“Write hard and clear about what hurts,” said Ernest Hemingway. In order to tell you about myself, I need to tell you what hurts me most to write about.
My life changed forever the day my son was born in July 2017, and for different reasons than you may initially assume. A part of me died when I gave birth to my son, a dream that I held within my heart, and I can tell you for certain that it will never be reborn.
It is the thing I want to write about most, but also fear the most writing about. It is an agony that is firmly implanted in my soul, for which I have treated with endless therapies, medications and meditations.
After sixty hours of un-medicated labor…
We spent months complaining about his spine to doctors. I trusted my colleagues beyond question. It was a terrible mistake.
“How is this even possible?” I whispered in disbelief. I was at my desk at work, staring at an image of my 15-month-old son’s MRI results. My husband called immediately after receiving a jarring phone call from our son’s pediatrician.
The black and white image was haunting. In the place of a normal, straight spine was something else entirely. Our son’s spine resembled the shape of an “S.” It morphed and curved like a roller-coaster through his torso, turning every which way from the top of his hips to the bottom of his neck.
“Why does it look like this?”…
Resilience is hereditary. My ancestors knew what it meant to live through struggle. It got me through my exposure to COVID-19.
It was a Sunday night during the first weeks of the pandemic. My husband and I had been watching the news most of the evening after dinner, while our toddler son played with his toys next to us. It was almost time for us to bring him up to bed. Then came the phone call.
“Oh my God. Are you serious?” my husband said into the phone. “Now what do we have to do?” …
Ashley Riley
PNW video creator, digital film storyteller, and writer. MA in social policy. BA in political science. Stay-at-home mom and wife. ashelizabethriley@gmail.com
