What’s Wrong With You?

What's wrong with you? I get asked, in different ways and different settings by patients and colleagues alike. The assumption is always that the question refers to my wildly off-kilter gait, since I mimic an ataxic duck waddling on sand when I walk. I have met individuals with overt physical disabilities who have no hesitation discussing their stories and diagnoses. Good for them. Medical school made me more circumspect. As a teenaged medical student in Britain, I witnessed symptoms of mine being discussed disparagingly in lectures and seminars. I would hear my adolescent colleagues laugh to one another, If I ever get that way, kill me. My cheeks would burn. Our teachers, consultants, and lecturers did not correct them. I was a physically damaged teenaged girl who hated my disabilities, and the attitude of my fellow physicians compounded my self-contempt. Survivors like me weren't brave, talented, or extraordinary. We couldn't play on the rugby team or do orthopedic surgery. We were disgusting, dirty, useless. We should die.