Because multiple sclerosis (MS) is an erratic chronic illness affecting each person in a unique way, I cannot say how mine is like yours or how it is different. I can tell you where I experience MS in my own body.
Read MoreA spindly-legged string bean, I stand in the batter’s box and the count is full. My local automotive-shop-sponsored team uniform is cheap and ill-fitting; my polyester shorts are scratchy and riding up; my red mesh hat is boxy and unbroken. I look to the third base coach, my dad, for direction. Counting on the wild inaccuracy of most fifth-grade pitchers, he tells me to take one.
Read MoreI tell Dad, “I bet I can beat you.” He looks older, bigger, slower.
How old am I? Around a time when I am too short to reach the mailbox. A time I play 52-card pickup (child-me eagerly agrees to his question: yes I want to play)! A time when I am his Kimmy Jo from Kokomo. A time when, riding in a car, watching the road pass beneath the window, I believe I can jump out and run. A conceivable feat. Easy. Just like this race.
Read MoreMy father remembers feeling like the ball was traveling in slow motion and he was frozen in place. My mother remembers it was Father’s Day; every dad through the gate was gifted a pair of boxer shorts. My brother remembers watching old episodes of The Dick Van Dyke Show in the waiting room while eating a Whatchamacallit candy bar. My sister was too young to remember anything at all. And I remember thinking, in the split second after the ball smashed into my cheek, “Wow, that hurt. I should probably cry now,” and then I burst into tears.
Read MoreI lurched along the rim of the Grand Canyon. With each gust of wind, I planted a foot, steadying myself against certain death. I had come to the canyon with its thousand-foot drops to conquer my adult onset fear of heights.
Read MoreIn basketball, a team goes into the bonus when their opponent reaches a foul limit. They are awarded a free throw for each foul that follows: a reward for weathering physicality, a chance to improve their odds.
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