I Fight

There's a moment, when my husband comes to bed after I've already been drifting in and out of sleep for a couple of hours. His movements in the room cause me to stir, to surface back to consciousness. I don't know what he sees, but sometimes he reaches over and caresses my forehead, like a parent would a sick child. It is the only moment when I am truly aware of my suffering, and I turn my face to him, begging him not to stop. Sometimes he continues softly rubbing my forehead, comforting me until I fall back to sleep. Sometimes he pulls me to him, and I am wrapped in his warm, safe cocoon.

When my relapse became so bad that I had to cut out all my remaining external activities, a friend of mine was worried. She said it sounded like I was giving up. What she doesn't realize is that I fight this disease every waking hour.

I fight this disease when the alarm goes off and I stumble out of bed to wake my children. When I referee an argument. When my daughter wants to talk. When my son needs help with homework. When I have to defend an unpopular decision.

I fight this disease when I take my pills and drink my protein drink. When I stretch away the pain. When I rest half an hour longer. When I choose soup for lunch. When I add vegetables to my pasta dish. When I go up to bed while my husband and children are still laughing at the programs on TV.

I fight this disease when I take my lunch outside to enjoy the sunshine. When I see the snow on the mountains. When I notice the first day lily bloom. When I hear the birds through my window, their songs, their dialogues, and the one nobody answers.

I fight this disease with every smile I smile. Every pleasant conversation. Every phone call. Every note I write. Every tear I give in to.

I fight.

Until the moment when I feel my husband's hand upon my brow. Shhh. I'm here. You don't have to fight anymore.