One cold night around late October/early November 2010, I had a moment that truly terrified me. A friend of mine was following me in his car to my house. When I got home, I took my four-year-old out of the car and had my very first episode.
I was able to get out of the car but unable to walk. So, instead of asking my friend for help (because I’ve never been one to ask for anything), I stood near my car smiling... until he pulled off. At that moment, I needed someone to hold on to, but my son was too small. He was staring up at me waiting for what was next, as the cold chill of the night forced me to make a drastic decision. I gazed down at my son and said, “Hey, let’s play a game. Let’s get on our knees and see who can crawl to the house the fastest.”
An innocent smile emerged on his face, unaware of the pain shooting through my body and my inability to put one foot in front of the other. It was extremely cold when we both got down on all fours and crawled from the curb of the concrete sidewalk to my house, a three-story brick house in Bedford-Stuyvesant.
We made it to the house, and I closed the door with my son laughing because he had reached the house before me. I was in too much pain to laugh with him. It took everything inside of me to keep from breaking down and crying. That’s when I knew something was most definitely wrong with me.
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