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Sandra Jean-Pierre | Digital Artist & Writer of Words.

Tag: disabled person

Disabled Chronicles, No.7

The Set Up I’ve been putting off getting a new electric power wheelchair for well over a year. Okay, so it’s closer to 2/3-ish years.   I know, you’re thinking, ‘But isn’t your chair like, important?’ Extremely. My wheelchair operates like my legs. If I need to get something from the store, I use my wheelchair. When I need to go to the doctors office, I use my wheelchair. Gotta roll to the bathroom and brush my teeth? You got

Silent Detonation

Her hands were warm and firm as they held onto mine the first time we were meeting.  She knew to reach into my space to complete the connection.  Knew from the hours of calls logged, from the technical and medical explanations, knew from my recountings and stories of changing plateaus, that she would have to meet M(m)e more than half way.  And so, there she stood, exhausted from travel and maybe some self-conscious worry, holding both of my sun-browned SMA

Body Conditions: SMA3

I don’t write about my main condition often.  In fact, I barely mention it’s name in real life (Kugelburg-Welander Syndrome, Spinal Muscular Atrophy (SMA), Type 3 or just SMA3).  Besides the naming of it not doing much to manage or change it’s effects on me, no one knows WHAT all its name implies or what its effects on me are.  So this usually has me launching into a super simple explanation of how this syndrome is my muscles’ inability to

Disabled Chronicles, No. 911

    That one day, you head to your electrologist appointment and what is normally a very painful but necessary part of your life to keep you from looking like a mama bear, has you sitting there asking her if the machine is turned on cause you’re not feeling any of the customary bee sting-like pin pricks that you’ve come to expect.   Two machines and three needles later, she has confirmed that indeed the machine(s) are on and working,

Fight In The Belly

I don’t remember what her face looks like. I remember that she had brown skin like mine, that she was wiry, where my own Mom had not been and that she had this boundless energy that I could not for the life of my five year old self, understand. What her sole mission seemed to be though, was to make me walk from one end of the hallway to the next, despite myself.  At first it seemed simple enough: she

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