For almost two years now, my son has known that Mommy’s legs have boo-boos. He knows Mommy has to call the doctor. He knows Mommy goes to the doctor. He knows that sometimes Mommy comes home from the doctor feeling tired, with a big band-aid on her arm. And, as the years go by, he has seen the number of prescription bottles grow. Mommy has many medicines to take.
It’s a part of our life. I try not to make it the forefront of our life, but it’s there. And the other night during dinner, Ryan showed me just how much he’s aware of my medical condition.
Ryan was eating cucumber salad, bite-size pieces of cucumber he was picking up with his fingers. Ryan took a bite, then reached for a sip of his milk. He told me he had to take his medicine. Like Mommy. He did this several times. A bite of cucumber, a swallow of milk to wash it down.
Innocently enough, my son had me in tears.
Things could be worse. I know that. I am able to drive, to pick up my son (most days). I can dance (somewhat). I can do a floor-size puzzle and play a game of tickle and squish.
But, things could be so much better. I can’t take Ryan for walks like I used to do. I can’t get up easily after completing our floor-size puzzle. And I never know when a bout of pain will hit, leaving me writhing and crying in agony.
I used to look at my life as B.R. and A.R. Before Ryan and After Ryan. I still do. But there’s a new equation to add to the mix.
B.J. and A.J. Before July 2010 and After July 2010. That’s when this medical journey began. That’s when the fates made sure I knew I was vulnerable.
It’s a continuous journey, trying to live with an autoimmune disease that is still not under control.
And while I’m struggling with the pain and the uncertainty, I’ve got my son to remind me that we’re in it together - cucumber salad medicine and all.