Dear Multiple Sclerosis, 

You stole my mother from me. You live in the shadows where few people know who you even are. But I know you and have seen you in your cruelest form. I’ve watched you paralyze my mother and lock her in her room for days on end. You’re a coward that hides within my mother and eats her alive. You let me blame myself for 16 years for everything she endured, but I know the truth now.

It began with Grace, my mother’s first miscarriage. You entered her body and made her b cells army her enemy. You infiltrated their camps and made them traitors. Every day, you conquered the matured cells like a true creature of war, yet you felt no sorrow. You planted the hope of pregnancy and gave her 5 months of joy before ripping each ounce away. Do you find joy in suffering that fuels you further? You killed my sister. Now, all we carry with her is my middle name, given to her first. 

The worst part was, you watched me grow old. You were there, lurking beside me as my mother was carrying me. The doctors found a way to hold you off, but not without later punishment. At first, you were obsolete, planning intricately how you would torture my mother. She only discovered your presence as you threw her down the stairs, pushing her into the darkness of the cool, musty basement. Leaving her paralyzed, you left my terrified sister to discover her, unmoving against the ground. She climbed her journey up the mountain of stairs to get her off to school because it was “her job as a mother” she claims. It was following that the doctors told her in their cold, dreary office that she had Multiple Sclerosis (MS). I imagine the light flickered as the realization hit. The MRI machine beeped faintly in the background, but everything was muffled. The sound of patients in the past whose lives were forever changed in that room dispersed from the walls. They floated into our ears and danced along our skin, making goosebumps. 

Growing up, I didn’t realize my mom was different until I started school. I distinctly remember the most vivid instance: my fifth-grade Christmas class party. The window outside reflected the children’s hope and holiday cheer. The rug of numbers and letters was so vibrant that they forced me to squint. The hand-made games and desserts were scattered across the room. I sat waiting for my mother as all the other parents trickled in, but she never came. I felt the tears pouring over my eyelids before I could even process what was happening: my mother wouldn’t make it. You had taken all of her energy away that day. She lay on the couch when I sulked off the school bus. She explained that her legs were so tired from work that she couldn’t run around and play games like all the other parents. I didn’t understand. Why couldn’t my mom’s legs just be ok? This question never left me. 

As my teenage years approached, you became more ruthless. You pushed her onto the ground and held her legs, like a child clinging to their parent, so they dragged her as she walked. You shocked her face with lightning bolts as you ate away at her nerves. You ignited a sense of loneliness where my mother could no longer remember details of my life. I began to grasp the understanding that if she didn’t find a working medication soon, she wouldn’t make it much longer. The scarred tissue along her arm was her form of battle scars; the type that showed her daily perseverance through stabbing needles that only made things worse. The mountains of pill bottles covered the counters in varying hues of orange and yellow, containing large, plastic-looking pills. But you were still stronger. Yet, you don’t define her. 

She began to meet people who had answers to the years of pain: infusions that obliterated you for weeks at a time. Now, she frequents a warm, cushioned hospital room with a bed that hugs her just right. It recharges her while the sunlight glitters along the floors and walls. The doctors grin ear-to-ear knowing she will walk again with a confidence she hasn’t known since your first days.

I will not let you steal her from me. My words rip you from the shadows and put you in the spotlight. There will be a day when someone discovers how to eliminate you from this world entirely and you will never steal another mother, child, or grandfather.