![]() ![]() ![]() She was fortunate that a parochial school was willing to accept her. When Karen Killilea was a child, there were no laws guaranteeing children with disabilities the right to an education. They searched the country for answers, until they found hope. “You should put her in an institution and go on with your life.” Thankfully, her parents and mine refused to believe those words. “She will never walk, or talk, or feed herself.” “She’ll be severely mentally retarded” (that was the term they used, and it was just as offensive then as it is now). ![]() The words the doctors told our parents were, too. Karen Killilea was born prematurely, whereas I was deprived of oxygen during birth, but the end result was the same for both of us: cerebral palsy. Almost 40 years separated her birth and mine, but there were so many parallels between our stories. ![]() I immediately wanted to know everything about her, this girl who almost shared my name. I can do anything!” She was a little girl with cerebral palsy. She was “the girl who lived a miracle!” The back cover featured her words in big letters: “I can talk. The cover showed a little girl with long red pigtails and a big smile. When I was about 7 years old, I found a paperback copy of “Karen ” by Marie Killilea on my parents’ bookshelf. I want to share an updated version of that article with you, to honor her while illuminating the limitations of the stories other people tell about us. A few years ago, I decided to write about Karen. ![]()
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