A tiny finger softly traces craters dotting the crook of my right arm as we wait for the summer camp bus. My daughter and I are navigating our new normal: my new diagnosis which requires IV medication for eight hours, every two weeks, for the rest of my life. When a father and daughter sit beside us, my daughter jumps at the chance of making a new friend. “Look at the holes in Mommy’s arms,” she cries as the other girl inspects. The dad’s eyes narrow as he pulls his daughter away. We will not be asked to a playdate.
Sheryl Stein is a music-obsessed writer with a husband, kids, a strong NJ accent, some unpublished novels, and a primary immunodeficiency.