Sunday, January 29, 2023

The Limitlessness of Grief

One night in November, when I was 13 years old, my parents took the train to New York City to celebrate their wedding anniversary. They took in a show, went out to dinner, and had the last fully carefree experience of their lives together. When they returned from the trip, my mother was sick. They blamed her virus on a "very crowded train," but in actuality, my mother was actually beginning to show signs of a much more serious illness—we just didn't know it at the time.

In fact, it would take years before doctors finally discovered the true cause of my mother's near-constant aches and pains. Pains that caused her to leave her job, pains that disabled her and often confined her to a bed, a wheelchair, or, on the really, really bad days, a hospital room. Pains that altered my childhood, the state of my family, and her ability to mother in the way she wanted, and the way we had come to expect. We would eventually learn that what seemed like a bad flu or virus caught on a train to NYC was actually multiple sclerosis. She was 37.

As a family, we did our collective best to keep it together, and my mother did her best to keep our life as normal as possible, MS be damned. We threw great parties, Christmas was always a raucous get-together, and my mom somehow miraculously maintained her role as an active and involved parent and the leader of our little family. No matter her physical or emotional pain, she was still in charge, and made that fact abundantly clear. We muddled through and didn't talk about it much, but we made our new life work for us.

Nearly a decade later, long after her condition stabilized, the intense aches and pains returned, once again with no known cause.

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