I’ve always enjoyed being around people, both at work and with friends. I also liked daily biking and sailing off and on. Then, in 1990, a neuroimmune illness hit me out of the blue. Since that time, the disease has kept me almost completely housebound and able to tolerate only brief personal contacts.

I just returned from the cemetery. It was 10 years ago today—November 1—that my beloved father died in my arms. The sun has daily risen and set during this past decade; I have gone about my business of reading, attending theatrical productions, napping, and meeting with friends. My children and I have gotten closer. But there is a hole in my soul from which I will never recover. Until I take my last breath, I will miss, mourn, celebrate, and love my father.

Dear readers,

I’m still recovering from my diagnosis of type 1 diabetes forty years ago. The recovery involves daily injections of insulin, a continuous glucose monitor affixed to my upper arm and a hovering awareness of where my blood sugar is at any moment and which way it’s headed.

Recovering isn’t just about getting over an operation or a brief illness, although life does offer us some quick recoveries: At age five I got over my tonsillectomy in a week or two; and, luckily for me, my bout of COVID last winter left no lasting effects.