“She’s definitely better,” he said.
“She’s trying a lot of new things. It’s hard to say what’s helping the most.”
“Well, she’ll always have it. I mean, it will never go away completely. But she’s able to manage her symptoms as of late. She’s able to get out of bed in the morning and go to work.”
Wow, I thought to myself, he gets it.
He truly gets it.
In some ways, he accepted the enduring nature of my illness long before I did.
I’m an easy sell—dangerously gullible–so when I hear commercials for new drugs promise an end to death thoughts, fatigue, apathy, and anxiety, I believe them, much like I believed in Santa Claus until my mean cousin made fun of me because I was way past the age to have not figured out it was Uncle Steve who was donning a white beard and ho ho ho-ing between his martinis.