I do not want to die. This sentiment hardly makes me unusual. What does make me different is I have a legitimate worry. I worry someone will decide to kill me. I do not think someone will kill me maliciously, for spite, or hate. I worry someone will kill me with kindness in their heart. I am not paranoid. I know more than a few other people with a disability that have the same worry. Like it or not, people with a disability are not valued. Our lives are deemed tragic. Social expectations are limited at best. No one expects us to have a job, be a parent, or live a vibrant life. No, our role is to get well. For me, that means I should spend all my time thinking about walking. I should go from doctor to doctor to make this happen, subject myself to experimental stem cell treatment. If I did this I would be lauded as courageous. I consider efforts for cure to spinal cord injury an abject waste of my time. I can happily leave that quest to medical researchers. Instead, I rail against social prejudice and the stigma that clings to disability 20 years after the ADA supposedly made me equal to my bipedal peers. Of one thing I am sure, in daily life and in particular a hospital setting I am very far from equal.