The Tide detergent bottle gradually moved back and forth, as my father’s elbow creaked, refusing to cooperate. “It’s my own way of physical therapy, you see,” my father boasted. “If I keep it up, I think I’ll be able to move my elbow by the end of the month.” “Yeah,” I whispered, keeping my voice low, because I knew my mother was shut-away in the other room. The lights were off, the door was closed, and she barricaded each ear with a pillow to block out any sound that might further trigger her migraine.
As a child of two chronically ill parents, I did witness significant amounts of pain, but my childhood was never painful. Doctor’s appointments and prescription refills were penciled into the family calendar alongside t-ball practices and