“Still,” she soothed, “losing a parent—in any way—leaves a mark. A hole in your life left unfilled. And whether you realize it, him leaving at such a critical time—your senior year of high school? That’s already a time of big changes. His departure from your life may have had a greater impact than you realized.”
Huh, I thought.Never thought about it that way. I appreciated the validation Cheryl gave me in that moment. She made me think about the situation with my dad, too, in a way I really hadn’t before.
He left me. The man in my life, up to that point. Did that make me subconsciously fear that others would leave me, too?It was something I’d have to chew on later. Cheryl was clearly good at this talking-it-out thing.
“Do you ever think of getting back in touch with him?” Cheryl prompted.
“Not really,” I admitted. “I kind of feel like he had his chance with Owen and me. Owen was even madder than I was when my dad left. I don’t know that there’s a relationship left there to repair,” I concluded. “I’d rather focus on reconnecting with my mom.”
“It’s important to set boundaries, even—or sometimes especially—with our parents. Tell me about your mom,” Cheryl breezed on.
“My mom. Her name’s Deborah. She... she did her best. She really did. She raised Owen and me, pretty much on her own even before the split, and all while she worked full time. She took care of the household—laundry, meals, cleaning. She passed up promotions so she could drive us to our games and practices. She sacrificed a lot.”
“And you aren’t close with her now?”
“Not really,” I admitted.
“Why?”
I met her eyes, and she didn’t appear to have any agenda, just simple curiosity. I finally leaned back into the soft throw pillows behind me.
“We just... we aren’t the same, Mom and I. She’s so strong, so stoic. She’s kind of a badass, but in a quiet way. I admire her, but I also don’t feel like I’m very much like her. Mom always acted like if she just kept working hard, pushing forward, nothing bad could touch us.”
“Do you have an example of that?”
Another deep breath. “When I got my diagnosis,” I began. “Mom was there for me, physically present at least. I was in college here in Boston, and I scheduled my appointments here since the network of specialists was so good. She drove in and came with me, to each appointment. I noticed I was getting tired a lot. I had to nap nearly every day after class. My body felt achy all the time, like when you get the flu? A few times after class I’d barely make it back to the dorm before I’d black out.” Cheryl nodded, and I continued. “It definitely didn’t seem normal for a 19-year-old. And I’d always been active and full of energy. We did the whole process, X-rays, blood work. Finally, I got diagnosed with RA. Early stages.”
Cheryl made another note. “How did your mom react to the diagnosis?”
“Things were basically exactly the same between us. But it was almost like... not that she didn’t believe it. More like she was...” I trailed off, unable to formulate the thought.
“In denial?” Cheryl supplied.
“Yeah,” I confirmed, nodding. “You could call it that.”
“Sometimes that’s how people, especially in my generation,” Cheryl pointed to her chest, “were trained to process tough news. We soldiered on. We didn’t show weakness. We were raised by parents and grandparents who had survived The GreatDepression, World Wars, times of strife. They taught us to just keep going.”
“That—makes sense, actually,” I concluded. I’d never admitted to my mom that it hurt my feelings when she didn’t talk to me about my diagnosis. I’d internalized the pain, feeling selfish for even expecting that of her. It wasmyillness, after all.
But it had also made me feel really alone.
“Speaking of your diagnosis—I see here you’re a nurse? That sounds like a difficult profession to do with joint pain and inflammation. How are you managing?”
I felt myself bristle with defensiveness. “I’ve wanted to be a nurse for most of my life,” I explained. “It is hard, and my rheumatologist has warned me that in the next few years, I might need to find a less-demanding specialty. Right now with my medication and how early they caught it, I’m able to power through. But... if I give up my dream career, it’s—it’s like one more thing in my life that I’m allowing it to take from me.” I slumped back onto the couch, deflated from my rant.
“It? You mean your illness?” Cheryl eyed me warily.
“Yeah. I just... want to live a normal life.” I groaned in frustration. No use holding back now. Might as well get it all out there. “Is that too much to ask? I’m young and Ishouldbe energetic enough to do this job.”
I paused, reflecting on my own words.Was I experiencing some of that famous Meadows family denial as well, not accepting my illness and its limitations? Damn you, counseling, already giving me self-awareness.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Cheryl began. “We need great nurses in the world. But you don’t have to punish your body or prove anything, not to yourself or to anyone else. You’re still worthy to exist and thrive even if you have to shift your job focus, eventually.”
I sat silently, processing her words.Worthy to exist. My brain tossed the words around.Worth picking,Whit had said,exactlyas I am. But wasIready to accept that?
“Now you mentioned your moods lately—do you think those are a result of your illness?”
My head snapped up at the shift in subjects. “Could be. I definitely haven’t felt like myself in years,” I added, putting air quotes around ‘like myself.’
