Sep 23, 2019
How I’ve Changed as a Parent in the Wake of My Multiple Sclerosis Diagnosis
On the heels of my diagnosis, I feel there is no way to construct a narrative around what’s happening to me—a deep betrayal for a writer.
On the heels of my diagnosis, I feel there is no way to construct a narrative around what’s happening to me—a deep betrayal for a writer.
Like a drawing is and is not mine once I’m finished with it, my son is not mine, not really, because he is himself.
In the battered barbershop chair, Faris sits slightly camouflaged and crumpled, as though he is a mystery even to himself.
Being disabled means hundreds of thousands of people believe they always know better than you do.
When you give birth to a life, you are also giving birth to a death.
My kids have been kicked out of many, many places for being different—just like I was.
We were so worried about surviving that we’d forgotten to show him even little ways to live.
I was thin-skinned as a child, with an ego that could put bruised peaches to shame.
I promised myself I would not threaten, shame, or scare my daughter into compliance. I kept that promise.
“I want him to stay as sweet and soft and cute as he is now. He is my baby boy.”
“In the emergency room, my instincts exploded from protective to full-blown primal. And it felt like love.”
An unexpected pregnancy, a birth, and a family reunion.
Maniacal clowns and pale men with eyes in their palms are the worst my son has to fear in life. Or so I wish.
My child casually peeled their T-shirt off; I was the one who felt exposed.
