Personal Narrative: The Tide

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