I think about my younger sister a great deal, because the world has limited her choices for the type of life everyone else can choose. Having other physical issues and then having your kidney finally crap out your senior year in high school is bad enough, but when the year following your transplant is more easily accounted for by months you were in hospital than when you were at home, then you know it’s kind of been a tough year. 2015 is still bright and new, and the count for two week visits so far is… four. Infections, infections, infections. I know it must get old.
Worse, the interruptions to any kind of …life are numerous. At one point, my sister to be a makeup artist, but the myriad medications she’s on have left her, at just out of high school, with a tremor so bad that she can hardly draw a straight line, much less line an eye. Manicures? Can be messy.
The thing that is hardest about it all is that she’s struggling. To stay upbeat. To dream of an actual life beyond injections and rows of anti-rejection pills and waiting rooms with molded plastic seats. To not fight pointlessly with our mother. No matter how much you love someone, their struggle is theirs alone. But on the days when there’s any hint of success – even the smallest gain – the trick is to identify it, remember it, and celebrate.
persevere. try again.
who of us can find the lines
when first we color?