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Andy Davis and Cody Matsuda

Andy Davis and Cody Matsuda built a partnership around acceptance, shared rest, and communication beyond speech. They became close friends in 1995 and boyfriends that summer, began living together in 1997, became engaged around 2002–2003, and married in 2013. By 2033, after approximately thirty-eight years together, both were established disability advocates who had built a life around their bodies’ needs through chronic illness and medical crises.

Overview

Andy lived with spastic diplegic cerebral palsy, chronic pain and spasms, epilepsy treated with medication that could make him drowsy, autism that made social demands exhausting, and sleep apnea that went undiagnosed for years and prevented restorative sleep. He used a manual wheelchair from childhood and a power chair full-time by 2033. Cody lived with ME/CFS, whose exhaustion clinicians dismissed for years as ordinary tiredness or depression. Autistic masking compounded his fatigue. An anoxic brain injury in 1995 caused motor apraxia of speech: he could not reliably coordinate the movements for spoken words, although his intelligence and language comprehension remained intact.

As teenagers, Andy and Cody recognized each other’s exhaustion and experiences of medical dismissal. Ordinary school days could demand what felt like three times the effort their peers expended. Cody’s ME/CFS exhaustion did not resolve with sleep. Andy’s untreated sleep apnea compounded his adolescent exhaustion; CPAP later improved it substantially, although pain, seizures, spasticity, and medication continued to affect his energy. Their friendship included falling asleep together during video games. After Cody’s 1995 suicide attempt and acquired speech disability, their bond deepened through Andy’s ASL learning and their shared use of AAC, signing, vocalizations, and silence. They continued to support each other through seizures, spasms, crashes, and exhaustion for decades.

Origins

Andy and Cody first met in middle school, and Cody knew Sarah and Marcus well by the 1995 crisis. That year, seventeen-year-old Andy and sixteen-year-old Cody became best friends who understood each other’s exhaustion in ways their peers often did not. Andy dealt with cerebral-palsy pain and spasms, drowsiness from epilepsy medication, exhaustion from undiagnosed sleep apnea, and the effort of navigating social demands as an autistic teenager. Cody dealt with profound fatigue that doctors dismissed, the additional cost of autistic masking, and isolation from peers who did not understand.

They sometimes made plans to spend time together, only to fall asleep on the couch with game controllers in their hands and the game paused. When one said, “I can’t today, I’m too tired,” the other did not demand an explanation or an energetic performance. They ate quiet lunches at school, often without much conversation, and accepted cancellations, pain, and difficult days without resentment. Each offered the other relief from being treated as broken, lazy, or wrong.

Max rounded out their trio. Patient and accommodating, he helped both Andy and Cody without making them feel burdensome and remained a connection to the wider world when they had energy for it. The friends could be tired together without shame, and Andy and Cody could be fully disabled in each other’s company without performing otherwise.

Dynamics and Communication

Cody’s communication changed after he lost speech in spring 1995. ASL became his fastest and most natural language. He used AAC with strangers, in public, or when his hands were occupied, and typed longer thoughts when he had the time and energy. His vocalizations included “Mmmm” for agreement, “Eh” for a question, and “AHHH” for urgency. Expressive eyebrows, changes across his face, stomping, clapping, tugging, and physically showing someone what he meant also conveyed meaning. His early AAC device was heavy, needed charging, and produced a synthesized voice that did not sound like him. Its delay between thought and output could frustrate him during fast conversation, and public staring embarrassed him, but it gave him independent communication access with people who did not sign.

Andy primarily used speech, including a stutter that could be exhausting or frustrating. He learned ASL with Cody and the Matsuda family and used writing or typing when speech was difficult. On telephone calls, breathing and continued presence could carry meaning without words. Hand squeezes, resting his head against Cody, and grounding touch were also part of their communication.

Over decades, they developed shorthand signs and private references, learned the meanings of particular hums and sounds, and recognized changes in each other’s breathing over the telephone. They could finish one another’s thoughts and remain comfortable together in silence.

During their calls, Cody’s breathing and occasional vocalizations met Andy’s stuttered words and, eventually, his breathing alone. They sometimes fell asleep with the line open for eleven or twelve hours. Between them, “Mmmm” could mean “I’m here, I love you, keep talking.” An “Eh?” could mean “Say that again?” or “Tell me more.” Andy learned the variations in Cody’s sounds, and the open line let them remain together across the distance.

Andy learned to notice when Cody’s hands shook with fatigue, when his eyes glazed before a crash, and when his signing lost precision as he fell asleep. He could distinguish Cody’s AAC frustration from a more serious difficulty and recognize differences between “tired” and “in pain” in Cody’s expression. Cody learned to read worsening stutter as a possible sign of Andy’s anxiety, exhaustion, or an approaching seizure. He sometimes noticed pre-seizure changes before Andy did, recognized the quiet that accompanied spasm pain or reluctance to burden someone, and could tell when “I’m fine” meant “I’m absolutely not fine.” Muscle tension and changes in breathing helped him assess Andy’s pain, anxiety, exhaustion, and an impending spasm.

Family and Cultural Life

Andy was Black, and Cody was mixed-race, with Japanese American and white ancestry; they built a life together in 1990s Pasadena. Black American family care, Japanese American traditions shaped in part by the history of Japanese American incarceration, the Moore family’s white disability activism, and disability community all formed part of their cultural context. Their relationship was also shaped by both men’s disabilities and by their families’ willingness to support accommodation, intimacy, and partnership. Class and family values influenced their responses alongside race and ancestry; disability culture gave the couple a language that crossed those differences.

The Davis family’s approach to Andy’s cerebral palsy drew on Black American traditions of community care and Sarah’s fierce protection of her son. As a registered nurse and the mother of a disabled Black boy, Sarah brought medical knowledge and vigilance to a healthcare system that often undertreated Black pain, dismissed Black patients’ symptoms, and pathologized Black bodies. Marcus, a police officer, offered steady protection while recognizing that the world could be hostile to Andy. The family treated his disability as a reality requiring accommodation rather than a tragedy, meeting obstacles they could not remove with practical adjustments. When Andy was about fourteen, his maternal grandfather, Sarah’s father, installed reinforced handholds disguised as trim, along with hooks and carefully placed furniture, throughout the Davis home to support Andy’s independence. His work made the house a place where Andy and Cody could later live together.

The Matsuda family’s support drew on the Moore family’s wealthy white disability activism as well as Greg’s Japanese American family background. Japanese concepts of ‘’gaman’’ (endurance) and ‘’enryo’’ (restraint) offer context for the reserve with which Greg processed Cody’s crisis, without making his conduct an inevitable expression of ancestry. When Cody attempted suicide, Greg responded with steady practical support and coordinated the family’s ASL learning. Ellen used her disability-services expertise and professional connections to pursue care and communication access. Her advocacy was vocal, while Greg’s support was quieter; together they gave Cody access to both forms of care.

Both families accepted Andy and Cody’s relationship amid the homophobia of the period, including within some Black churches and broader American culture. Marcus and Sarah did not impose those social costs on Andy. Cody’s AAC announcement, “YOU’RE MY BOYFRIEND,” made the relationship explicit at the Matsuda dinner table, where the family received it without shame or rejection. Its openness also stood against expectations of reserve and privacy present in some Japanese American settings. Cody’s aunt Heather Moore, who had cerebral palsy, epilepsy, and autism, had already recognized the relationship and welcomed Andy through direct conversation about their shared disabilities. Both households had long chosen accommodation over social conformity; Marcus and Sarah likewise supported Andy without making his sexuality a conflict with family belonging.

Disability community gave Andy and Cody a shared public language for interdependence, accommodation as justice rather than charity, bodily knowledge, and telling their own stories. It also offered a cultural home where the combination of their identities could be understood when mainstream Black, Japanese American, and queer spaces could not fully accommodate them. Their advocacy work—Andy’s ‘’Room 118’’ and Cody’s ‘’Voices Beyond Speech’‘—placed disabled people in control of their narratives. Within their partnership, shared limitations became a basis for practical care, pleasure, and freedom rather than a reason to deny either man intimacy or adulthood.

Shared History and Milestones

In spring 1995, Ellen took Cody to another specialist appointment with Dr. Sato. Cody told the physician, “I don’t want to wake up tomorrow.” Dr. Sato dismissed the statement as typical teenage melodrama and sent him home without arranging an emergency psychiatric evaluation. Around 7:00 or 7:30 that evening, Cody attempted suicide with his prescribed fluoxetine. Ellen found him and called 911. He had a seizure during transport, suffered a brief cardiac arrest, and was resuscitated before admission to County General’s intensive care unit. The oxygen deprivation caused an anoxic brain injury, and his condition remained critical for several days.

Andy learned of the attempt through school gossip. He had a panic attack, vomited repeatedly as anxiety triggered his gastroparesis, and needed Max’s help to reach the nurse’s office. School staff called his parents to take him home. The stress triggered his worst spasms in months and multiple tonic-clonic seizures within a week. He repeatedly asked, “Is Cody going to die?” and “I never told him I understood.” He feared losing the person who had most clearly understood him.

When Cody regained consciousness, he could no longer speak. The anoxic injury caused motor apraxia of speech: at sixteen, he could still think clearly, understand language, and form complex thoughts but could not reliably plan and sequence the movements needed for words. Involuntary laughter, crying, gasps, and whines remained possible, as did intentional vocalizations such as “Mmmm!” “Ehhhhhh!” and “Ah!” He could still laugh fully when something genuinely amused him. Spoken words did not return.

Communicating after the injury required adaptation. Cody’s 1995 AAC device was heavy and expensive, with a synthesized voice that did not sound like him and a delay between thought and output. He found the device embarrassing and frustrating in public, especially when conversation moved faster than he could type, but it remained necessary for communicating with people who did not sign. Andy learned ASL alongside Cody’s family rather than letting loss of speech create distance. Signing became faster and more natural for Cody than the early device, and their shared use of it deepened their intimacy. Andy’s commitment took the practical form of learning how to meet Cody where he was.

By late June or early July 1995, approximately three months after Cody’s attempt, Andy and Cody were spending long periods learning and resting at home as their relationship deepened. Andy formally withdrew from Pasadena High that fall. The Matsuda-Davis Homeschool Cooperative ran from fall 1995 through spring 1997. Lessons rotated between the two homes four days a week—Mondays and Wednesdays at the Matsuda house, Tuesdays and Thursdays at the Davis house—with Fridays flexible for field trips or work at either house. Ellen taught history, social studies, and disability rights; Greg taught mathematics and science; Sarah taught English, literature, and creative writing; and Marcus taught practical life skills, first aid, and emergency preparedness.

Academics generally ran from 9:30 to 11:00 a.m.; required rest followed from 11:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m.; and afternoon learning continued from 1:00 to 3:00 p.m. when their energy allowed. The structure gave both intellectually gifted students a substantive curriculum without treating fatigue, disability, or communication access as character failures. They finished in two years rather than the two and a half they would otherwise have spent in conventional school, aided by the removal of pressure to appear nondisabled.

Their calls often began between 8:00 and 10:00 p.m. and stretched for hours while both lay in bed exhausted, talking about everything and nothing. They regularly fell asleep mid-conversation, sometimes remaining connected for eleven or twelve hours because neither wanted to say goodbye. During one history-homework call, Andy confused Christmas and Thanksgiving and said Washington crossed the Delaware on Jesus’s birthday. Cody gave the first full-bodied, genuine laugh anyone had heard from him since the injury. Both were startled and moved. Cody typed on his AAC device: “IT FELT GOOD. LIKE I FORGOT WHAT IT FELT LIKE TO LAUGH LIKE THAT. WITH MY WHOLE BODY.” Andy answered, “I’m g-gonna m-make you l-laugh like th-that again. I sw-swear.”

During the same call, Andy said, “L-love you,” with an ease that suggested he had been holding the words in for some time. Cody answered through AAC, “LOVE YOU TOO,” and they continued talking about the Revolutionary War. Their exchange also included Andy’s “Y-yeah, b-but I’m y-your idiot.” and Cody’s “YEAH. YOU ARE.” Neither made a ceremony of their first declaration of love.

One all-night call strengthened their bond. Andy fell asleep mid-sentence while reading history, his stertor turning into snoring. Cody tried to wake him through AAC messages, then called “MMMM!” and “EHHHHHH!” into the receiver. Andy woke and told him, “Y-you s-sounded like a b-baby bird.” Both later fell asleep without hanging up and remained connected for eleven or twelve hours.

The next morning, Sarah found Andy holding the phone, with Cody’s breathing still audible. Ellen found Cody asleep over his receiver, drooling, with his AAC device on the floor. The mothers called each other and laughed. All four parents were supportive and relieved that, only three months after Cody had tried not to wake up, he now wanted to stay on the line with someone he loved. Greg observed, “He’s in love and alive to feel it.” Ellen said, “I will pay whatever phone bill it takes for that to continue.”

Marcus then teased Andy about spending the night on the phone with “your boyfriend.” Andy called Cody back: “S-so. M-my d-dad kn-knows.” Cody asked, “KNOWS WHAT?” Andy answered, “Ab-bout us.” Cody typed, “MY MOM KNOWS TOO.” Then, “THEY WERE GIGGLING ABOUT IT.” Andy, embarrassed but willing to ask, said, “S-so. Th-they kn-know we’re… y-you know.” Cody asked, “TOGETHER?” Andy replied, “ARE W-WE?” Cody asked, “DO YOU WANT TO BE?” Andy answered, “Y-YEAH. D-DO YOU?” Cody typed, “YEAH.” Andy said, “S-so we’re b-boyfriends n-now.” Cody confirmed, “YEAH.” They also exchanged “I’m in l-love with y-you.” and “IM IN LOVE WITH YOU TOO.” before returning to their history homework. The direct question made their relationship explicit without a ceremony.

In spring 1997, nineteen-year-old Andy and eighteen-year-old Cody took the California High School Proficiency Examination with accommodations: typing and AAC for Cody, and audio recordings and extra time for Andy. Both passed with high scores. From fall 1997 through 2000, they attended Pasadena City College together. Flexible schedules and campus access reduced some of the pressure of secondary school. They took many of the same classes, studied together, and worked toward transfer to four-year universities.

They moved in together at the Davis house in summer 1997. After the CHSPE, Andy’s seizures increased in frequency and severity, and his spasticity, pain, and exhaustion from still-undiagnosed sleep apnea worsened. His cerebral-palsy pain remained at a reported six or seven out of ten. Cody found it difficult to be apart from Andy while he was suffering and moved in to help with care and remain close to him. Andy’s grandfather had made the stair-free Davis house accessible with reinforced handholds. Sarah could help with medical needs, Marcus offered steady practical support, Tommy the dog brought comfort, and both families remained nearby. Andy’s childhood bedroom became their shared room, with a lavender diffuser running continually, Cody’s AAC charging station on the desk, two wheelchairs, and books throughout.

During Andy’s undergraduate years, around 2002–2003, Cody proposed privately: “I want to build a life with you. Officially.” Andy immediately accepted. They married in 2013, when California again permitted same-sex marriage, after years of building a shared life.

Public vs. Private Life

By 2033, both men were established disability advocates in their mid-fifties. Andy’s ‘’Room 118’’ appeared in 2008, and Cody’s ‘’Voices Beyond Speech’’ appeared around 2015–2016. Both became sought-after speakers. They co-authored work on chronic illness and disability partnership, delivered conference keynotes, and addressed ME/CFS, cerebral palsy, epilepsy, medical dismissal, presumed competence, and failures of the education system. A younger generation, including Logan Weston and Charlie Rivera, both twenty-five at the late-March 2033 conference, grew up reading them. Charlie repeatedly cited Cody’s essay “Invisible Until Inconvenient: CFS, Masculinity, and Medical Dismissal” in his own ME/CFS advocacy.

As a disabled couple, they encountered ableism that treated their partnership as a tragedy. Strangers asked, “You’re both disabled?” with pity, “Who takes care of who?” as though neither could care for himself, and “How does that work?” without regard for their privacy. Some questioned whether the relationship was “real,” asked invasive questions about sex and intimacy, or said, “You’re so inspiring,” merely because they were together. Andy and Cody continued to hold hands publicly and build their life without hiding or minimizing their relationship.

As gay disabled men in the 1990s and 2000s, they encountered both homophobia and ableism. Disability had already marked them as “other” in many settings. Some disability spaces were homophobic, and some queer spaces were ableist, limiting where they could be fully accepted. They faced assumptions that disabled people were asexual, including the question, “Are you sure you’re gay? Maybe you just need each other.” The Matsuda and Davis families supported them, but medical professionals sometimes dismissed their relationship, and legal barriers remained until California again permitted same-sex marriage in 2013.

In private, their routines made daily life more sustainable. They began mornings slowly, with coffee or tea and a check-in, took medication on a shared schedule, and ended evenings with reading, conversation, quiet, and a goodnight kiss before falling asleep together. They greeted each other on waking and asked, “How’s your body today?” throughout the day. They marked the anniversary of becoming boyfriends in summer 1995 and the more complicated anniversary of Cody’s survival. Book releases, quiet birthdays spent just together, low-stress accessible holiday traditions, and conference trips gave them other occasions to celebrate their relationship and advocacy work.

Affection and Emotional Life

Andy loved how Cody’s whole face lit up when he was genuinely happy, the silky texture of his hair, his intellectual skill and college-level analysis, and his fierce protectiveness. He valued Cody’s graceful, expressive signing, his stubbornness when defending what was right, and the fact that Cody never treated Andy’s body as a burden. Cody’s rare, full-bodied laugh mattered to him, as did Cody’s survival and continued choice to live.

Cody loved Andy’s dry humor and terrible puns, his graduate-level literary analysis, and the ASL he learned to share Cody’s language. Andy did not finish Cody’s sentences uninvited; he took Cody’s exhaustion seriously and advocated for both of them. Cody valued the years it had taken Andy to stop apologizing for his body, the beauty and importance of his writing and the audience it reached, and the safety, recognition, and love Andy gave him.

Their daily affection included Andy tucking Cody’s hair behind his ear and Cody resting a hand on Andy’s arm to ground him in crowds. They asked, “You okay?” and “Yeah, you?” and advocated for one another with medical professionals. They checked medications, prepared food when the other could not, shared laundry and dishes, and spent time on separate activities in the same room.

Across medical crises, they kept adapting how they communicated through ASL, AAC, stuttered speech, touch, and silence. Their life together required accessible housing, practical support, shared rest, and continuing commitment through conflict as well as affection. Neither treated disability as an exception to love or wholeness. By 2033, they had spent approximately thirty-eight years choosing to sustain that partnership.

Intersection with Health and Access

Andy’s conditions shaped daily life. Spastic diplegic cerebral palsy caused chronic pain, often at a reported six or seven out of ten, and frequent spasms in which his legs could lock, requiring warm Epsom-salt baths, careful positioning, and recovery time. Epilepsy included tonic-clonic seizures and required medication that could make him drowsy, as well as sustained attention to seizure warnings. Sleep apnea went undiagnosed for years and prevented restorative sleep until CPAP treatment. Autism added the fatigue of social masking and sensory sensitivities to light, sound, and touch, contributing to his need for quiet environments and predictable routines. He used a manual wheelchair from childhood and a power wheelchair full-time by 2033, and he taught Cody practical skills about transfers, navigation, and advocacy.

Cody’s conditions required extensive accommodation. ME/CFS caused bone-deep exhaustion that rest did not resolve, crashes lasting days after exertion, and a need to conserve energy for what mattered to him. Motor apraxia of speech from the 1995 anoxic injury prevented spoken words without diminishing his intelligence. He used AAC, ASL as his primary language, and quick vocalizations such as “Mmmm,” “Eh,” and “AHHH.” His early AAC device was heavy and slow. Autistic masking compounded his fatigue, and sensory sensitivities increased his need for routine and predictability.

During one severe spasm episode at the Matsuda house, Andy’s legs locked more painfully than usual. He tried not to cry and repeatedly apologized: “S-sorry, s-sorry, I’m s-sorry—” and “I r-ruin everything—” He was embarrassed that Cody was seeing him in that state. Cody could not call for help through speech, so he opened the bedroom door and shouted “AAAHHHHH!” until Ellen came. She assessed the situation and said, “Okay, bath with Epsom salts, got it.” Cody collected the salts while Ellen helped Andy into a warm bath with careful positioning. He sat on the bathroom floor throughout, keeping a hand on Andy’s arm.

Andy cried from pain and frustration and began, “S-sorry you h-had to s-see—” Cody interrupted with emphatic signing: “STOP. NOT SORRY. LOVE YOU. ALL OF YOU.” He continued, “YOUR BODY ISN’T SOMETHING TO APOLOGIZE FOR.” “I LOVE YOU. THAT MEANS ALL OF YOU.” “THE SPASMS TOO. THAT’S PART OF YOU.” “STOP SAYING SORRY FOR EXISTING.” The exchange made clear that Cody’s care included the difficult reality of Andy’s body.

Their first kiss occurred during one of Andy’s spasm episodes. His body locked, and he cried and apologized through pain: “S-sorry, s-sorry, I’m s-sorry—” and “I r-ruin everything—” Cody held Andy’s face gently but firmly, brought his attention up, and kissed him. Andy made a surprised sound, went still, and then relaxed into the kiss. Afterward he cried with relief as well as pain. Cody signed the same message deliberately: Andy’s body was not something to apologize for.

Andy said, “Y-you… you j-just k-kissed me.” Cody grinned and signed, “YEAH. PROBLEM?” Andy laughed and cried: “N-no. N-no problem.” Later, resting together on Cody’s bed, Andy said, “Th-that was m-my f-first k-kiss.” Cody signed, “MINE TOO.” Then, “GOOD?” Andy answered, “P-perfect.” Andy thought: “He kissed me during a spasm. Not despite it, just when I needed to know he loved all of me.”

By 2033, both used power wheelchairs full-time. Andy could no longer sustain manual wheelchair use, and Cody’s walking capacity had narrowed. They understood the chairs as tools for freedom and access rather than defeat. Their care teams also helped: Kenji supported Cody with activities of daily living and medical management; Marissa supported Andy with transfers, spasm management, and seizure protocols. Accepting help did not replace their care for one another. It let them devote more of their available energy to partnership rather than caregiving alone.

Crises and Transformations

Cody’s suicide attempt and loss of speech in spring 1995 transformed their friendship. Dr. Sato’s dismissal of “I don’t want to wake up tomorrow” as teenage melodrama nearly cost Cody his life. The overdose, cardiac arrest, anoxic brain injury, and permanent loss of spoken words at sixteen had lasting consequences. Andy’s panic, vomiting, spasms, multiple seizures, and fear of losing the person who understood him revealed the depth of their bond before either could name it.

The crisis showed them that medical dismissal could have life-or-death consequences and that Andy’s body could respond to emotional crisis with a physical one. Cody’s survival mattered more than the form of communication available afterward. His acquired motor apraxia of speech left his intelligence and understanding intact. Both came to treat AAC, ASL, speech, touch, and silence as valid means of communication and to insist on presumed competence rather than measuring a person’s worth by one lost ability.

From 1995 through 1997, Andy’s ASL learning and their developing communication reshaped the relationship. He refused to let Cody’s inability to speak create distance, learning with Cody’s family and building a private shorthand with Cody. Telephone calls sometimes needed little more than breathing and vocalizations. For both men, being understood without speaking made silence part of their intimacy and made learning and adaptation forms of love.

Their first kiss during Andy’s spasm episode became an expression of bodily acceptance. Cody kissed him during the episode, when Andy most needed to know he was loved completely, and reinforced the message “YOUR BODY ISN’T SOMETHING TO APOLOGIZE FOR.” Andy understood that the pain and involuntary movement were not reasons to apologize. Vulnerability during a physical crisis could deepen intimacy, and an imperfect moment could still become a meaningful first kiss.

They moved into the Davis house in summer 1997 as Andy’s seizures, spasticity, pain, and exhaustion worsened. Cody found it difficult to remain apart while Andy suffered. Living together required them to develop partnership skills through medical crises and to build a life suited to their bodies as they grew into adulthood. Family support and accessible housing made their increasing independence possible.

Continuing Partnership and Advocacy

Andy and Cody built a marriage in which both men were fully disabled and fully whole. Their communication used ASL, AAC, touch, speech, vocalization, and presence. Neither man’s intelligence depended on how easily others could hear him. Rest was necessary and honored, and chronic illness was part of their lives without defining the whole of either life. The relationship grew through understanding, adaptation, and acceptance of both partners as they were.

Their shared life gave concrete form to principles they also carried into advocacy. Chronic illness did not preclude a deep partnership; rest and exhaustion could be shared rather than hidden; and communication could take many forms. Wheelchairs gave them freedom and access. Care teams supported interdependence without replacing their intimacy, while their writing turned personal experience into public work.

For younger disabled people, their visible partnership and advocacy offered a counterexample to claims that disabled people could not sustain relationships, contribute meaningfully, or build full lives. Logan and Charlie grew up reading their work. Their books and public appearances gave the next generation language for both disability rights and intimate life.

Andy’s ‘’Room 118’’ (2008) documented his experiences, while Cody’s ‘’Voices Beyond Speech’’ (circa 2015–2016) asserted the full inner lives of nonspeaking people through its form as well as its argument. Their co-authored pieces addressed chronic illness and disability partnership, and their conference keynotes reached thousands. Cody’s “Invisible Until Inconvenient: CFS, Masculinity, and Medical Dismissal” became a foundational text for ME/CFS advocacy. Their work addressed systemic medical dismissal, presumed competence, access as a civil right, rest as resistance, and disabled people’s right to full representation.