Eight years ago on June 8th, I was diagnosed with ALS. At diagnosis, I was given 2 – 5 years to live. We all are. I was just 28 years old.

After my diagnosis, I immediately said goodbye because that’s what I was told to do. I was told there is no cure for the monster that had taken over my body, my life. I posted something on Facebook to the effect of, “I’ve just been diagnosed with ALS. Thank you all for being a part of my life.” I didn’t know there were other options, that even without a cure I could fight.

My fantastic ALS clinic connected me with the local chapter of the ALS Association and suddenly I had a power wheelchair, a Tobii eye gaze computer, and a cough assist machine, and I was trained to use it all. I had many long conversations with my neurologist, pulmonologist, social workers, husband, and family, and decided to go on a ventilator when the time came. I’m now a bedbound quadriplegic on life support and survive on a feeding tube. I’m very lucky because I live at home despite my high needs. My husband Evan works tirelessly, seeing to my every need. He is the reason I fight. I would do anything to stay by his side.

When I was diagnosed, we were about to start a family. I can’t have kids so we were researching adoption agencies. We decided to adopt siblings because they are hard to place. I even made a Pinterest board with resources for adoption and raising creative, resilient, grateful, vegetarian children. I also had a list of 27 parenting books we were planning to read together. We were going to be READY, but you know what they say about the best laid plans…

Eight years in, I’m starting to forget what it was like to speak and move. I guess it’s for the best since I will never talk or walk again. I remember certain things, though, like playing Who’s the Judge with my family at the kitchen table after dinner. We would sit in a circle and when it was your turn, you said a silly phrase in an even sillier accent. Everyone else had their eyes closed and would try to guess who the speaker was. Looking back, it was a ridiculous game. It was only my parents, sister, and me so it was easy to tell who had spoken by location alone. Plus, we always took turns in the same order. We all had fun, though.

I remember the first time I spoke Russian in Russia and someone understood me. It was like the best magic trick ever. My first words were to the taxi driver bringing me from the airport to my new home for the summer.

“I’m afraid,” I told him.

“Why?” he asked.

I explained I was worried the door to the apartment wouldn’t open. He promised to stay until I got inside. The magic trick worked.

I remember dancing with Evan with my Walker between us in the living room, his strong hands firm on my hips keeping me safe as we swayed softly, softly to Frank Sinatra. No more swing dancing for us. In our first Ice Bucket Challenge, Evan said, “I’m doing this so I can dance with my wife again!”

I remember dancing with dad on his feet in a living room across the country 30 years ago, usually to something loud like Eric Clapton. “Layla” was my favorite because every time it came to the part where Eric Clapton sings, “You got me on my knees Layla!” dad would set me down and fall on his knees in front of me.

These losses don’t hurt anymore unless I focus on precise moments I’m able to fish out of the murky depths of my memory. I have learned better than to do that. They only ache now.

I miss my old self, the creative, playful teacher, the fossil hunter, the singer, the traveler. I’m reminded of the lyrics to “Summertime Sadness” by Lana del Rey: “Think I’ll miss you forever like the stars miss the sun in the morning sky… Even if you’re gone I’m gonna drive!”