The disease and the silence

Abstract

I hug my mother; this time we're both on the same side of the exam room. Our embraces unravel the secret woven by so many years of morning antibiotics. I think of something I heard recently: the word "patient" etymologically means "one who suffers in silence." If this is true, I was sick, but my parents were Dr. Gatti and Dr. Pizzariello's patients. They carried the weight of pain and silence. I learn that joy is contagious, more so than leprosy. I feel immense gratitude that they carried such a heavy burden without passing on their fear to me, and without exposing me to society's prejudices. Silence was the cloak my parents used to cover me so I could have a happy adolescence. I grew up as a normal woman because the most dangerous thing wasn't the disease, but its name.