie said “all I want for Christmas is you,” she was not, in fact asking for another UTI.    Image of a wheelchair user in a Santa hat saying “Well, I guess I’ll be having Figgy pudding with a side of Cephalexin. Fu*k!”

The first day of Christmas

 

When the wheelie said “all I want for Christmas is you,” she was not, in fact asking for another UTI. 

 

Image of a wheelchair user in a Santa hat saying “Well, I guess I’ll be having Figgy pudding with a side of Cephalexin. Fu*k!”




 


The wait for a new powerchair inspired a new rendition of “Last Christmas”   Image of wheelchair user singing “Last Christmas, I ordered my chair… but the vendor insists, it still isn’t there…

The second day of Christmas

 

The wait for a new powerchair inspired a new rendition of “Last Christmas”

 

Image of wheelchair user singing “Last Christmas, I ordered my chair… but the vendor insists, it still isn’t there…



The Misfit Toys in therapy


 

The third day of Christmas

 

With therapy now available on Zoom, the Misfit Toys could finally vent about a lifetime of discrimination.

 

Image of a split Zoom window with the spotted plush elephant from the Island of Misfit Toys and a therapist, Dr. Holly Noel. The elephant says “Maybe I don’t need Santa’s validation after all.”


Empowered ugly sweaters


 

The fourth day of Christmas

 

Inspired by the disability empowerment movement, the “ugly sweaters” declared themselves “sweaters deemed ugly by an ignorant society.” 

 

Image of three sweaters with polka dots and wayward stripes. One has just one sleeve. A speech bubble says “Some of us only have one sleeve. Deal with it!”



The large box on the porch was not a romantic Christmas surprise, but instead a huge shipment of catheters.   Image is a box and it has the message “Merry Christmas! Pee on Earth and goodwill to men. Love, 180 Medical.”


 

The fifth day of Christmas

 

The large box on the porch was not a romantic Christmas surprise, but instead a huge shipment of catheters.

 

Image is a box and it has the message “Merry Christmas! Pee on Earth and goodwill to men. Love, 180 Medical.”


Elf on the Floor


 

The sixth day of Christmas

 

After an embarrassing fall from the shelf, the disabled Elf on the Shelf was afraid to use life alert. What if it summoned a rescue squad of high school classmates?

 

Image is a fireplace decorated with stockings. An elf lies on the floor splayed out with a speech bubble reading “I guess I’m Elf on the Floor” now.

 

Santa's shoehorn



The seventh day of Christmas

 

If one more OT told Santa to use a long handled shoehorn in his old age, he would lose his mind.

 

Image is Santa saying “The shoehorn obsession is some bullshit.”


With the holiday party gone virtual, Barbie could no longer use her wheelchair inaccessible dream house as an excuse to exclude the Misfit Toys.   Image is a Zoom window featuring Spotted Elephant, Jelly Gun, Train with Square Wheels, Crying Doll, Socially Awkward Stuffed Animal (camera off), 1990s Token Wheelchair Friend Barbie (Becky), Lion with Wings, and Car with 3 Wheels. The chat box has a message from Becky: “Barbie really thought she was off the hook when they discontinued me for not fitting in her house. And then she has the nerve to befriend that new bitch in the sporty chair who can bump up stairs.”


 

The eighth day of Christmas

 

With the holiday party gone virtual, Barbie could no longer use her wheelchair inaccessible dream house as an excuse to exclude the Misfit Toys.

 

Image is a Zoom window featuring Spotted Elephant, Jelly Gun, Train with Square Wheels, Crying Doll, Socially Awkward Stuffed Animal (camera off), 1990s Token Wheelchair Friend Barbie (Becky), Lion with Wings, and Car with 3 Wheels. The chat box has a message from Becky: “Barbie really thought she was off the hook when they discontinued me for not fitting in her house. And then she has the nerve to befriend that new bitch in the sporty chair who can bump up stairs.”

 

The disabled reindeer hosted their own event alongside the Reindeer Games to vent about their aching bodies.   Image is three reindeer under a banner that says “Reindeer Pains: the event for the rest of us.”    Their respective speech bubbles say “My nerve pain is through the roof!”, “My arthritis gets worse each year!” and “Have you tried smoking mistletoe?”

 


The ninth day of Christmas

 

The disabled reindeer hosted their own event alongside the Reindeer Games to vent about their aching bodies.

 

Image is three reindeer under a banner that says “Reindeer Pains: the event for the rest of us.” 

 

Their respective speech bubbles say “My nerve pain is through the roof!”, “My arthritis gets worse each year!” and “Have you tried smoking mistletoe?”

 

Pandemic Secret Santa



The tenth day of Christmas 

 

The disabled co-worker’s Secret Santa gift of healthcare gloves was no longer mocked amid the pandemic.

 

Image is a Zoom window of a virtual holiday party, featuring a wheelchair using figure and several upright stick figures.

 


With the all-star squad in quarantine, the gimpy reindeer team had its moment to shine…   Image is Santa pulled in a sleigh with reindeer, Gimpy, Achy, Limpy, and Wobbly. Santa says “Am I actually relying on CP spatial skills?”





The eleventh day of Christmas

 

With the all-star squad in quarantine, the gimpy reindeer team had its moment to shine…

 

Image is Santa pulled in a sleigh with reindeer, Gimpy, Achy, Limpy, and Wobbly. Santa says “Am I actually relying on CP spatial skills?”


The overpriced adapted toy stirred some jealousy among the other gifts beneath the tree.   Three wrapped gifts, two labeled “toy” and one labeled “fancy $100 adapted toy” sit beneath a tree. A speech bubble above one toy box says “She really thinks she’s hot shit.”


 

The twelfth day of Christmas

 

The overpriced adapted toy stirred some jealousy among the other gifts beneath the tree.

 

Three wrapped gifts, two labeled “toy” and one labeled “fancy $100 adapted toy” sit beneath a tree. A speech bubble above one toy box says “She really thinks she’s hot shit.”

 

 


Tuesday, September 22, 2020

As a Disabled Woman and a Healthcare Consumer, I Beg You to Vote

 Today, September 22, 2020 is National Voter Registration Day. The upcoming election on November 3, 2020 is really important for many reasons, especially for me as a disabled voter. It can be tempting to feel like there is no purpose in voting or like it is impossible to change “the system.” But now is not the time for hopelessness—you matter, as does your right to vote, an opportunity for which our ancestors were willing to give their lives. 

 

As I cast my ballot this fall, healthcare will be at the forefront of my mind. 

 

This election will affect the future of the Affordable Care Act (ACA), which expanded access to home and community- based services for people with disabilities like me through a provision called the Community First Choice Option (CFCO). CFCO is a dense piece of policy but in summary, it makes it easier for states to offer assistance with activities of daily living (ADLs) like bathing, dressing, and eating by prohibiting wait lists and requiring that eligibility criteria be the same for all diagnosis groups. The federal government gives more money to CFCO compliant states—in turn, these states have increased funding to keep folks like me out of nursing homes. 

 

The ACA also expands Medicaid in participating states to non-disabled adults, many of whom have impairments, but still don’t meet the requirements to get Medicaid through government benefits like SSI. The Medicaid expansion also helps non-disabled low-income adults whose jobs don’t provide insurance, those between jobs, and non-disabled adults who may not have access to employer coverage for other reasons (think people who stay home to care for a medically complex family member).

 

Finally, if you have been able to stay on parental insurance through age 26, you can thank the ACA. The fate of these policies could be on the line very soon—this is just one reason I vote!

 

Anyone who has read my work knows I am passionate about Medicaid advocacy. It doesn’t make me a lot of friends at parties (shocking, I know!), but my constant babble about Medicaid is warranted. For people with disabilities who need personal care assistance (hi! It’s me!) and for the increasing number of elders in need, Medicaid is a lifeline. Medicaid is the payer for long-term care expenses, which out of pocket would cost more than the average annual salary. 

 

Three years ago, when I appeared in a video about Medicaid, internet trolls literally told me I deserved to die if I couldn’t pay for an aide. Others said if they were in a wheelchair, they would take a lethal injection and that knowing the expense of my disability, my parents should have aborted me. The truth that people think this way shook me to my core. But I would appear in the video again and bear the wounds inflicted by those comments again—because Medicaid matters that much to me and because this fight is bigger than my personal needs.

 

In addition to long term care, did you know that Medicaid provides funding for some special education services?  

 

Among Medicaid eligible students, Medicaid provides funding for support services such as occupational therapy, physical therapy, speech therapy, counseling, and nursing. Some districts use this funding to provide school nurses, which outrageously are not required! In total, Medicaid allocates about 4 billion dollars for special education services. 

 

Clearly, there are dozens of issues in this election, but healthcare hits the closest to home for me. My point is that this election is about more than just a president. When you vote, you make choices about the future of a myriad of programs that affect real lives. And when you don’t vote, I hear that you don’t care. That really hurts.

 

To find more information about voting in your state, including mail-in ballots due to COVID-19, check out this helpful guide: Rock the Vote! Voter Guide

 

The polling place doesn’t have an accessible voting machine!

 

The accessible door is locked!

 

The poll worker is trying to pressure you not to use the accessible machine!

 

The poll worker condescendingly suggests that your mom just push the buttons for you!

 

If you’re having an accessibility issue, what should you do?

 

Know your rights: https://www.usa.gov/disability-rights - item-212487

 

Contact your local board of elections as soon as possible to report the problem: https://www.usa.gov/election-office

 

Some states offer early voting, which is especially helpful to disabled voters who rely on services like paratransit. You can find out here if you can vote early: https://www.vote.org/early-voting-calendar/

 

There is so much at stake on November 3! If not for yourself, participate for me and for millions of Americans for whom these issues are not abstract. 

 

Naming America’s injustices and demanding positive change does not mean you hate your country. It means you love her so much that you call on her to grow and you believe in her potential to become better. Most importantly, it means you love her enough to help her do so.

 

VOTE.




**For old times sake, here's 2017 me talking about Medicaid. Come at me, trolls... I'm stronger than you.**


Kathleen Downes- Medicaid interview for Mic

Thursday, July 9, 2020

What I'm Thinking About This Disability Pride Month

During this Disability Pride Month, I have spent many quiet hours thinking about what disability pride means to me. I wish I had a perfectly neat, simple, eloquent answer, but I don’t… because I don’t think disability is a neat, simple experience.

I used to feel pressured to hide the painful parts of my disabled existence, for fear that the non-disabled world would only see those painful experiences and assume that being disabled was full-stop miserable. But I’ve learned to acknowledge those painful, messy parts of my living in this body, because they are real and we as a community do ourselves a great disservice when we push away our pain. 

So, here goes. I am 27 years old and my body hurts every single day without exception. Cerebral palsy is literally in my bones. I imagine there’s some wacky calculation, like dog years (OK, I’m kidding!) to figure out the true age of my hips, which seem like they moved to the retirement community for chronically achy joints long ago. I carry both the physical scars of multiple surgeries and the invisible scars ground into the deepest parts of me by ableism.

I can still see seventh grade me, the little girl in the red wheelchair who hid in the elevator before school rather than get stepped around, stepped over, or awkwardly placed at the only accessible lunch table that was otherwise used for detention.

I can see the nurse’s aide, who when asked to help me to an inaccessible hospital bathroom replied that “this floor is for people who walk.”

I can see my middle school self, refusing to drink anything in the hopes that I could get home without peeing. My refusal was mostly about avoiding an abusive caregiver, but also about the fact that finding an accessible bathroom that fit a real powerchair, not an imaginary stick wheelchair, was basically impossible.

I can see that high school girl who felt invisible when she wasn’t invited to hang out with a non-disabled schoolmate after sixth grade until college.

And with me always is the reality of our collective disabled grief. Too many of my disabled friends, comrades, and community members have died, and while they leave behind incredible legacies, the brutal hurt of losing them from medical complications, from disease progression, or from the failure of care systems never ever fades. 

Nor does the hurt of wrestling with the strange contradiction that sometimes the same disability that bonded us, that helped create a wildly beautiful human being also snatched that person from me too soon.

All I know is that when non-disabled society marks their deaths by imagining them springing up from their wheelchairs and walking in the afterlife, I want to scream that they were perfect as they were. 

There’s the constant fear that the long-term care system will fail me, that the patchwork “system” society has cobbled together to support us will no longer be enough and I will be taken from my community to an institution where I cannot make my own choices. 

There’s the guilt in knowing that the above scenario is already the truth for too many people just like me.

So, where’s the pride in this? Being disabled sounds pretty hard. Well, it is. But we don’t talk enough about joy. The joy that’s specific to being disabled, the joy I wouldn’t know had I been given another reality. 

To my disability, here are some of the things I love about you.

I love the community you gave me, the way I can spot a fellow wheelchair user and connect us in seconds, usually with fewer than six degrees of separation. My mom and I have a tongue-in-cheek (but only kind of!) routine where we see another wheelie in which we say, “OK, do we know them? Camp, PT, or doctor’s office…we must!” It’s a stereotype that we all know each other, but the secret’s out, we kind of do!

I love the way you’ve taught me to embrace interdependence. You helped me realize early on that independence is the biggest lie ever told. We all need each other in some way and when the rest of the world can understand that, we will heal some of society’s most broken parts.

I love the way you’ve taught me to call bullshit when a well-meaning person declares that they “don’t see me as disabled.” Because anyone who doesn’t see me as disabled flat out doesn’t see me. 

I love that you’ve given me the privilege of laughing with “crip siblings” who lovingly accept my CP squeals and occasional accidental kicks when I’m very excited…the same people who make my tighter hand fly around wildly when I have a burst of emotion.

I love the way you’ve helped me to know God. No, not in the corny “disabled children are special angels of Jesus just for existing” way. The God you’ve revealed to me is a hodge- podge God, too big to fit neatly into a strict set of religious rules. A loving God who already calls this disabled body glorified. A God who builds ramps to Heaven.

I hope that when people think of me they will call to mind my disabled joy and not just my struggles.

I accepted long ago that some people will always think less of me because I am disabled.

 But I do not have to think less of myself. 

I am human and I do not love myself perfectly in every moment of the day. But still, the love is there, thriving inside of me in a society determined to make me hate myself. 

That is what I’m proud of today, this month, and every day I am alive. That the joy of being disabled exists in me, alongside and wrapped together with the painful parts of living in a body deemed disposable.

That joy is mine and no one can have it.