Living Beyond the Diagnosis

My Life with MSA,

Is a series of choices. With each choice, there is a question.
Will this give me one more day?
Not a week, not a month—
just a sliver of time,
enough to hold onto,
enough to matter.

Will this let me hug my wife again,
feel her warmth in my arms,
taste the salt of her tears when we both know
what’s waiting, but won’t speak it out loud?

Will this let me see my kids rise up,
watch their faces light with victories,
watch them fight their own small battles,
knowing I gave them my best,
knowing my fight is theirs now?

Will this let me watch my granddaughters grow,
one laugh, one glance, one mischief-filled smile at a time?
Will they remember me as I was
or as I am now,
still holding on with trembling legs?

Will this let me say to my friends,
the ones who stood by when others drifted away,
“I love you”?
Will I get to say “thank you” one more time,
because gratitude is all I have left to give
in this body that’s failing me?

“One more day”,
I whisper,
to give the scientists, the doctors, the dreamers
just a little more time,
time to figure out how to fix what’s broken,
time to untangle the wires of this disease
that’s wrapped around my body like a noose.

One more day
to punch this damn thing in the face,
to wake up angry and full of vinegar,
to rage at what’s being stolen from me,
but still, still,
to get up,
to hope.

There’s never enough time,
but you can always ask for one more day.

Fuck MSA

~Coach~