June 2026 - Vol. 23, Issue 3

I wheel into my grandmother's home, my wheels slightly squeaking. I am greeted with love and hugs by everyone.

I go take a steamy shower and get into comfy sweats. It is winter and very cold, though not enough for snow, because it is raining.

Despite the chill in the air and the pouring rain, my family is gathered on a covered porch to enjoy a feast.

My grandmother asks me about my diagnoses. I explain Myalgic Encephalomyelitis, Dyspraxia, and Hypermobility. She becomes irate and spits out, "Is that all?" No, this is not all, but I am keeping things short. It is safer this way.

My aunt criticizes how much water I have been drinking. I explain my diagnosis of Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome. I tell her how quickly I can become dehydrated and faint. To my surprise, she is sympathetic.

My mother gets there. I meet her in the rocky driveway. The rain stopped, but it is still very cold. She is in a rush to get inside. I stop her to tell her about the conversation with my grandmother. I tell her I am hurt by how she reacted to something so serious. She is kind and soothing. She tells me, "Give it time."

I try to keep up as she gathers her things and rushes into the house. I tell her that I am being hired at a small coffee shop and I am getting accommodations. The manager does not care if I can only do a couple of hours once in a while and call out if needed. My mother is genuinely happy for me. I feel proud. I have not felt useful in a long time.

My dog is with me at my grandmother's home. I keep asking my family members, "Do you like Damon?" "What do you think of Damon?" "Isn't he cute?" "Isn't he a little warrior?" My family does not seem interested in my beloved dog.

I start to feel ignored, so I go to the room my grandmother set up for my visit. My bookshelf from home is there. It is set up exactly like the one in my real bedroom. My knickknacks are in place. The books are in the same order. I think it is odd that my family knew to set up my bookshelf this way, but I feel safe knowing it is here with me.

I lay down on the pristinely made bed and close my tired eyes. I feel relaxed and calm. I fall asleep.

And then I wake up back to reality.

My family does not talk to me. They are not sympathetic to my ailments. There is no longer a use for me in the family now that I am ill. Their love has always had conditions.

I do not have a job. I cannot work a job with even the best accommodations. I cannot work at a coffee shop. I cannot even make a cup of coffee at home without spilling everything and becoming a zombie.

My family will never know my dog. They will never know his story. They will never understand our bond. They will never know all he has survived. They will never know the feeling of seeing his big brown eyes looking up at you with love.

My bookshelf is still here, just as it was in the dream. It reminds me that I am safe, cared for, and loved. Not by my blood relatives, but by my chosen family - my husband and friends who give me books, who call to check in, and who send me silly videos to make me laugh. The people who helped me go from a sketchy motel to a safe, accessible apartment. The people who come over to move furniture because I cannot. Those who stop by to talk, to make art, to cut my hair. These are the people who matter.

I realize my life is more peaceful now than ever before.

My husband wakes up for a second and blows me a kiss.

I am loved.

I do not need people who can only love conditionally.

I smile and meditate on this and go back to sleep.