My mother almost died when I was born. 24 years ago, what felt like a regular infection spiraled into several months of hospitalization. She entered the hospital on Halloween night, 18 and carefree, was told she was pregnant the following day, and slipped into a coma. Her lungs collapsed. No one thought she would survive, so they took me two months early. No one thought I would thrive, so everyone prepared for the worst—but despite the odds, we both lived.
I grew up surrounded by stories of the miracle of my birth. I took them for granted; as with many of my experiences, I thought they mirrored everyone else's. I thought everyone must have a similar origin story.
Some of my fondest memories of my mother are from when I was in elementary school. She introduced me to horror movies at the ripe age of 6, which might not sound like the greatest parenting move, but I turned out alright despite that. I was always a timid kid. I think maybe it was her way of strengthening me, of taming some of the fear and anxiety she could already sense in my young mind.
I remember sitting in my fifth-grade math class, bursting at the seams in anticipation of that night. We were going to see the new Nightmare on Elm Street movie after school. It was hard to care about fractions most days, but especially then. We got to the mall early so we could eat dinner and shop around for a bit, and she bought me a sparkly zebra print journal with an A on it at Claire's. The movie was a typical remake—not as good as the original—but we still had a great time, and I felt like a rebel, seeing an R-rated movie in a theater full of grown-ups.
And now that I think about it, for a shy, anxious kid, I spent much of my childhood seeking thrills by her side. We rode all the roller coasters at Busch Gardens and Kings Dominion every year. As a logical kid, I knew they wouldn't let those things run if they weren't safe, but would I, at 8 years old, have volunteered to sit in the first row, hanging off the edge of the Gryphon, if not for her? Probably not. I couldn't even ask a waitress for honey mustard for years.
People who knew my mom as a Book Fair and Santa Shop volunteer might find it hard to picture her as a thrillseeker. Even people who met her later in life, when her body no longer allowed for such adventures, might be tilting their heads. But I remember the woman who jumped the railroad fence with me (again at Kings Dominion,) so we could see Miranda Cosgrove (iCarly) in concert without having to wait in line all day. She had so many stories of things I never would have had the guts to do—so many that I even got her confused with Pam in the Office when she walks across the hot coals on the beach. (My mom never did that, but if the opportunity had come up and someone dared her, she would have). That became an inside joke between us too.
She took me to so many concerts and so many movies, I couldn't list them all. And of course, at many of those concerts, she ensured we met the artists. No $200 VIP pass needed; she just had a way of talking to people.
In more recent years, we have mostly bonded over music, animals, art, and though no one likes to hear it, our mutual understanding of chronic pain. Everyone, including the doctors, has said how sorry they are but how glad they are to know that she's no longer suffering. But no one can understand it the way I can. And even I can't understand fully. But I know what it's like to face over a decade of fatigue and mottled joints and abnormal labs that don't line up with any textbook diagnosis. I know what it's like to have to look a doctor in the eye as he tells you he can't find anything wrong. Maybe lose weight. Maybe gain weight. Maybe try yoga. Maybe think positively.
I have no doubt in my mind that my mother fought her illness as best she could. While I wish, selfishly, that she could have fought longer, I know that my jaw hurts when I cry or eat, and my wrist hurts when holding a steering wheel or phone, and sometimes my knees give out when I walk. I have not only witnessed many of the symptoms my mother felt; I’ve felt them myself. I can't imagine not being in some sort of physical pain, ever. And I'm glad that she doesn't just have to imagine it anymore. I’m glad she’s finally found some form of rest.
Alyssa Tyson has been writing since she knew what words were. She graduated from ARGS in 2018 and holds an MBA and a Bachelor of Science in Marketing Management from Western Governors University, as well as an Associate of Science from Richard Bland College. She currently works as a Substation Project Coordinator at Dominion Energy and lives in Fredericksburg, VA with her partner, four cats, a guinea pig, and a leopard gecko. When she’s not caring for her miniature zoo, she can be found writing over Discord with her critique partners, building elaborate dream houses in the Sims, or re-watching Twilight (in a nostalgic, Team Nobody way).