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Thursday, December 30, 2021


One time I sat down and wrote 100 goals that I wanted to complete in 1000 days. It's somewhere on this site. 

After my diagnosis, I became a goal making machine. And then I learned that I don't complete most goals.

But goals change. I remember one from my list of 100 was to fly in a hot air balloon. While I'd still love to do that, it never happened.

When I was in physical therapy to learn to walk again, they asked me what my goal was of physical therapy, and I think about this one a lot. It was to be able to take a basket of laundry down and up the stairs in my house. My goal was to do laundry. 

When I think about the goals I want to make for this next year, I'm blank. Checking things off of a list doesn't feel the same as it used to. 

I don't know if it should be a goal to change my thinking, but it's a work in progress. I want to repair my relationship with food. I want to unfuck my brain from all of the limits and rules I've been taught without even realizing it. I'm tired of not eating things I enjoy because they're "bad". I'm tired of a device telling me that I've gone over my allotted calories for the day. I'm tired of thinking I have to be thin to be happy. 

I don't want to think like that anymore. I feel like in the past four years, I've done enough. I've gotten a chronic illness that I'll never get rid of. 

Apps can be deleted from my phone. MS can't be deleted from my body. 

Wednesday, December 29, 2021


I have a lot of shit to say to this body. I constantly see body positive things on Instagram and Pinterest, but those are about accepting your size, not about accepting that your brain is set to self-destruct.

How can I love a body that is actively trying to kill me? I didn't wake up one day and decide to stop walking. I woke up one day and my body decided for me. How the fuck am I supposed to love that?

I feel like I've been in a fight with my body my entire life. I have always been the person who gets so hot from physical activity that my face turns a shade past red, to an almost purple. And it stays that way until every single person around knows that I tried to be healthy and failed.  This, is a symptom that I had for 30 years before I was diagnosed with MS.

I would never go so far to say I was an athlete, but I was an active person. I was involved in activity all the way through school. But I always felt overweight. I have poly-cystic ovaries, which in some cases isn't a big deal and people still get pregnant and have normal periods. Not me though. I don't get pregnant, I don't have normal periods, and I have a very silken and illustrious mustache. Yeah, love this? No thanks.

But I'm trying. And the first thing I did was stop dieting. I've lost weight before with Weight Watchers and from starvation (separate instances) and I'm done with that life.

I don't know exactly how it happened, or when, but at some point, I decided that I had to be skinny to be pretty. As I'm typing this, I still half believe it. All skinny people are automatically pretty, because they've done what I haven't, so they win by default. I was much older than I should have been when I finally accepted that I would never been a tall and thin, willowy person. It isn't happening.

And all of those beauty norms aside, I have a lot of body un-norms all up in this bitch.

Today for instance, I woke up and my hands were so swollen that I could only get my wedding band on. I have to wear a specific type of pants because if I don't, I will pee myself trying to get them off. I have a hard time with zippers and buttons. I never fasten my coat because I feel confined in it and my upper body cramps up. I can't wear certain fabrics. I constantly feel like the tip of my left middle finger has a piece of tape on it because it's numb and doesn't feel like the rest of them do. 

I do my shots every Wednesday. It's an intramuscular injection, so there is no fun "grab a little fat on your stomach and stick it in". There is "Hold on to your butt, because we're going in hard and fast". My injections go into my thighs and I alternate each week. The needle is 1.5" and is spring loaded into the pen the houses my medication. I put the pen-tip on my leg, press down so that the safety releases (yeah, my medicine is so badass, there is a safety) and when I press the big blue button at the top, it shoots directly down into my muscle.

Which whatever, I have continual bruises on my legs. No big deal. However, you can't see what is under the skin, and several times, including last week, nerves can be hit. I've hit veins before and tasted metal instantly. But those times when I hit a nerve, it's awful. One week ago today, I hit a nerve in my left leg with my injection. Today, seven days later, the skin on the front of my left leg and hip burns so bad that it feels like it's on fire. In a few minutes, it will be ice cold. A few minutes ago, it itched. So you tell me, is it possible to love that?

This, like my body itself, is a work in progress.

Tuesday, December 28, 2021

dear me

Dear Bright Eyed, 23-year-old Angi,

I know you. I mean, I remember you...sort of. Congratulations on graduating college and on getting married! What a big year it has been. Maybe the biggest of your life so far! 

First, I want to say, I haven't decided if I'll send this letter to you. You see, you're so...tender. So innocent. You haven't experienced the world. There's nothing but blue skies.

Second, if I do send this to you, will it make you sad? Will you be depressed? When you flatten it all out into one story, it does seem rather morose. Is it better to not know? Part of me thinks it is.

Because if I tell you all of the things that are about to happen in your life, the next 12 years, Jesus fuck girl, it's a lot. In the same breath, it's a lot of triumph. No, you're not unscathed. You're scarred. Literally and figuratively. On the inside, and the outside. A physical scar will develop on your optic nerve, in your brain. It won't kill you, they don't think, but you'll lose part of your vision, and eventually, you may lose the rest. A second scar will develop on the other side of your brain, and you will have to learn to walk again. An emotional scar will hug you like a giant blanket. It will muffle out the sound. Numb your feelings. Dull your shine.

You'll make new friends, lose ones you thought you'd have forever. You'll learn that all friendships aren't like your childhood best friend, but in the end, you get her back too.

Remember how you wanted ten kids? God, you're an idiot for that.

You have one. And he is the most perfect child that was ever born. And you'll be there when he's born. But you'll stand next to the bed, because he won't be born from your body. Because of more scars. And oh yeah! Good job picking your husband. He's killing it. He has been there for you, and loved you at your ugliest moments. He has the strength to carry you, and he does. He stands next to you by the bed when your son is born. He cuts the cord.

Through your pain, and knowledge, and stubbornness, you'll make it. You won't be blessed with one child, but two. Only, one will go back. And that leaves a scar that is the hardest to heal from. It's probably technically, still a wound.

But my (our?) point remains. Scars don't change, but rivers can divert, and paths can turn into roads.  

Because for a while, on a few different occurrences, time does stop. Then you look around, almost from above, and you really see who you are. And what is inside of you. And the scars aren't so ugly. After a while, they even blend in. But they never leave.

Shit is about to get real, fast. You're going to do more growing and learning than you ever expected. And I know you don't think this is funny now, but someday you are going to laugh your ass off at yourself for thinking that your wedding would be the most stressful thing in your adult life. That party you threw with the cake and food? You thought that was hard. 

Better buckle up.


sick holidays

 After I got sick, I tried therapy. But only to be an asshole.

A month after I started my MS DMT Avonex, I fainted. Since we didn't know why, I went to the emergency room again. This time, I got a nurse who has Crohn's Disease. She decided that I fainted because I was depressed from my diagnosis and wasn't taking care of myself.

Which was news to me, because I felt like all I had done was take care of myself. So, she made me feel like shit. Here's someone who lives and works with a chronic illness, and she has been where I have been, so if anyone can spot that I'm not taking care of myself, it would be her. 

As soon as I got home, I made an appointment. I took the first available, which happened to be a very nice man, who was also an adoptive father to three children of color. 

During our one-and-only session, he kept veering back to talking about our adoption and foster care time, and about Isaiah. And I get it. This is Northern Indiana. Transracial families are hard to come by. But that isn't why I went. And after a while, he asked "Why are you here?" and my answer was "A nurse in the emergency room said I was depressed, and I didn't think I was depressed, but she said I'd feel better if I talked to someone. And guess what, here I am and she was wrong."

For obvious reasons, that didn't work out.

Two years later, I really did find myself in a crisis. 

I have noticed a pattern with my anxiety: it tries to kill me every fall.

It took me two years, but by then, my anxiety was higher than my pre-MS level. I made an appointment with my OBGYN to discuss the anxiety medication she put me on. She was happy to increase the dose, and said that if I felt like it needed increased more, she would refer me to psychiatry. 

So I followed the path. I got worse, so I decided that I needed to try counseling to work out the issues I had with never being "better".

For me, the hardest thing about chronic illness, is that I never get better. If I gained weight? Lose it. If I didn't like my job? Leave it. If I wanted to exercise? Do it. Don't want to be sick or have MS anymore? Too damn bad.

Like most people with anxiety do, I decided I had to win therapy. I went back and I found someone who was a good counselor for me. She and I worked so well together, and she even helped me through the first year of the pandemic (Jesus Christ, is that something I say now?) I graduated and everything. I kicked therapy's ass and I became the most well-adjusted sick person ever. Just kidding, I was still a mess. 

I asked my OBGYN for a referral to psychiatry, and I got myself a new doctor. First time ever that I got one because I wanted it and not because it was given to me. 

With all of the skills I've obtained over the last four years, I am a well-adjusted super hero. Just kidding. Still a fucking mess.

My psychiatrist though was the first person to really understand how I feel from a medical standpoint, which I found fascinating. I have always been diagnosed with GAD or Generalized Anxiety Disorder. However, I got a new diagnosis. The things I had been feeling didn't fall into the "anxiety" category, they fit into "panic". So I was diagnosed with panic as a symptom of MS. Mine manifests itself in more physical ways than a lot of anxiety does. I was also diagnosed with Medical PTSD. 

Do you know what I am? I am tired. I'm tired from living this big fact-finding mission for four years, and I'm even tired from typing this. Because the one thing I never expected, was that I couldn't magically get it together for the holidays. I assumed that the magic of Christmas would make me feel better, but you know what? That shit just burnt me out. And when I just need to rest, the thoughts of how I couldn't make things magical for my family resurface, and the bad feelings come back. 

I hate this post, I hate everything I've written in it. There is no sweet way to sum this all up. Life is hard. Even on well controlled prescriptions, anxiety still breaks through. I'm tired.

It's okay if you're tired too.

Tuesday, December 21, 2021


I left my old, soul sucking job earlier this year. I still work for the same organization, but a different department. Where I am now, I only knew one person before I started. I had the overwhelming guilt, sadness, anger, and frustration from my previous job, combined with my fear, anxiety, sadness, and overall shock of my new job and environment.

I have made new friends, which still feels a little odd to me because my self esteem took a hard hit when I first got sick and hasn't fully recovered yet. 

One friend in particular, told me that she struggled with infertility in the very first conversation we had. Remind you of anyone? Oh? Is it me? It's me.

I hadn't told her that I struggled with infertility though. She took this blind leap and shared it with me. Maybe she tells everyone, I don't know. But it felt really significant for someone who is currently in the place I once was, to openly share this painful wound the first time she met someone. 

Infertility is something that is so impossible to explain. I read Laura Bush's memoirs once, and she said something like it's like trying to describe that you miss a hand you've never held. A little body you've never rocked. A bright eyed smile you've never seen. How can you possibly miss someone who has never existed before? With death, there is something to mourn. With infertility, you mourn the nothing. And I hope more than anything, you never understand what I mean.

A few months ago, she and I were talking, and I asked her if she minded if I asked her about her infertility. I even went home and told my husband about it, because their story echoes our past. She desperately wants to be a mom, and everyone around her is becoming or is one, and it's so hard to not feel left behind. 

If you ever read this, I want you to know that you are brave. You are strong. No matter how you get to motherhood or if you never do, you are an amazing person. You are important. Exactly how you are now.

Monday, December 20, 2021


I like to divide my life into sections. When I was in high school, it was by sports season. In college it was by semester. When we were expecting Isaiah, it went by week. And after he was born, it went by in months. 

But now, I see my life in Parts. Like a book. The first part, is everything before my diagnosis. Part 2 is now. That is what was, and this is what is. 

Like we rarely do, I had no idea that my second part began when I walked into the emergency room and said "Angela Terry, 31, I'm um...dizzy? confused?". 

That day wasn't the beginning, but it was the first time that we knew we were dealing with something more serious than a migraine. 

Two months before that, I lost my vision. I woke up one morning, and everything was an icy blue color. It was like looking through the sliding door blinds that my mom has had for 25 years. You can see most of the back yard, but there are longer blinds that aren't broken yet, and you can't see through those. It was like looking at my mom's backyard, but the blinds were blue, and like their name, were blind spots.

That day, my husband took me to the emergency room. I had all of the tests they give to someone who they think is having a stroke, and was diagnosed with nothing. The on-call neurologist that day was the quirkiest doctor I had met. He would ask a question, listen to my answer, and seemed to repeat my answer in his head. He read my MRI results and told me that I didn't have a stroke. But he wanted to repeat the MRI with contrast to see if there was something on my brain that the first scan didn't pick up. Contrast (Gadolinium) is given through an IV and goes into your body like a highlighter would be used on paper. You can still see what is there, but it enhances the image. 

After that second scan with the contrast, the doctor said "We've done a lot of tests here today and we don't know any more than we did when you came in. We could run tests all day, but you've already had some considerable ones done today. I'm going to discharge you and if you start having any new problems, come back." and the words he said next were the ones I've grown to never forget, but didn't know they were important at the time: "We just don't know. It could be nothing. It could be a migraine. You could have drank too much last night. You could be developing multiple sclerosis."

So, when I went back to the emergency room two months later, my mom dropped me off at the door. And while she was parking, I checked myself in. "Angela Terry, 31, I'm um...dizzy? Confused?". 

After the visit when I lost my vision, I followed up with my now neurologist. He diagnosed me with "pain-free migraines". He prescribed a magnesium supplement. My vision never came back, and I went on living life. I went on a hiking trip with my dad, and kept on. It was my son's first year in preschool, and I was there for drop offs and pickups while trying to manage my new vision loss. My workplace was caustic, and I was afraid to tell anyone there that I was having stroke symptoms because I didn't want my credibility to be questioned, but I was afraid to be there without anyone knowing. 

When I went to the emergency room for the second time, I got the same doctor. And he remembered me, and my scans. When he walked in he said "You're back!" and I said "Yeah, they say I've had a stroke this time." And he said "No, this isn't a stroke. I mentioned this last time, but I think you're developing multiple sclerosis". And he went on to explain that he wanted to preform a lumbar puncture on me. If you've ever had an epidural, I've heard that the process is similar. Your central nervous system has it's own lubricant to keep things working. That fluid can be drawn and tested for central nervous system disease. It's a very clear test, and it gives the best answers, but it's pretty fucking terrible too.

My mom and my husband had to leave the room. I had to lay on my side, curled into the fetal position so that my back was curved like a "C" and my vertebrae were as far apart as they would go. The nurse stood in front of me holding me still, and the doctor was behind me. They first numbed my skin so I wouldn't feel the needle, and then once inside, the doctor was able to numb something else. I didn't feel pain, but I felt like someone was taking a finger and pressing in a place where I don't ever remember having feeling before. It didn't hurt, but it was very uncomfortable. And I silently sobbed the entire time.

I told my son to be kind at school that morning, and was having a lumbar puncture that afternoon. After being told that I had a stroke and then didn't have one. 

After a lumbar puncture you have to lay flat for 60 minutes. I can't remember why, but it was something serious. And I wish this were the worst part. 

I really wish that was it. I wish I had gotten up off the bed after my 60 minutes, got diagnosed, and went home. But of course not. I stayed in the hospital for three days. My son lost his first two teeth. 

And the ugly thoughts crept in. The ones that told me that I was a horrible person for adopting Isaiah only to subject him to half of a substitute mom. The ones that said my husband was definitely going to leave me for a wife who could walk. It got really ugly, really fast. 

After my diagnosis, they were still concerned that I was at risk of a stroke, so I had to get an IUD. I had been using birth control pills to regulate my periods, and there is a stroke risk with birth control pills. And do you know what happened? The infertile woman in me came back out and said "Oh my god, are you telling me that I have MS AND I can't have kids?!" Like, let alone that I already knew that. Several doctors told me that. But this is how grief works. Even those who never had children struggle with accepting it. At any time. The final stage of grief is acceptance, but acceptance isn't always the end.

In my appointment with my gynecologist, she walked in and gave me a hug. I've never hugged a doctor before. And I burst into tears. And I finally said "is there an anxiety medication that can help me right now? Because I'm having a really hard time." And she said "Angela, I would be really concerned if you weren't having a hard time right now. 

That conversation has led me to therapy, psychiatry, and to write again. Taking care of my mental health is how I've gotten through all of this. The main way my anxiety would manifest, is that I would obsessively check the thermostat to make sure the heat/air was working. I would obsessively check the basement to make sure it was dry. And this weekend, we had a clog in one of our drains, and I didn't have one full scale meltdown over it. 

That is progress. And there's a great big beautiful tomorrow.

Thursday, December 16, 2021

Adoption - 8 years later

My husband is really great about asking our son for permission to post his photos. I am trying to learn to do the same, and that includes his adoption. So I will not speak to his perspective, but I want to offer mine, because it has changed a lot since he was born.

One of the things I am most ashamed of, is how jealous I was.

When we were in the hospital, we tried to get Isaiah to take a bottle of formula. He did, but it wasn't a natural thing. When he would visit his mom, he would try to breastfeed, and that broke my heart. I felt like I was doing something horrible. I was taking a baby from his mother, who he instinctually preferred. Their bodies were matched. Hers produced a home and sustained him. And as soon as he entered this world, he never saw it again.

What right did I have? 

She and I communicated a little in the first couple weeks of his life to get things settled and to make sure everyone was doing alright. And then we stopped talking. And we didn't speak until I saw her on a sidewalk in the summer of 2020. Seven years. And in that moment, I still felt this undeniable bond that she and I have. As soon as she recognized me, her eyes lit up, the same ones I see on my son, and she said "How is he??" and there was no hurt, there was no awkwardness. It was two moms, on a sidewalk, bonded by their shared love of one little boy.

I still feel some sadness about his birth. Mostly though, because in helping Isaiah and his mom, ultimately, there was still a loss. When I looked at her face, I saw him. And I'll never see myself there. But the most surprising thing is, I'm okay with that. I don't feel that insecure sting of jealousy anymore. I look forward to the day when they meet. To the day when he's ready to see her again. Because just like she can never not be his mom, neither can I. 

I prefer not to use the term "birth mom" or "adoptive mom" anymore. We're both his mom, and that doesn't take anything from either of us. We've been through too much.

I would never recommend adoption to just anyone. I think a lot of people get into adoption as a "last resort" because they can't get pregnant. Or, they do it because they feel called by Jesus to adopt. I don't mean to disrespect to Jesus, or you, but don't adopt because Jesus told you to. You're adopting because the idea sounds right. This is a human being that you'll raise. This is someone who might grow to not believe in Jesus or anything that you believe in. A real person with choices and preferences. Jesus is not physically parenting this child with you, and there's a difference. 

If you're looking for a fun and easy happy ending, this isn't it. This is real life.

Wednesday, December 15, 2021

love letter to my husband


I've been reflecting a lot, and analyzing my own behaviors. Namely, this one. I stopped writing. Mason went home. I went back to work. That is where my downhill began. Part of my light died. I was a hollow version of myself. And you kept loving me.

I never wanted to be a foster parent, but a little baby out there needed us, so we did. And giving him back was the hardest thing I've done in my entire life. But I pretended it wasn't. I even fooled myself. No one should ever pack a child's belongings into a cardboard box for them to move on to their next family. I sent part of my heart with him when he left.

Then when I got sick, among all of the really bad things that were happening, something wonderful happened too. All of the love we had built surrounded us, and we made it. 

I will never forget the night that we got the results of my lumbar puncture. The ones that said something to the effect of: this could be MS, could be a tumor, the clearest and most failproof way to find anything out, isn't super clear.

The next morning, I tearfully told you that if I needed brain surgery, and it came to the worst, I wanted every effort made to keep me alive. Because that is all I've ever wanted. To live. Free and happy. With you.

The scariest thing I've ever seen is the look in your eyes when you would greet me in the hospital. Because I know your face. I know every expression. But fear is one I rarely see. 

I've been trying to pull myself out of this hole ever since. I don't ever want to see that look again. 

You're a better parent than I am. And you push me to be better. Sometimes, I have no idea how to talk to an eight year old boy. When I would just let it be, and let him cool off on his own, you push me to try to talk to him about his feelings and find out what's wrong. Because you love us. You make me a better mom. A better person. 

All of this to say: I love you. Yesterday, today, and forever. I love you and I like you.



Monday, December 13, 2021

Institutional Racism

 Originally posted 2/13/2020 to Hellobee.com.

My son has, and has always had, an abundance of energy. From the moment he wakes up until the moment he falls asleep, he’s talking, jumping, moving, playing, and generally not being still. I remember joking with someone once that he would climb over a table before he ever walked around it.

When he started school, it was a bit of a concern for me, but he was only four, so surely he would be fine.

Isaiah attends a private religious-oriented school. My family is not of the same beliefs as the school, but my husband and I enrolled him there believing that a private education would equal a better education for him. The cost was a burden, but we discussed that he will likely be our only child, and if we have to skip out on a few things to ensure he gets the best education, so be it.

And it was fine, for a while. Preschool was difficult for all of us, because of the initial shock for him of going to full day school, and then the added challenges of my diagnosis and our life changes. Kindergarten was more normal, and he did very well. Each conference was met with an overall positive experience, but it was always noted that Isaiah had a lot of energy.

Then first grade started, and this is where I feel our significant troubles began.

As far as demographics go, Isaiah’s current school is 4% African-American. There are 20 children in his class, and he is one of two students of color. He is the only child who doesn’t look like at least one parent.

By pointing this out, I already feel like I’m betraying white people. And I hope that no one who knows his teacher or the administration reads this. Because I truly don’t think they’re bad people, but I think Isaiah has fallen victim to institutionalized racism.

“Institutional racism is a form of racism expressed in the practice of social and political institutions. It is reflected in disparities regarding wealth, income, criminal justice, employment, housing, health care, political power and education, among other factors.” 1.

To show how difficult this is to even put into words, I had to step away from this post for a week, and my thoughts are still not completely gathered.

We were in a meeting at the beginning of the year because it was brought to my attention that Isaiah was being bullied. That issue was quickly addressed and seems to be resolved. But the main issue that Isaiah was reporting to me is that the student kept repeatedly asking him why he doesn’t look like his parents. And that’s a natural question, because we are different, and we were expecting this. However, the subject wasn’t being dropped when the question was answered. We have always been very open with Isaiah about his adoption and our differences, but I feel extremely bad for him at school because he has to carry the burden of our choice to adopt.

The ongoing issue is more complex. At the first conference, the principal and teacher expressed concern that Isaiah has a higher than normal level of energy, and suggested we contact his pediatrician for evaluation for ADHD. I have some experience with ADHD, and along with reading more about it, decided almost immediately that the symptoms don’t fit my child. But, like most parents, I think my child is perfect, so I contacted his pediatrician. We had a long discussion about behaviors and symptoms. Isaiah has had the same pediatrician since birth, and I think the world of him, and trust his medical opinion without question. When he told me that ADHD has never been a concern for him with Isaiah, I took his opinion, and not only because I agreed. But well, that does help, doesn’t it?

Without a diagnosis, Isaiah was placed on a modified behavior chart to closer identify behavioral issues. Which bothered me, but it isn’t my classroom, and if it’s what they need to do to get through the day, okay.

In December, a note came home that we should schedule a time to discuss Isaiah’s behavior, which was a shock because I thought the issues had been settled. After Christmas, we went in for another conference, and ADHD came up again. At this point, there had also been another significant issue at the school where a staff member was removed, and I didn’t completely appreciate how there was a lag in communication with parents of students. So going into this conference, my husband and I had essentially already decided that we were going to switch schools for next year.

When ADHD was brought up again, I said, “I spoke with his pediatrician and this isn’t a concern for him or for us. Isaiah doesn’t have any memory issues, no questionable moods, in fact, his grades have gone up since last semester. His pediatrician says he just has a high level of energy.” The principal responded, “Well, maybe he’s saying that because of his age.”

And I shut down. Because at that point, I had nothing else to say. I have no problem with a medical diagnosis and medication when it’s required. But when it isn’t required, why is it being pushed? My child has energy. He has a personality. And I will never dull that to make someone else more comfortable.

My thought, and by no means is this proven fact, is that Isaiah is experiencing institutional racism because he is being targeted by his behavior as being atypical, when in fact, he’s a bubbly, carefree, six-year-old boy. He loves life and he lives large. As he should.

So we’re going to visit a new school this week to see how he feels about it. We have done research into the demographics around us, and want him to feel comfortable. The school we’re going to visit is 25% African-American, and as you know, representation is important. I was encouraged to see that they have black staff members as well.

It’s disappointing for me and my husband, because we thought we were doing the right thing by putting him in this school. However, I hope that Isaiah will see our willingness to accept when we’re wrong and our attempts to change situations for him for what they are. Just because we’re adults doesn’t mean we’re always right. And that isn’t just us, it goes for everyone.

It's me

 Is this thing on?

You're going to have to bear with me, a lot has changed since I was here last. 

But here I am. I'm 35. Married. Mom to an 8 year old. I'm disabled. Chronically ill. I'm a visually impaired finance coordinator. I'm a bread baker with the greenest of thumbs.

I came here though because I have a bone to pick with...well...everyone. 

I relaxed, bro. I did what you said. And what you said was "relax and you'll get pregnant!" and "As soon as your adoption is final, you'll get pregnant!" and "Just wait! Stranger things have happened!"

Well, those things must have happened to someone else, because my life kept making it so I couldn't relax. And now I've created this amazing build-up where I should announce a happy ending! Seven years later! 

The ending is happy, but it isn't at all what I thought I wanted.

The ending came after a lot of doctors, MRIs, blood draws, therapy, tears, joy, and grief. Everything seems to end in grief. 

When Isaiah was almost two, and our foster son, Mason, had gone to live with his dad, we decided to give it one last go. I was finally ready to drop all of my pride and lose weight. Exactly what my first doctor said to me when I didn't want to hear it.

And I did a good job of it. I lost around 40 pounds. I loved what I saw in the mirror. I loved my new attitude and outlook. And I was happy.

And then I lost half of my vision, and then I couldn't walk. So when I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, I never saw it coming (literally, heh). But these must be the "stranger things" that do happen?

So very quickly, and without discussion, our journey to grow our family ended, because the new mission was "how long am I going to live?" and "How is my husband going to raise my son without me?".

The answers to those questions are "hopefully forever, because the sun never sets on a badass" and "Hopefully we never know".

I think I might get back into this, but for a different reason. I think I'm ready to write this for me. For my healing. To process my feelings. When I blogged before, it was for followers. And if you're reading this, I want you to know that it's okay if you don't like me. You can think every word I'm writing is a joke. That isn't why I'm here.

I have worked so hard to become the person I am. So here I am.


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