Every mother depends on angels for help. None more than me.
Scrambled eggs sizzled in the frying pan. Eighteen month-old Joshua grinned up at me from the floor where he was playing. “Mommy’s making eggs,” I said. “You like eggs, don’t you?” His brown eyes widened with delight.
A happy baby and a fresh, buttery breakfast. Those might seem like little things to some, but not to me. Eight years before, in 2004, I had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. At first, I chalked my symptoms up to being klutzy. I felt tired all the time, I tripped going up stairs. Then things got worse. My whole right side was weak, my arm and leg almost useless. My spine felt as if it was being shocked with a Taser. For two weeks, I was blind due to swollen nerves in my eyes.
An MRI confirmed the doctors’ diagnosis. My life changed dramatically. I had to leave my job teaching fifth grade. At home my husband, Fletcher, and I had two sons, Jarvis in tenth grade and Christopher, five. Even with Fletcher working at a school five minutes away, close enough to get home fast in an emergency, it wasn’t easy getting used to my condition while also being a good mother to my children. I never dreamed I’d have a third child.
“Eggs!” Joshua announced from his spot on the floor.
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