I too have suffered a death in my life. I have lost many friends over the years to disease, when they were way too young. But that's not why I'm here tonight.

The death I speak of is my own.

I have cerebral palsy. During my childhood, it was intensively treated with surgery and physiotherapy. Intense physiotherapy. Pedalling a stationary bike with legs that were too weak to work on their own, 10-15 km at a stretch. Daily stretching sessions with leather and steel leg braces to force my legs straight so I could stand. The special shoes caused constant blisters on my heels and ankles. Swimming, occupational therapy, even counselling; you name it, I did it from the earliest age, down to constant psych tests to test my intelligence.

Getting me on my feet was an obsession with them. It's agony to think of all this, I don't want to. But I have to face it.

Their efforts acheived results. I was able to crawl, walk with a walker down to a neighbour's fence and even drag myself downstairs to watch TV with my family. And the good times more than made up for it. My parents took me to parks, saw that I got to day camp, summer camp and even a few school outings. Floor hockey, a member of the Girl Guides (I made it to Patrol Leader). I even pulled off a school trip to Washington DC when I was too young to understand the difficulties involved, my parents saw to it that I went. (I'm glad I went. It was the summer before IT happened.)
I took it all for granted. This hurts to remember as much as the physio. I make it a point not to remember my childhood at all, because of what happened.

My knees were getting harder and harder to straighten. I went from being able to walk, to standing hanging on to the bed, (G*d this hurts), to lying down on my bed.

Finally surgery was proposed. If all went well, not only would my pain be reduced, but I would be able to straighten my braces myself. I was all for it. I was 12 and naive. I didn't remember my last surgery.

Montreal was where I went to get these things done and it all seemed so harmless; go there every six months to a year to get checked out and hear the doctor use very specific jargon around you while he put me through my paces. And the staffers were almost like family, I even ran into one of them at summer camp for several years who remembered me pretending my hospital crib was a "jail".

Last thing I remember before the big day was Thanksgiving dinner. Then I went in.
Oct 11, 1983.

The day I died. The day my world died.

I went in there expecting to be able to read a book in the recovery room. I woke up screaming from the pain. They were asking me if I could feel my feet. At that point, I didn't care. The one thought in my mind was from the Bible "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" I may have screamed this. In my agony, I tried to roll over onto my side and grab onto the sides of the bed, trying to roll over while my legs were spread apart in a plaster cast that extended at least to my hips, possibly to my chest. I believe they tried to stop me. Then I blacked out. When I next woke up, the cast was gone, the agony was gone and I was all alone.

(G*d this hurts and I don't mean physically.)