The state Department of Health Services, which administers MediCal, wants to cut the Durable Medical Equipment budget, and I'm frightened. I'm frightened for the thousands of adults and children who use manual and motorized wheelchairs to get around, who use aspirators and respirators to breathe, who need walkers and canes to support them, who need special toilet seats, shower chairs and lifts. The proposed 22% cut would threaten our independence--and some of our lives. For if the state gets its way, no vendors of this kind of health equipment will accept a reduction in a price they already consider too low.

I cannot walk because I had polio when I was 5 months old. But I'm quite active, attending church, organizing political activities, meeting with groups, shopping and visiting family and friends, often unassisted. I owe this all to my motorized wheelchair.

Everyday I put on a pair of shoes--the 24-volt batteries that power my wheelchair. My "legs" has become a part of my body. When my wheelchair breaks down, I panic, as would anyone who suddenly lost the use of their legs. I'm desperate for assistance.

It used to be that a single telephone call to MediCal for an emergency repair was all I needed to get my wheelchair working again. Now, no more emergency repairs are allowed; it takes MediCal six weeks to approve any request. Even then, wheelchair-repair companies complain that it takes too long--120 days, on average--to get reimbursed by MediCal.

As a MediCal recipient, I used to feel welcomed and accepted by doctors and wheelchair companies. Now when I take out my MediCal card, I feel as if I'm showing the California version of South Africa's infamous "passbook," an emblem of poverty and discrimination, a warning to health-care providers that they are not going to get paid decent fees or if they do, the payments will be late.

This is especially troubling for people dependent on wheelchairs. We not only need money for emergency repairs; we also need it for wheelchair maintenance. Regular maintenance saves dollars in the long run.

Last year, it became difficult for me to breathe. After some tests, I was told that I needed a ventilator to help me breathe at night. It took me a month to get used to sleeping while wearing a nasal mask with a plastic tube attached to a ventilator that hisses and beeps all night. But I can no longer live without my ventilator, even if it makes for a strange bedfellow. It is now a part of my body. Without it, I gasp for air during the day.