Cheryl Ryan Chan uses her rage

Portrait: Laura Dumont Photography

Cheryl Ryan Chan is a change agent. A mom with a mission. A woman who crowd-sourced anger and used it as a tool for accountability. She figured, if the courts are going to fail to protect her son with intellectual disabilities from his abuser, then she’s going to have to just change the law. If you want something done right...

By Cheryl Ryan Chan

I want to preface my story by acknowledging that this is The Advocacy Issue, but it’s more of a story about identity, but I missed that issue because I was having a colossal internal argument with myself about whether to write about this because I know it is a powerful story and one that may evoke a powerful response from readers. To say I’m not ready for that doesn’t really match up with my character—with my identity. Everyone who knows me knows that I don’t walk away from a challenge. They know I am a leader, an outspoken critic who loves as deeply as I call people out.

A good friend introduced me at a conference before a speech I made and said, “You know the term ‘call a spade a spade’?  Well, Cheryl sees a spade and calls it a fucking shovel!” So, it’s weird that I hesitated to write this. My identity is inextricably entwined with this story; I have no identity without the journey I’ve had over the last 30 years as Mom to a man with severe autism, so I guess this does fit. And I’m now ready. Let’s do this.

“If anyone touched MY kid, I’d kill them!”

I always try not to roll my eyes and I just take a deep breath and nod. That kind of response is typical when they hear my story—just not very helpful.

As if I hadn’t thought of that. As if I haven’t executed the people involved in my son’s abuse in my head thousands of times.

Anyone with kids in their life gets the emotion behind that kind of statement. If you love someone who is vulnerable, you get it. Aging parents, very young children, someone with mental illness navigating the “service” and medical worlds; all of us get it at some level.

The emotion is real. BELIEVE ME. It’s rage—nothing more, nothing less, and as you’ll learn here, rage is a wonderful, powerful emotion. I live with it and I’ve learned to embrace it as a strength. I have embraced it since the day I found out Nicky, my profoundly autistic, intellectually disabled, non-verbal son, was brutally beaten by a caregiver at his adult day program while another caregiver looked on.

It was spring of 2014. I had already been told what happened with his caregiver. I knew I was going to get something in the mail from the Massachusetts Disabled Person’s Protection Commission (DPPC) with details of their investigation that a caregiver at Nicky’s day program had been found with drug paraphernalia while working with my son. I received a phone call from the provider agency that they filed the report, per the state mandate. I was prepared for that envelope. It was weird when there were 2 envelopes in the mail that day.

The first one I opened was just what I was expecting, but having never seen it in this report format I took my time reading it. Ok, there’s the investigator’s name, date, and time of the investigation. There’s the summary of the reported allegations. They’re using some acronyms I don’t know so I’ll look those up. Yep, it says drug paraphernalia was found on the guy after returning from a community trip with my son. Ok, the guy denied it but a witness testified to seeing it at the program. The investigator’s finding is that the allegation is considered “substantiated,”  meaning, it probably did happen. Ok, and at the bottom here is the recommended action: fire the accused, basically. I knew this had already happened because the agency had already done it. Ok, got it.

When I opened the second envelope, my world shattered.

The description detailed in the second report is too horrifying to repeat, and I would lose you, dear reader, to the rage you would feel. Abuse of someone you love is top among the nightmares we all list. I’m pivoting for this story because it’s about being raw; and while the details of what happened to my child are about as raw as it gets, this is supposed to be my story. Which, right now, is a story about rage and this is the moment it begins.

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I hadn’t been told about this second report. As it turned out, the allegations of abuse came out during the drug investigation. The witness decided to spill everything she had been hiding. The provider agency didn’t even know about it (side note: they should have and they remain culpable as far as I’m concerned).

I’ll never forget holding both reports, completely in shock, still trying to figure out why I had 2 reports, not 1; and even more importantly, how could what was described have possibly happened to my son?

I remember the wind being knocked out of me as I read those papers.

I remember being unable to speak.

I remember a feeling taking over my entire body.

I was shaking.

My heart was racing.

My mind was racing.

I called DPPC because I had one question that hadn’t been answered in their report. The woman on the phone was warm and knowledgeable. She expressed her relief that these people would no longer be working with my son. That was when I asked, “Yes, but what mechanism is in place to prevent them from applying for another job in another agency and doing this again?”

That warm, authoritative voice turned into a soft, apologetic whisper.

“There is none.”