I don’t know why…I’m a sucker for punishment, I guess…but I read some of the commentary on that post and on the article itself.
1 person said Ashley wasn’t sentient because of brain scans.
1 person said ‘you don’t know what it’s like to be a parent of a disabled child.’
1 person said this:
It is the parent’s decision. Period. I, personally, applaud them. I would have done the same. I’ve worked with DD children and they ARE a burden, needing constant attention, services that they will not ever beneifit from, mega- appointments, apppliances and tools,transportation, special ed services, machines, caregivers, money pits that will never amount to a hill of beans. Annie was an exception. Draining the tax dollars right out of our pockets, as they are usually on State Aid. And then they start to grow! And it becomes a very physical burden on the caregivers. Which could lead to institutional commitment which could lead to abuse, sexual and otherwise. It was a decision only her parents could make. Walk a mile in the shoes of a parents that has a serverely handicapped kid, boy or girl. The surgeries were for the benefit of the child and the benefit of the caregivers. Protection for her …..peace of mind for her family.
You can find exact quotes for the first two in the notes of the tumblr post, if they aren’t deleted.
The last two are what concerns me. They seem to be saying that parents of disabled people have more of a right to speak about disability and caring for disabled people than we do.
And it breaks my heart. Because how many of us were abused, are abused, every day?
How much are we told that we’re worthless, a burden, nothing but a drain on the finances?
How much are we told that we don’t matter?
That we’re not human?
How much are we ignored and silenced, shoved into a corner and told to be grateful for whatever shreds of humanity they give to us?
Whatever choices we’re actually allowed? The little dignity we’re given?
How many of us walk the streets everyday, hiding our disabilities, pretending it doesn’t hurt, that we’re actually human?
How many days go by before we experience that small bit of joy, of being accepted, of being loved, and how many of us never experience it at all?
And how many of us can’t accept it from even ourselves, us inhuman blights upon the world, that sometimes move and communicate in ways that seem almost human, almost loving, almost real?
How many of us suffer under our damned angels? Those precious beings that deign to treat us like we actually matter, upon occasion, when we do the right things.
How many of us want it to stop? Want our world to end no matter the consequences, if only to stop being that burden, that horror, that pitiable thing that haunts our angels’ every thought?
How many of us just want it all to go away?