I was holding Elliot, who was not one yet, as I stood there in the doorway of the hall and the family room. My mom sat on the red-covered love seat holding a crossword puzzle clipped to her notebook. I bounced the baby on my hip.
"Well, I have an official diagnosis," she said. Her voice was even. She looked over at me.
"Oh, you do? That's good!" I thought this would be welcome news. She'd had months of symptoms with worries and question marks. A diagnosis would give choices, treatment, peace. A diagnosis would mean she would be fine. Silly, stupid me.
Her eyes were tired. "I have this auto-immune disease that sort of goes after every system in the body. It's different for everyone who has it. It explains a lot of what's been going on with me, but also brings up more questions." She paused. "It doesn't have a cure, dear. It's terminal."