By Guest Blogger Kathe Palermo Skinner, M.A., L.M.F.T.
He took my hand and smiled. “Are you always this beautiful?” he asked.
A couple of weeks ago, David and I were in Texas for the funeral of his mother, who died two days before her 94th birthday. Kay was the lady in my blog post, “When a Caregiver Dies.” Her world of worsening blindness and hearing loss was lonely and frightening.
Although David and his sisters were far busier than I was, those four days were nevertheless fatiguing for me. In the two years since I’d last travelled, my multiple sclerosis had worsened. So when we boarded the bus from the car rental center back to the terminal, I did what I’ve always done, helped out with my rollator and luggage.
“What you doin’ that for when there’s two strong men here who can take care of all that?” he said. The man all but gently slapped my hand away when I didn’t listen the first time. “Let us take care of that.”
For me, multiple sclerosis has been invisible for much of its course. But that was then. Now, being pleased that someone feels kindly about helping is, well, kind.