Two Replaced Hips, Hearing Aids, and a Prosthetic Voice: My Body Is a Testimony

If you looked at my medical chart, you might think I’m barely holding together. Prosthetic voice box. Two hip replacements. Hearing aids in both ears. Glasses. Lung damage from cancer. Scars everywhere. I’m 62 years old, and I’m a walking collection of replacement parts and medical interventions. But here’s what I know:

**My body isn’t a tragedy. It’s a testimony.**

**The Inventory**

Let me give you the full rundown:

**Throat cancer**

took my larynx. I speak through a prosthesis now.

**Lung cancer**

took part of my lung capacity. I get winded easier than I used to.

**Two hip replacements**

because my hips gave out. I walk, but not like I used to.

**Hearing aids in both ears**

because my hearing is shot.

**Glasses**

because my eyes need help too.

**Scars**

from surgeries all over my body. I’m basically a refurbished human. Factory rebuilt. Certified pre-owned with high mileage. And you know what? I’m still running.

**What People See**

When people look at me, they see the disabilities first. They see the mechanical voice. They notice the way I walk. They might spot the hearing aids. Some people are uncomfortable. They don’t know what to say. They avoid eye contact or speak louder than necessary (which doesn’t help, by the way). Some people pity me. “Oh, you poor thing. How do you manage?” Some people are inspired. “You’re so brave!” (I’m not. I’m just living.) But very few people see what I see:

**a man who refused to quit.**

**The Daily Reality**

Living with multiple disabilities isn’t inspirational. It’s just life. My life.

**Mornings are slow.**

It takes longer to get moving. The hips need to warm up. The prosthetic voice needs to be managed. The hearing aids need to be adjusted.

**I plan everything.**

Can I walk that far? Are there stairs? Will it be loud (and mess with my hearing aids)? Is there a bathroom nearby (stoma care is real)?

**I get tired faster.**

My body works harder just to do normal things. By end of day, I’m exhausted in ways that are hard to explain.

**I deal with medical appointments constantly.**

Follow-ups, adjustments, checkups, monitoring. My calendar is full of doctors.

**People make assumptions.**

They assume I can’t do things. Or that I need help when I don’t. Or that I’m somehow less capable.

**Simple things aren’t simple anymore.**

Everything requires more thought, more planning, more energy. But I’m still here. Still doing it. Still moving forward.

**The Choice**

Here’s the thing about living with disabilities: you have a choice. Not about the disability—that’s not up to you. Cancer happened. The hips failed. The body broke down. But you choose how you respond.

**You can be bitter.**

God knows I have reasons. I could spend every day angry at my body for betraying me. Angry at cancer. Angry at genetics or bad luck or whatever caused all this.

**You can be a victim.**

I could define myself by what I’ve lost. “Poor Calvin, look at everything that happened to him.”

**Or you can be a survivor.**

Not because you’re special or strong. But because you refuse to let your limitations define you. I choose survivor. Not every day. Some days I’m bitter. Some days I feel like a victim. But most days, I choose to be someone who survived and kept going.

**What I’ve Learned**

Living as a “medical patchwork” has taught me things I wouldn’t have learned any other way:

**Your body is not who you are.**

My body is broken in a dozen ways. But I’m not broken. My worth isn’t in my physical abilities.

**Adaptation is a superpower.**

I’ve learned to do things differently. And that flexibility—that ability to adapt—is more valuable than people realize.

**Dignity isn’t about your body.**

You don’t lose dignity because you need hearing aids or a prosthetic voice or a walker. You lose dignity when you stop treating yourself with respect.

**Everyone is fighting something.**

My disabilities are visible. Other people’s aren’t. But we’re all dealing with something. That creates empathy.

**Help isn’t weakness.**

I need help sometimes. With technology, with medical stuff, with physical tasks. That doesn’t make me weak. It makes me human.

**You’re stronger than you think.**

I didn’t think I could handle cancer once. Then I handled it twice. I didn’t think I could walk on replaced hips. But here I am.

**The Questions I Hate (And Why)**

“What happened to you?” *My whole medical history isn’t your business. “Cancer” is enough.* “Are you okay?” *Define okay. I’m alive. I’m managing. That’s enough.* “Have you tried [insert unsolicited medical advice]?” *Yes. My doctors are aware. Thank you.* “You’re so inspiring!” *I’m not trying to inspire you. I’m trying to live.* “I could never handle what you’re dealing with.” *You could. People are more resilient than they think.* “At least you’re alive!” *True. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy.* I know people mean well. But sometimes the comments sting more than help.

**The Questions I Appreciate**

“How can I help?” *Simple. Direct. Respectful.* “Is this accessible for you?” *Shows you’re thinking about my needs.* “Tell me about your prosthesis—I’ve never seen one before.” *Curiosity is fine when it’s respectful.* “Do you want to talk about it, or would you rather not?” *Gives me control over the conversation.*

**The Truth About Disability**

Here’s what people don’t understand:

**Disability doesn’t make you less.**

It just makes you different.

**We’re not all inspirational figures.**

Some of us are just living our lives and wish people would stop making it weird.

**We don’t want pity.**

We want respect.

**We’re not all brave.**

Some days we’re scared, frustrated, and tired.

**We can have bad days without it being about the disability.**

Sometimes I’m just having a bad day like everyone else.

**We know you’re uncomfortable.**

And honestly, that’s okay. Just don’t let your discomfort become our problem. **My Body Is a Testimony**

Every replacement part tells a story. The prosthetic voice says:

**I survived cancer twice.**

The hip replacements say:

**I kept walking when my body wanted to quit.**

The hearing aids say:

**I still want to hear the world around me.**

The glasses say:

**I still want to see what’s ahead.**

The scars say:

**I’ve been through hell and came out the other side.**

My body isn’t perfect. It’s not what it used to be. It probably never will be again. But it’s mine. And it’s still working. And that’s enough.

**For Everyone Living With This**

If you’re living with disability—visible or invisible—I want you to know:

**You’re not your diagnosis.**

Cancer, injury, chronic illness, disability—these are things you have, not who you are. **You’re allowed to struggle.

** You don’t have to be inspirational. You don’t have to be positive all the time. You can have hard days.

**You’re allowed to adapt.**

Using assistive devices isn’t giving up. It’s being smart.

**You’re allowed to set boundaries.**

You don’t owe anyone your story or your medical history.

**You’re allowed to live fully.**

Disability doesn’t disqualify you from joy, purpose, relationships, or dreams.

**You’re more than what your body can or can’t do.**

**Still Standing**

I’m 62 years old. I’m held together by surgeries and replacement parts. My body is a testament to medical science and stubborn determination. Some people might look at me and see limitation. I am SEASONED! I look in the mirror and see possibility. Because I’m still here. Still standing. Still speaking (even if it’s through a machine). Still moving forward.

**My body might be broken. But my spirit isn’t.**

And that’s what makes all the difference. — Calvin Dodson Refurbished & Running Seasoned & Still Standing —

*Living with disability? Share your story: the66voice@gmail.com*